weather wonders

by  Deborah Greaves; May 2011

Newbie Musings on Calgary: learning new weather

My husband and I have lived in excellent places. Vancouver’s my home town and I’m still fond of it. When we married, we moved to Vancouver Island, where our children were born and raised. Before we moved to Calgary, my husband, daughters and I lived in BC’s Okanagan Valley.

The Okanagan Valley got us acquainted with weather extremes. The day we moved in to our new home there it hailed, darkened, brightened, got hot, got cold and got windy- all within three hours. This was our weather ‘sampler’, the indication of what was to come. The first winter, the snow started during the third week of November and stuck around until March. It was the heaviest snow siege there in twenty-two years.

The following summer, our community suffered a windstorm that toppled century-old pines and cottonwood trees, leaving Kelowna’s downtown jewel, City Park, looking like a war zone. Later, in 2003, we lived through one of the Okanagan Valley’s most horrendous heat waves, which broke records for high temperatures all through the summer. Grass crunched underfoot like cookie crumbs, and a single bolt of lightning set an entire mountainside on fire.

Oft remembered by vacationers from both west and east as a benign and lovely playground, the Okanagan Valley can be surprisingly rough. One storm blew our cat right through a screen door, so loud were the thunderclaps. Another thunderclap once blew my husband and I right out of sleep and bed. We found ourselves standing at attention in the dark, wondering if World War Three had started.

So, despite its cheery reputation as a sunny place to enjoy a continuous supply of wine and warmth, the Okanagan Valley provided my hubby and I with a bit of advance training for the notorious rigours of Calgary. With the warnings and admonishments of various friends and associates ringing in our ears – ‘ what are you thinking ? Calgary has horrible weather !’ - in July last year we loaded our hairy sled dog into the car and chased the moving van through the Rockies.

We’d been in our new Calgary home for about five days when the hail storm hit. Out on the street because the garage was full of boxes, my husband’s sporty little car shortly looked as though it had been at an amateur shooting range.

And of course, the snow started during the third week of November.

My husband and I were cheery all through both the threats and real events. (‘It can snow ANY month of the year!’ Calgary expatriates had hissed.) As an avid snowshoer, I already owned a parka when we got here, as well as a host of fleece pants and woolly socks. I got nice new hiking boots so my feet were always warm. The dog was already naturally equipped for the Arctic, so all through The Mean Season we walked in Confederation Park every evening no matter what. Until the temperature dropped to minus thirty. 

Here in Calgary, when the temperature was really down I couldn’t wear my spectacles outside, because my breath froze on them like quick cement. I, a woman who can’t recognise my own daughters at ten paces without my specs, was helpless.  Contact lenses, no longer particularly comfortable or easy to insert, were needed every time I took the dog for a walk. Nevertheless, we three Newbies got through our first Calgary winter with no frostbite, just one tailbone splat, and our humour generally intact.

Now that Spring is timidly approaching, I have time to be maniacally delighted by the second of two weather warnings I’d never before heard until we moved to Calgary:

‘ It will be partly cloudy, with a possibility of Thunder Snow.’  Ah. Thunder Snow. Naturally.

Earlier in the winter, the first strange new weather warning that had intrigued me was ‘Partly sunny today, with Snow Crystals.’ The day I first heard that weather forecast on the radio, I quickly stepped out the back door into the pale mid-winter light, and there they were.

The air was glittering. Millions of minute diamonds, floating and swirling in the sunlit winter breeze – these were the promised and enchanting Snow Crystals, the first I’ve known.

Even if it comes in the month of May, I can hardly wait to meet the Thunder Snow.

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the dangers of getting lost Out There- and how you can reduce the risk

22 May 2011

Thinking of Survival by Deborah Greaves

In honour of Penticton resident Rita Chretien, who lived for seven lonely weeks in her disabled van, I’d like to talk today about survival of the fittest. As in many cases of survival in tough situations, ‘fit’ doesn’t necessarily refer to physical strength. Grey matter is as important as muscle when the chips are down and an emergency situation was completely unexpected.

Some people have been critical of the Chretiens for deviating from their planned route to take

a shortcut through a wilderness area. The truth is, being spontaneous can lead to new knowledge and wonderful experiences that we wouldn’t have otherwise enjoyed or learned from.

I’ve traveled down logging roads through unfamiliar forest areas in a vehicle unsuited for the territory and had to turn back. I too could have been stuck. I’ve scrabbled up steep and lonely trails where it was possible to twist an ankle and be stuck on the trail alone for hours, perhaps even days.

After I began to take seriously the notion of being prepared, I reaped the benefits several times within the first few years. So did others: the victims of a horrible vehicle rollover in the snow one year, then a man who was a victim of a hit and run. My first aid supplies, blankets, wraps, water and food helped people who were hurt and on the ground, and kept my niece and I comfortable when we were stuck in a blizzard on the Okanagan Connector for three hours one night, waiting for a crashed semi-trailer truck to be towed off the road.

Today, I have a few tips for explorers, especially those of you who like to travel light.

Take a tip from a Scout or Girl Guide: be prepared. Before any distance trip, ask yourself what you will have with you in the event you get into trouble. Remember that you may not have cell phone service. What if you have a motor vehicle accident or breakdown? Or a deep cut? What if you take a wrong turn and have no idea where you are? What if an exit out is no longer available?

Rita Chretien apparently kept her head. She was stuck and alone. She knew she had to try to signal her presence. She had to ration out her food. She didn’t panic, as some do, and dash around expending energy. She put up a sign, took cover inside the vehicle, left bright fabric on the window, and counted out small doses of trail mix. For over forty days and nights she waited for help. Some wilderness survival experts were amazed that she lived.  

West Kelowna residents Jordie and Laurie Bowen of Selah Outdoor Explorations, who many know from their guided snowshoe treks at Crystal Mountain Resort or their work with school children, have studied and taught wilderness survival. They know how to make snares and boomerangs to catch animals to eat. However, the Bowens say food isn’t the first item on the priority list if you’re lost or stuck in the wilderness.

“ The first thing to do,” said Jordie Bowen earlier this week, “is to take stock of the situation. Keep calm. Take a few deep breaths and check your attitude. Panic will make things worse.”

Next, said Bowen, you need to check yourself over for damage. Any wounds you may have need to be cleaned and protected- an infected wound will sap your strength. Have a First Aid kit.

“Now look after your internal furnace,” Bowen said. “You have to figure out how you’re going to conserve heat. The body loses heat in five different ways: respiration, radiation, conduction, convection and perspiration.” Bowen said one of the most immediate ways to try to prevent heat loss through radiation is to put on your layers. Remove layers when you get too warm, as perspiration can make you chill.  Protect yourself from getting wet, or contacting the cold earth.

Emergency ponchos are often bright colours and easily fit into a pocket or vehicle glove box.

“If you don’t have a vehicle to use for shelter, you’ll need to build it,” said Bowen, “and if you need the heat, prepare a fire.” Inside your vehicle, a survival candle in a tin can work wonders.

The next step is to think about signalling rescuers. You can build a signal fire- hot dry material on a platform inside a tree-limb tripod with green branches laid over top – or flash a CD, or a mirror. You can stamp a message in the snow or make an SOS with large rocks, bright clothes, garbage bags or other material that can be spotted from the air. A mirror can be seen from as far as 50 miles away, and takes up the same room in your car as a small piece of cardboard. If you don’t have a whistle, you can try making one out of a pop can.

Now, take an inventory of your food and water options. The most important survival key is water. There are several ways to collect water. If you use snow, it should be melted- your body uses valuable energy thawing snow internally. Keeping hydrated helps your body stay warm and healthy and also helps you stay calm. Try to gather food – even bugs - that won’t take much energy to obtain.

“If you feel you must go for help, you have to be prepared,” Bowen said. “ You have to be sure you’re fit enough, have clothes and supplies to keep you warm overnight, and that you can establish and maintain a direction. If you can’t meet these criteria, it’s better to stay where you are. Stay put, keep warm and hydrated as possible, and signal every way you can.”

Invest in a pocket-sized survival book, and keep it in your vehicle. It should detail shelter-building, water gathering and ways to signal for help. Keep a First Aid kit, plastic poncho, fleece or wool blanket and a reflective ‘safety blanket’ folded up in your vehicle, along with a mirror, flashlight, a survival candle, matches or lighter and a flask of water.  Keep the flashlight batteries in a separate, waterproof container to preserve them. 

None of this just-in-case stuff takes up much room in your ride, but if you find yourself in a jam, you could be thanking your lucky stars you took the time to tuck it all in.

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Humans: Chronically savage to one another and to " God's creatures."

Animal abuse - we have to get to work on this.

by Deborah Greaves on Thursday, May 5, 2011 at 11:52am

 

I saw a link through Kelowna Events on Facebook, announcing a movie made by Nation Earth called 'Earthlings', with Joachim Phoenix ( hope I've spelled the actor's name correctly ) . 
"Earthlings" is about animal abuse all over the world - much of it completely routine; regular and accepted practice.

I watched just a few minutes of the film's TRAILER and am devastated, couldn't sleep last night. Thought I'd been innoculated years ago by photos sent to me and a book about domestic food animals written by John Robbins, yet the few images I could manage to keep my eyes on are seared into my retinas.

I believe that watching this film, Earthlings, is capable of actual psychological damage to any caring person- and I seriously don't believe I personally could cope with a full viewing. However, now that I have been reminded of what's going on out there I am feeling increasingly obligated to work/write on the ongoing problem in every way one individual can.

I am resolved to start close to home and find out where a slaughterhouse for horses is reputed to be committing routine atrocities on animals that are killed there. I will continue to purchase NO veal, no eggs that are not free range and whenever possible, humanely raised beef. I am also resolved to investigate the allegation that Canada's laws regarding the transport of domestic livestock in one of the most lax in the developed world.

I'll share any findings, results, changes or actions on the Facebook page, Air Water Earth Publications, and possibly my blogspot: http://guidetothewildside.blogspot.com/

Confession : where her soul lives

 Confession

by Deborah Greaves on Monday, April 4, 2011 

 

My soul's outside under the rocks, the leaves, the snow, the rain. It lives in the furrows of the bark on the trees, in the dappled light on pools of water and among the waving grasses. It soars into the air in the moonlight, rests among the shadows and gleams on the water where my canoe paddle dips.

My soul lingers in the print of a wild hoof and the scars of a feral claw, in the tiny blooms that spring from the earth and the delicate mosses that cling to fallen stems.

My soul is out there, almost all the time, in the forest and the meadows. It comes inside only to share the glow of flickering candlelight or the primal beauty of a fire. When the flames are silent and darkness falls, it slips through the window casings and around the edges of the doors to be outside and free again.

Northern Impressions 2009 - far above the arctic circle with Diana Earth

Northern Impressions

My seven days in the arctic during the spring of 2009, seeing Yellowknife and Inuvik, driving the ice road over the Mackenzie River and standing at the edge of the North American continent in Tuktoyaktuk now seem surreal.

In the past, getting around Canada, one of the world’s most gigantic countries, required almost limitless courage, great resourcefulness, hard-to-get provisions and often a crazy optimism.  Now, you simply plunk your gear onto the baggage belt, walk up a ramp and squeeze yourself into a seat on a small jet.

No matter where in this vast land we live, most Canadians now are like me- accustomed to a soft life.  Whatever culture they belong to, the young people of Inuvik, far above the Arctic Circle, listen to I-Pods and watch television just like the temperate zone kids do. Some of their elders are worried. It bothers one of them who spoke to me that if the power went off in Inuvik, those who know how to work with the land and the cold will get along just fine, but few of the young people will be among them.

I suspect that, other than a handful of hunters and ‘bush rats’, most people here in the lower latitudes have no outdoor survival skills at all.  However, conditions in the temperate zone aren’t quite as challenging.

April in Inuvik is a world of metre-deep snow and a balmy minus nine degrees Celsius in the sunshine. At night, or when the wind returns, temperatures can drop sharply again into the minus twenties or lower. In April, most people are still wearing parkas with fur-trimmed hoods.

The world of internet and gizmos has arrived in the arctic, and just like kids here, the young people take for granted heat, light and electronic toys that are perpetually ready with a click. They eat chips and candy along with the ‘country food’ that includes moose and caribou and fish, and instead of ATV’s and dirt bikes, the young men often roar around on huge and powerful snow machines.  Those machines are the sex and status symbols, but also the work horses, of the North. 

If you’re sensitive about fur-bearing animals, you’d better avoid visiting the land in which modern-day comfort, even out-for-the-day survival, can still depend upon the fur that’s harvested from almost every animal that moves across the arctic. Over the centuries, fur-bearing animals have kept human beings warm, fed and alive. Today, the animals continue to be important. Not everyone in the north eats ‘country food’, but almost every resident you’ll meet has garments made from or trimmed in fur. For certain situations and uses, humans have not yet invented materials as functionally perfect as fur.

Moose hide is tough enough, when properly processed, to make footwear. Cariboo hide can be soft enough for clothes. Wolf fur, turned so that the wind runs with the hair, is perfect for heavy mitts to protect the hands on the handlebars of both dog sleds and snowmobiles from freezing and becoming useless.  Muskrat is fluffy and keeps the wind out of the cuffs of smoother mitts, made from the wind and water-resistant fur of seals. Snowshoe hares provide soft, fine fur, and the woolly undercoat of musk ox is great for lining the inside of mitts and clothing.

I’m glad I didn’t wait until summer months to visit the north.

I would have missed the chance to drive on the ice road that’s been scraped across the mighty Mackenzie River, all the way from Inuvik to remote Tuktoyaktuk - affectionately known as 'Tuk" on
the edge of the Beaufort Sea.

I would have missed the sun shining through a snowstorm, and the arrival of the North's long days of light that stretched far into the pink and gold evening. I would have missed the experience of driving a team of dogs over the fingers and bays of a frozen lake and into the snowy forest on the delta. If I’d been there in warm months, I’d be walking, and wearing a bug jacket.

The arctic in April was sunny much of the time, often with gently blowing snow. People of all cultures were smiling and friendly. Now and then the wind blew down from the frozen Beaufort Sea and bit hard, reminding me of how small, weak and unskilled I am. Yet, when I stood on a set of sled runners and drove a jubilant dog team over a frozen river, across a snowy meadow and into the forest, I felt, however briefly, as though I belonged.

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The Friendship of Dogs, by Diana Earth

“We’re not dog people,” a friend of a friend told me on the weekend.

“We don’t let dogs into our house. Not our kids’ dogs, our friends’ dogs, any dogs.”

Numerous thoughts went through my head. She’d called to ask me if I thought a mutual friend would be unhappy if her new dog wasn’t invited to accompany them when she came to their home for dinner. The invitee was traveling, and the dog was with her. The little dog would have to stay outside on the porch or in the car while the human friends were visiting together. 

“Love me, love my dog”, came to mind. I understand it as an expression of the angst between friends when one is a ‘dog person’ and the other is not.  We dog people can’t demand that others feel the way we do, and though it’s often the fault of their humans, I myself do not enjoy ill-mannered dogs.

I see the old ‘…love my dog’ phrase as a plea to recognise what can be an important relationship. My husband and I haven’t kept dogs to lock up or leave for days at a time in the yard alone. I have a dog so that my life is graced by his companionship and his ‘otherness.’

Dogs have been an important part of my life since I was ten years old. According to US author Temple Grandin, it was the dogs who first sought out people, thousands of years ago.

Among the intriguing things Grandin brings up in her book Animals in Translation are the changes that have been detected in the brains of both human beings and canines since they started hanging out with one another. After we’d all been together for a couple of thousand years, sections of the brains of both people and dogs became smaller. Humans lost a good portion of the brain that works with smell, and dogs shrank down part of the brain that organizes hunting.

The theory is that dogs no longer had to be so self-sufficient and organized, since humans were willing to share some of their food. Humans didn’t need to have a keen sense of smell because their dog friends had such great noses, and they’d learned to read the body language of the dogs to detect much of what was going on around them.

When observed carefully, dogs of all breeds relay information to their humans every moment they are outside together.  If the human is tuned in to the behaviours of the dog, there’s a wealth of information available.

We regularly read of dogs finding bodies, tracking criminals, helping to find people in need of rescue and assisting human hunting activities. Dogs can find drugs in a suitcase and disease in a human. Dogs can tell when someone is about to have a seizure, or fall into a diabetic coma.  Canine ears are many times keener than our own, but it’s the dog’s nose that truly monitors the surrounding environment. Through its nose, a dog can tell you about things that happened on the trail not only today, but often yesterday and beyond last week.

Over the years, I’ve come to appreciate the fact that meeting the needs of our dogs often results in meeting needs of my own...

After a busier than usual week, I was bone tired on Sunday evening. It was tempting to sit on our comfortable sofa and watch some TV, but the dog had been left behind several times over the past days so I was moved to take him out.

Like all dogs, Solo was delighted to get out the door and turn on his senses. As he cast his nose down, I raised my eyes and saw thousands of stars. As we walked up the street, I was again treated to a celestial display I’d have missed had I stayed inside. The cool night air kissed my skin. My sluggish body gradually shifted gears from a stiff walk to a smoother gait. I’d had both dessert and wine; this walk would help dispose of a few calories.

Dog walkers are out under the stars, in the morning light, out in the rain and snow. We see things others miss, because our canine friends show them to us. We discover a hidden trail through snow or overgrown foliage to get the safest footing. We breath fresh air and exercise regularly because another being who cares about us is close.

The friendship between human beings and canines isn’t always smooth sailing, but I feel as a species, we were blessed when dogs first approached our fires.

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Lands without buildings, by Diana Earth

I don’t remember how old I was when the land first spoke to me. I was an apartment-dwelling city child, attracted as a toddler to bugs or kitties walking along the sidewalk, dogs on leashes across the street or in the park and cheeky squirrels called down from Stanley Park trees.

As a little girl, I was interested in people and other breathing, moving creatures. The water, land and rocks were slow to gain my interest. I think it was rocks that caught me first- something of the earth that a single person, even a small person, could carry away.  And I remember sniffing a sprig of a velvety little weed that smelled like camomile, plucked from a crack in the sidewalk.

It may have been my grandmother’s husband Ron who first drew my attention to the trees. I remember feeling elated as a child by the breeze and the sun on a lovely day, but only because those elements touched my skin and made me feel energized, jubilant.

Gradually, I became more aware of the background that living things moved against and within, but I don’t recall feeling any particular sense of awe, respect or affection. I don’t recall the first time the sky and the wind captured my eye and touched me, or when I began to appreciate the elegance and intricacy with which the world is interconnected.

That appreciation seems to have come in my teen years. It crept up on me slowly as I searched for lonely places in which to allow a high-energy dog to run free.

In the city we’d walk for hours in the quest. There was a sense of a secret victory in discovering places others had seemingly passed by. One day, walking along railway tracks in the midst of a neglected, litter-strewn industrial area next to the Fraser River, I discovered a lush green pasture containing a herd of gleaming, contented dairy cattle. Back then, the garbage didn’t bother me so much. Back then, so close to traffic, pavement and scrap metal, I was delighted to find this hidden pastoral scene. Whenever I entered a quiet area of long-forgotten gardens near crumbled home sites, or a trail among the trees, I felt an undefined gladness.

When I was sixteen, my family moved away from the city and into the suburbs. There were undeveloped areas and forest nearby, and explorations resumed when I bought a small horse.

It may have been during the next two years I was seriously done in. One sunny day, I rode on the little white horse up the power line cut to a bench above the Lougheed Highway near what was then a modestly populated section of Coquitlam. On that ridge, surrounded by delicate young trees and hundreds of wildflowers, with a host of blue-tinged mountains on the horizon, my dog, horse and I were a blissful trio, each of us unusually calm.

From that day, there has been a series of magical hours that steeped my soul in both wonder and appreciation for the skies, waters and natural lands that remain.

We who enjoy the company of horses and dogs are often united in a deep passion for the natural lands. There are others, without animal companions but with similar spirits: paddlers, fly-fishers, photographers, hikers, scuba divers, some hunters.  Most of us find that when we stop and stay awhile, the natural world seeps gently into our beings.

When we move quietly through the water, and examine the beaches and banks of lakes, streams and sea, we are affected. When we stand beneath the night sky, or out in the light on a wind-swept ridge, we are affected. When we walk among the trees along a trail through the forest, or among wildflowers in a natural meadow, our souls take a quiet drink.

I am a fortunate woman. I’ve lived in and at the edge of Vancouver, on Vancouver Island, in the Okanagan Valley and now in the foothills of Alberta’s Rocky Mountains. I’ve been to the Arctic in early spring, and enjoyed natural areas in several other regions. Though chunks of it regularly vanish, I feel privileged to have been close to plenty of  ‘super- natural’.

My fervent hope is that plenty of it remains, and that I may someday savour it with little children of the future.

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