unknowable

when I wake with fog draped all around

the view drawn close

mysteries emerge from shadows

magic flickers

spirits rub up against me

I wonder if the sun will burn away promises

like kicking covers off of a warm bed

or if this is a day for embracing

what we can’t see

holding onto feelings that never begin or end in clarity

but dissolve from or into a place that’s always just out of reach

unknowable as your thoughts when I reach out my hand

unknowable as any tomorrow

 

 

David Trudel         © 2015

 

 

sepia toned

we woke up sepia toned

not drained of colour but transformed into shimmers

 

light lays flat

yellowed as yesterday’s bloodied sun

slipped sideways on a once upon

 

we call each other asking

“do you see it too?”

and words like apocalypse

like endtimes, like otherworldly

fill our mouths as the sky fills our thoughts

 

later, waiting for the ferry

I walk the beach up to and under the dock

crosshatched shadows feed the noontime reek of creosote

triggering memories of campfires

then all I smell is the smoke of a carbon sink

a million trees candled in the wind

a burning world

riding thermals down every seaward valley on the coast

until each wave pushes another dragon under

 

we try to laugh about how strange it looks

as the sun reddens its shroud

 

today is marked in black

this is the year when winter thins its cool

no matter how golden the sky seems right now

or how wonderful splintered light appears slipping through ashfall

this is no celebration

this is not the same as other years

when autumn slashpiles streamed pendants

 

today is amber

a moment to hold long enough to remember

how startled we once were

 

 

 

David Trudel     © 2015

 

 

on foggy days

each rock makes promises

broken by waves

 

David Trudel    (c)  2014

 

Last night, my after-dinner walk brought me through the forest up to the hilltop. At this time of year it’s a transition getting used to the earlier darkness and learning to hear the sounds of the night. But it’s also the time when the hilltop view sparkles with lights as the city opens up, becoming a magical tapestry of distant reflections. Overhead ragged clouds play striptease with the universe and the half moon radiates her silvery charms. I stand there drinking it all in, letting my mind settle and letting go of all my small thoughts and distractions until it’s just me and the universe. I sense a presence and turn around. There, in the dusky shadows is a family of deer, pausing for a moment to look at the same lights. Eventually they melt into the dark and I make my way downhill.

 

 

in silence

a leaf falls

through the light

 

 

David Trudel   © 2014

 

 

Tubing on the Cowichan River

I reach the ramp to the dock and walk down it, not paying too much attention to the handful of teens waiting there. My tube, which was once bright red, has faded closer to orange but still holds my breath of two summers past when I last inflated it. I place it on the dock beside the ladder and climb into the water to wet myself down. At this time of year, late August, the water is warm enough not to shock but to soothe, even on this slightly overcast and cooler day. It’s a sensual frisson that gets my nerves tingling though, so I waste no time in grabbing the tube from the dock and placing it just so, while I move into position, and lean back into it as I shove off from the dock. A little wiggle of adjustment and there I am, trailing hands and feet in the river, floating in my tube. The current is slow so I paddle out into the centre of the current, looking at the weir that marks the transition from lake to river. This year has been a dry one and I’ve heard that they’ll soon be raising it to store more water. Now, the lake is low and the river lower, making it a challenge for fish, for tubers like me, and threatening the mill downstream with imminent closure if they can’t maintain the water flow.

But that’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m remembering my friends Manjeet and Janice who graciously walked with me partway along the trail that runs into town from their place, until they had to turn back as they were expecting a call. I’m thinking about the growth of the town of Lake Cowichan that I’ve seen over the years, as businesses go bankrupt or are born. I walked past the new library on the way here, smiling at the thought of the excavated dirt from the site ending up at my friends’ place for a landscaping project. I paddle along, watching the riverside homes and wondering about the lives lived and love shared in them. The water is clear and I can see the bottom except in the deepest pools. Although I’m enjoying the river, the slightly cool temperature and high clouds have kept the usual crowds down and I’m virtually alone on my journey this afternoon.

Of course, nobody is ever really alone. My restless mind chatters internally, I hear the sounds of people on shore, the splashes of children swimming and the drone of traffic in the distance. Insects fly. Birds swoop close to the water to catch them.

I let the sensuous pleasure of the water distract me, luxuriating as I feel the water flow through and around me. The Cowichan River is extraordinarily clean at its source, made from snowmelt and raindrops in a valley at the edge of the continent, at the edge of the world. I keep paddling, using my arms as oars with a sporadic power ten to speed me along, then drifting, occasionally letting the tube turn in a circle so I can get my bearings. The first footbridge comes and goes quickly and by now I’ve adjusted to the water temperature so that the wet just feels like heavy air on my extremities. Up ahead there’s the larger bridge where the road through town passes. Last time I was here, boys were jumping off it but now with the lower water levels they aren’t taking any chances, at least not at this moment. A few other tubers wallow in back eddies, drinking beers, but I continue to press on, moving through the big wide pool, passing the floating garbage buckets which always make me smile for some reason. It takes a while but eventually the first of the rapids appears. I spin the tube around and face this obstacle head on. I draw a bead on what seems to be the deepest part of the current and squeeze past a few rounded boulders that don’t quite break the surface. The riffle of the waves sends splashes of water up and onto me as I speed my way around this bend in the river. Now the houses thin out, and more trees bring more birds to listen to and observe. The ravens are noisy today, as are the Stellar Jays. Dragonflies encrusted with turquoise and sapphire dart across the surface, at times seeming to draft along in my wake. More rapids up ahead grab my attention and I hustle to move into a better position. Stroke, stroke and whoosh, down I go through the sluice box of river rocks into the next pool. From here it’s easy to see the mountains that line the valley. I notice the cutblocks logged decades ago and the new growth coming in. Along the top ridges, a few clearcuts register, spilling over from the next valley where Mother Nature is as bare as you’d expect after a visit to a Brazilian wax parlour. Bald isn’t sexy I think, and spend a few minutes ruminating on our obsession with skin and hair, while I splash and kick with my feet which are wearing ridiculous looking but practical foot gloves in place of the watershoes I once used. I enjoy the absence of music and talk and listen to the rhythm of the riverwater tumbling over the rocks, the birdcalls overhead and the hum of the crickets. Up ahead there are a few other tubers that I’m catching up with as they stretch out their time here. I know I can always come back and besides, I need to travel another half hour at least from the usual pullout spot at Little Beach. Now there are another set of rapids to contend with and I follow the general advice to stay left, managing to avoid either getting tipped out, or even worse, puncturing this vulnerable craft. For a second I remember coracles and other lifetimes as I continue my hedonistic drift downstream. I use my feet to kick off from a boulder that looms up in the green water and continue down through towering hallways of hemlocks and firs, bigleaf maples and cedars. The green spikes of golden irises line the side of the river. In some places the banks have given way and tipped themselves into the river, along with the burden of whatever trees were reaching up to the sky overhead. Now they have been turned into weapons, sweepers that threaten to scuttle me or stab me below the surface. This section of the river requires concentration, as I’ve learned on previous trips, and I paddle and plan, selecting each angle I take with care. I think about Manjeet and Janice’s friendship and the times I’ve spent here on the river with them, and feel a bittersweet tug as I remember the impending sale of their house. The river pulls me along, past the splash of a river otter sliding off the bank across from me. Another swimming hole appears, where supple children swim unfettered by concrete edges and lane markers, desultorily watched by dozing parents. A dog barks as I drift by. More rapids and I read the river carefully, looking for telltale markers that help me get by the rocks. The tube splashes down the river as I navigate, using my hands to manoeuvre past the stony obstacles. I thank the creator for the absence of other dangers; there are no crocodiles, alligators or caymans here, the fish are innocuous and even the snakes aren’t poisonous. Of course, on shore it’s another matter, what with the bears, cougars, elk and deer all of which have their own risks for humans. The sun is fading into the west and the shadows spill across the river. Trees tilt at impossible angles out from the shore, leaning like it’s getting close to last call. Hold on, I think as I slide by, don’t let the weight of that butterfly tip the scale today. Up ahead, Little Beach comes into view, with its long, deep swimming hole dotted with kids swimming and jumping with the eternal enthusiasm of innocence. I continue past the pullout, while some folks look at me askance, as if to say, “that way lies monsters”. The most immediate of which is the shallow river, causing me to develop a crablike hop and lift technique until I’m able to float freely. From here I am much more alone, as the houses become less frequent and the birds more so. Eagles are soaring overhead, woodpeckers are tapping into stumps for meals of insects and just a few feet off the water a heron cruises upstream. I hear the rumble of the next drop in elevation before I see it and manage to luck out on the path I choose, slipping as easily between the rocks as I did when the river was a foot higher. I float along, finding peace and tranquillity. The river washes and absolves, cleansing my worries and leaving me with love and gratitude as I pass the boathouse turned artist’s studio, not too far upstream from my friends’ place. Now it’s my turn to go slow, letting the river drag me along, until up ahead I see the familiar landmarks of my destination. As I leave the river, I pause, sending a prayer downstream with each drop I shake off. Later, I’ll drive home over the infamous Malahat Highway but for now I look out at the river, listen to the sound of creation and give thanks for this day.

 

 

David Trudel     ©   2014

 

 

Tubing on the Cowichan River

 

I reach the ramp to the dock and walk down it, not paying too much attention to the handful of teens waiting there. My tube, which was once bright red, has faded closer to orange but still holds my breath of two summers past when I last inflated it. I place it on the dock beside the ladder and climb into the water to wet myself down. At this time of year, late August, the water is warm enough not to shock but to soothe, even on this slightly overcast and cooler day. It’s a sensual frisson that gets my nerves tingling though, so I waste no time in grabbing the tube from the dock and placing it just so, while I move into position, and lean back into it as I shove off from the dock. A little wiggle of adjustment and there I am, trailing hands and feet in the river, floating in my tube. The current is slow so I paddle out into the centre of the current, looking at the weir that marks the transition from lake to river. This year has been a dry one and I’ve heard that they’ll be raising it to store more water soon enough. Now, the lake is low and the river lower, making it a challenge for fish, for tubers like me, and threatening the mill downstream with imminent closure if they can’t maintain the water flow.

But that’s not what I’m thinking about. I’m remembering my friends Manjeet and Janice who graciously walked with me partway along the trail that runs into town from their place, until they had to turn back as they were expecting a call. I’m thinking about the growth of the town of Lake Cowichan that I’ve seen over the years, as businesses go bankrupt or are born. I walked past the new library on the way here, smiling at the thought of the excavated dirt from the site ending up at my friends’ place for a landscaping project. I paddle along, watching the riverside homes and wondering about the lives lived and love shared in them. The water is clear and I can see the bottom except in the deepest pools. Although I’m enjoying the river, the slightly cool temperature and high clouds have kept the usual crowds down and I’m virtually alone on my journey this afternoon.

Of course, nobody is ever really alone. My restless mind chatters internally, I hear the sounds of people on shore, the splashes of children swimming and the drone of traffic in the distance. Insects fly. Birds swoop close to the water to catch them.

I let the sensuous pleasure of the water distract me, luxuriating as I feel the water flow through and around me. The Cowichan River is extraordinarily clean at its source, made from snowmelt and raindrops in a valley at the edge of the continent, at the edge of the world. I keep paddling, using my arms as oars with a sporadic power ten to speed me along, then drifting, occasionally letting the tube turn in a circle so I can get my bearings. The first footbridge comes and goes quickly and by now I’ve adjusted to the water temperature so that the wet just feels like heavy air on my extremities. Up ahead there’s the larger bridge where the road through town passes. Last time I was here, boys were jumping off it but now with the lower water levels they aren’t taking any chances, at least not at this moment. A few other tubers wallow in back eddies, drinking beers, but I continue to press on, moving through the big wide pool, passing the floating garbage buckets which always make me smile for some reason. It takes a while but eventually the first of the rapids appears. I spin the tube around and face this obstacle head on. I draw a bead on what seems to be the deepest part of the current and squeeze past a few rounded boulders that don’t quite break the surface. The riffle of the waves sends splashes of water up and onto me as I speed my way around this bend in the river. Now the houses thin out, and more trees bring more birds to listen to and observe. The ravens are noisy today, as are the Stellar Jays. Turquoise and sapphire clothed dragonflies dart across the surface, at times seeming to draft along in my wake. More rapids up ahead grab my attention and I hustle to move into a better position. Stroke, stroke and whoosh, down I go through the sluice box of river rocks into the next pool. From here it’s easy to see the mountains that line the valley. I notice the cutblocks logged decades ago and the new growth coming in. Along the top ridges, a few clearcuts register, spilling over from the next valley where Mother Nature is as bare as you’d expect after a visit to a Brazilian wax parlour. Bald isn’t sexy I think, and spend a few minutes ruminating on our obsession with skin and hair, while I splash and kick with my feet which are wearing ridiculous looking but practical foot gloves in place of the watershoes I once used. I enjoy the absence of music and talk and listen to the rhythm of the riverwater tumbling over the rocks, the birdcalls overhead and the hum of the crickets. Up ahead there are a few other tubers that I’m catching up with as they stretch out their time here. I know I can always come back and besides, I need to travel another half hour at least from the usual pullout spot at Little Beach. Now there are another set of rapids to contend with and I follow the general advice to stay left, managing to avoid either getting tipped out, or even worse, puncturing this vulnerable craft. For a second I remember coracles and other basic boats from other lifetimes as I continue my hedonistic drift downstream. I use my feet to kick off from a boulder that looms up in the green water and continue down through towering hallways of hemlocks and firs, bigleaf maples and cedars. The green spikes of golden irises line the side of the river. In some places the banks have given way and tipped themselves into the river, along with the burden of whatever trees were reaching up to the sky overhead. Now they have been turned into weapons, sweepers that threaten to scuttle me or stab me below the surface. This section of the river requires concentration, as I’ve learned on previous trips, and I paddle and plan, selecting each angle I take with care. I think about Manjeet and Janice’s friendship and the times I’ve spent here on the river with them, and feel a bittersweet tug as I remember the impending sale of their house. The river pulls me along, past the splash of a river otter sliding off the bank across from me. Another swimming hole appears, where supple children swim unfettered by concrete edges and lane markers, desultorily watched by dozing parents. A dog barks as I drift by. More rapids and I read the river carefully, looking for telltale markers that help me get by the rocks. The tube splashes down the river as I navigate, using my hands to manoeuvre past the stony obstacles. I thank the creator for the absence of other dangers; there are no crocodiles, alligators or caymans here, the fish are innocuous and even the snakes aren’t poisonous. Of course, on shore it’s another matter, what with the bears, cougars, elk and deer all of which have their own risks for humans. The sun is fading into the west and the shadows spill across the river. Trees tilt at impossible angles out from the shore, leaning like it’s getting close to last call. Hold on, I think as I slide by, don’t let the weight of that butterfly tip the scale today. Up ahead, Little Beach comes into view, with its long, deep swimming hole dotted with kids swimming and jumping with the eternal enthusiasm of innocence. I continue past the pullout, as some folks look at me askance, as if to say, “that way lies monsters”. The most immediate of which is the shallow river, causing me to develop a crablike hop and lift technique until I’m able to float freely. From here I am much more alone, as the houses become less frequent and the birds more so. Eagles are soaring overhead, woodpeckers are tapping into stumps for meals of insects and just a few feet off the water a heron cruises upstream. I hear the rumble of the next drop in elevation before I see it and manage to luck out on the path I choose, slipping as easily between the rocks as I did when the river was a foot higher. I float along, finding peace and tranquillity as I forget my troubles and cares. The river washes and absolves, cleansing my worries and leaving me with love and gratitude as I pass the boathouse turned artist’s studio, not too far upstream from my destination. Now it’s my turn to go slow, letting the river drag me along, until up ahead I see the familiar landmarks of my destination. As I leave the river, I pause, sending a prayer downstream with each drop I shake off. Later, I’ll drive home over the infamous Malahat Highway but for now I look out at the river, listen to the sound of creation and give thanks for this day.

 

 

 

Doe

her eyes catch the final glimmers of daylight

drawing my attention to the doe

ruminating trailside

I hold her gaze and say hello dear

with a smile

we look at each other, her shoulders relax

we share this moment

not quite trusting each other

but less than wary

close enough to hear each other breathing

shadows close in

our eyes, different enough

seeing mysteries

both recognize a moment of peace

worth sharing

 

David Trudel   © 2014

 

 

Tonight, as is my custom, I went for an after-dinner walk in the park behind my house. Those of you who have walked the hill with me will recall the viewpoint closest to my place, just a few minutes into the park. It’s a rocky outcropping facing west, with a few farms in the foreground and a series of hills and mountains in the distance. One of my neighbours calls it “the watchtower” and it’s an apt name, since it’s a far-seeing kind of place. Tonight however, the wind was blowing in my face so I moved to the other side of the watchtower and as I was gazing into the trees, something white caught my attention, across the vale from where I sat. I mentally filed it away to check into later.

 

I went back down to the main trail and started removing one of the notices I’d put up about this morning’s successful broom pull. Of course success can be measured lots of ways and since I have sometimes been all alone on these kind of events, anytime I get more than one other volunteer I’m pleased. Today there were seven of us and we were able to pull out quite a lot of broom, some daphne and of course the blackberries got trimmed back. So by any measure it was a successful effort.

 

One of the regular dog walkers came by and stopped for a chat, talking about her dogs, the great wildflower season we’ve had and of course the nefarious scotch broom. I carried on, enjoying the evening amidst the trees while feathered arpeggios filled in the spaces between the branches. I took down and folded up a couple more notices, then went to the top of the hill. The view from there is stunning, it’s a big sky kind of place where anywhere in the world is just over the horizon. After drinking in my fill, I turned around and started for home, but remembered that I needed to check out the mysterious flashes of white I’d noticed earlier.

 

I clambered over to where I thought it should be and sure enough, as I hopped up a rocky ridge I quickly discovered the cause. A couple of three ring binders and some duo-tangs had been emptied out of a year’s worth of homework and tests, an ignorant display of childish rage against authority. I hummed a few bars of “School’s Out” and surveyed the damage. Pages were everywhere, scattered in the tall grass, stuck in the branches and roots of the gnarly oaks, and resting precariously on fernlaced rocky slopes. It was getting late and I thought about leaving it until tomorrow but quickly realized it would only get worse with each puff of wind. I set to work, corralling page after page of schoolwork and piling them up in a cleft in the rocks.

 

I admit to being more than a little angry – as I worked I cursed the ignorant miscreant who had caused the mess. But I tried to get out from under the anger, trying to imagine the terrible forces that might have driven someone to do this. Using my walking stick I was able to get nearly all of the papers gathered up. It was too much for me to carry, I realized. I also noticed some charred papers on the ground and thought about how easy it would be for some idiot to start a fire with this much paper around. I grumbled under my breath and set off for home to get a garbage bag. I was still carrying a lot of resentment and general pissed-offedness, but as I walked through the forest I realized that instead of being angry I should be happy. After all, I was able to take action to clean it up. If I hadn’t come along, I thought, this could have turned out a lot worse than it’s going to. So I slipped indoors, grabbed a garbage bag and went swiftly back into the park feeling a lot better than I had just a few minutes earlier when I’d been swearing a blue streak as I gathered up papers. By the time I got there the light was fading but it was good enough for my purpose. I filled the bag and then set off back home, reflecting on the motivations that spur us into action. Turning a negative into a positive was a compelling motive for me tonight.

 

 

5 Haikus

 

leaves growing green

deeper than lost shadows

birdsong soundtrack

 

 

bleached driftwood sleeping

blanketed by swaying grass

a chorus of frogs

 

 

the pull of the beach

an ocean mesmerized

toes curl in the sand

 

 

blossoms punctuate

this animated landscape

spring revelation

 

 

intertidal echoes

resonate against the sand

gulls soar overhead

 

 

David Trudel   © 2014