I had been at work in the office for half an hour when I heard the chatter over the scanner.
The 108 Volunteer Fire Department was paged to respond to a fire at the 108 Resort.
I wondered if it was big enough for 100 Mile Fire-Rescue, something I'm a member of, to be called out to as well.
That's when my pager went off.
"100 Mile Fire Department: Group page," said the familiar man's voice.
I jumped up.
Should I go? Could I go, just leave work and battle a blaze that may take two minutes to 20 hours?
I consulted my co-workers and, when we heard the urgency in the voices over the radio, I left to the fire hall.
I made it in time to jump on Engine 11.
Then the big, yellow vehicle drove from the hall, sirens wailing and horns honking through every intersection.
Upon arrival on scene, I saw various trucks already there, gathering around the front of the hotel. Flames leaped 15 feet into the hazy sky.
Nervous excitement invaded the engine's cab of five firefighters and we were driven around to the back, where we could see the full extent of the damage.
Although the front of the building looked intact, the back, by that time, was not faring as well and the interiors of the rooms were fully exposed and engulfed.
Our driver painstakingly backed the hulking vehicle down a golf cart lane and parked; we jumped out, in full gear, and started readying hundreds of metres of hoses.
No hydrants were close by; hoses shot off in all directions and I joined two men trying to pry open a small shed where a closer hydrant hid.
As one member pulled the door, I wedged a shovel between the gap and jarred the door just enough so I could fit in.
The hydrant within was old, rusted and impossible for me to work by myself.
Possibly thinking me a wuss, another member squeezed in and tried, only breaking his tools on the stuck valves.
I didn't feel so bad then.
When we did get it open I went back to the incident commander for reassignment. I was placed on a two-and-a-half inch hose, where I sat, spraying the building, for at least two hours.
After being order to rehab, I trudged through the snow to the front of the building where an ambulance waited for firefighters, to take their blood pressure and heart rate. This was no easy task, as my equipment weighs more than I do and, combined with the knee-deep snow, likely made watching me get around the scene very comical.
In the ambulance for 10 minutes, I went back to my post to take charge of a slightly smaller hose; this allowed me to be more mobile and spray vaster areas, with ease.
Although the temperature was a balmy -2 C, my soaked hands still froze in my gloves, prompting a trip to rehab again a few hours later.
Time flew by as crews steadily worked to get the fire under control and, around 3:30 p.m., officials were confident we had stopped the blaze at a breezeway between the sections of rooms. About one-third of the building was lost; but, on the bright side, that meant two-thirds of the building was saved.
It was time to clean up — no easy task.
Hose had to be collected, rolled and loaded; ladders needed to be collapsed and carried; and hot spots still needed to be tended to, something the 108 department stayed behind to look after.
Back at the hall, trucks, hoses, gear and tools needed to be organized and cleaned, something that took hours.
When it was all done, most of the crew took a few minutes to discuss the day; the chief seemed please with our performances and now the investigation into the cause of the blaze would begin.
I enjoyed the day but, I have to admit, I was a bit sore the next day; but I’ll do it all again should need be — I’d never wish for a fire but I hope to be there, ready, when it happens.
The experience gave me even greater respect for those who do the job day in and out — they must have really strong hands because I couldn’t even turn my bedroom door handle the next morning.
http://www.bcdailybuzz.com/profile_blogs/LauraK/&action=view&id=29
Friday, June 05, 2009
Rocky roads in the Cariboo
I was driving to work, 7:15 a.m. on a Monday, when I glanced down and saw the small crack in my windshield. It went from the corner, diagonally across toward the centre, about seven inches.
That’s a small crack in the Cariboo.
I’d forgotten about it.
The first chip on my glass was distressing; driving back from Vancouver in my brand-spanking new Mazda 3 only to reach the hill sloping into 100 Mile House and have a large rock fly at my face.
I remember the conflicting advice locals offered:
“If you put clear nail polish on a crack, it’ll stop it from spreading.”
“That’s only good if it’s a small chip.”
“Get them fixed as fast as possible.”
“Don’t bother fixing them; everyone has to replace their front window when you drive up here.”
My next one wasn’t as worrisome; I actually didn’t even notice it until it was two inches long, when it started to spread out of the left corner of my windshield.
As long as it doesn’t obscure my view of the road, I thought, it should be all right. And that’s the thought that again ran through my mind on Monday morning.
Then, like an invisible pen drawing a straight line across my window, the crack spread.
I tried putting my finger along its path of destruction to quell it’s speedy travel but it was no use — a streak was permanently etched across my windshield.
Looking at my car, one might think me a gangster; the front end is riddled with dents, making it look like I drove head on into machine gun fire.
For my Jan. 7 column, I spoke with representatives from the District of 100 Mile House, Interior Roads and the Ministry of Transportation.
All of them pretty much told me there was no way to get around the large “boulders” sneaking out of the “sanding” trucks, as the mixture is regulation size.
The ministry spokesperson even told me there were larger rocks in the mix to prevent it from blowing off the road.
This confused me, as the finer sand I’ve seen on snowy roads seems to stick it out quite well.
As a newcomer, I thought I was being a bit whiny about the road conditions, but, as it turns out, 99 per cent of South Cariboo residents, long-time, new or otherwise, also hate the roads. I gathered this as I receive complaint letters to the editor from drivers every week.
One woman sent me a photo of her vehicle after a rock flew up from a passing truck and shattered her rear side window — where her children usually sat.
For financial, safety and esthetic reasons, something must be done about these rocky Cariboo roads.
http://www.bcdailybuzz.com/profile_blogs/LauraK/&action=view&id=27
That’s a small crack in the Cariboo.
I’d forgotten about it.
The first chip on my glass was distressing; driving back from Vancouver in my brand-spanking new Mazda 3 only to reach the hill sloping into 100 Mile House and have a large rock fly at my face.
I remember the conflicting advice locals offered:
“If you put clear nail polish on a crack, it’ll stop it from spreading.”
“That’s only good if it’s a small chip.”
“Get them fixed as fast as possible.”
“Don’t bother fixing them; everyone has to replace their front window when you drive up here.”
My next one wasn’t as worrisome; I actually didn’t even notice it until it was two inches long, when it started to spread out of the left corner of my windshield.
As long as it doesn’t obscure my view of the road, I thought, it should be all right. And that’s the thought that again ran through my mind on Monday morning.
Then, like an invisible pen drawing a straight line across my window, the crack spread.
I tried putting my finger along its path of destruction to quell it’s speedy travel but it was no use — a streak was permanently etched across my windshield.
Looking at my car, one might think me a gangster; the front end is riddled with dents, making it look like I drove head on into machine gun fire.
For my Jan. 7 column, I spoke with representatives from the District of 100 Mile House, Interior Roads and the Ministry of Transportation.
All of them pretty much told me there was no way to get around the large “boulders” sneaking out of the “sanding” trucks, as the mixture is regulation size.
The ministry spokesperson even told me there were larger rocks in the mix to prevent it from blowing off the road.
This confused me, as the finer sand I’ve seen on snowy roads seems to stick it out quite well.
As a newcomer, I thought I was being a bit whiny about the road conditions, but, as it turns out, 99 per cent of South Cariboo residents, long-time, new or otherwise, also hate the roads. I gathered this as I receive complaint letters to the editor from drivers every week.
One woman sent me a photo of her vehicle after a rock flew up from a passing truck and shattered her rear side window — where her children usually sat.
For financial, safety and esthetic reasons, something must be done about these rocky Cariboo roads.
http://www.bcdailybuzz.com/profile_blogs/LauraK/&action=view&id=27
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
One year, Cornish still missing
Feb. 22 marked one year since Dennis Cornish went missing, when he was last seen purchasing fuel for his light brown/tan 1995 GMC pick-up truck at Race Trac gas at the 108.
Cornish lived in the 108 Mile area for two years before planning to return to his home-province of Alberta in the beginning of 2008.
Despite pleas from family and friends, there is still little known about what happened to Cornish.
His parents, Janette and Dennis, made the trip from Calgary to 100 Mile House back in June, handing out flyers, checking in with the RCMP and speaking with the Free Press.
Since his disappearance, 629 members have joined the Facebook group, showing high interest in the case.
Cpl. Lorne Wood is heading the Cornish case, which he says is progressing. He reminds those with information to contact the North District RCMP Major Crimes Unit or Crime Stoppers.
In response to this somber anniversary, his parents released the following statement last week:
It is now a year since our son, Dennis went missing. We know he is no longer with us. That is the focus of the RCMP investigation. Our family does not know how and why he died. The most important thing for us is finding his body. Not a day goes by that we don’t think of him. We can’t find peace and move on until we have his remains and give him a proper burial.
We are open to all suggestions as to where Dennis might be. If you have any leads contact our family friend Ken at kenmont@telusplanet.net or the RCMP.
http://www.facebook.com/photo.php?pid=6006484&id=512050525#/group.php?gid=21628662726&ref=ts
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
News is the operative word
News - n. information about important or interesting recent events.
Reporter - n. a person employed to report news, etc. for newspapers or broadcasts.
When news happens in 100 Mile House and its surrounding area, residents expect their paper to cover it; the editor expects her reporters uncover the story; and those involved should expect to talk about it.
Some people forget that, not only are there those out there who make their living off of writing news articles, but the community relies on the paper to tell them what is going on and what to watch out for.
And when sources withhold information, they are being unfair to the paper and the public.
Small towns may not have the hard-hitting, intrusive sort of reporters larger cities have, but it doesn't mean rural community news matters any less.
So when something does happen, the involved parties in the news event are taken aback when they are approached by a reporter looking for answers.
Reporters represent the public and they will fight for their right to ask questions; granted, a person doesn't have to answer, but he or she can't silence the querying voice of the people.
Because sometimes "no comment" can speak louder than any words.
A town, its paper and authorities can work like a well-oiled information machine - it happens all the time.
Reporter - n. a person employed to report news, etc. for newspapers or broadcasts.
When news happens in 100 Mile House and its surrounding area, residents expect their paper to cover it; the editor expects her reporters uncover the story; and those involved should expect to talk about it.
Some people forget that, not only are there those out there who make their living off of writing news articles, but the community relies on the paper to tell them what is going on and what to watch out for.
And when sources withhold information, they are being unfair to the paper and the public.
Small towns may not have the hard-hitting, intrusive sort of reporters larger cities have, but it doesn't mean rural community news matters any less.
So when something does happen, the involved parties in the news event are taken aback when they are approached by a reporter looking for answers.
Reporters represent the public and they will fight for their right to ask questions; granted, a person doesn't have to answer, but he or she can't silence the querying voice of the people.
Because sometimes "no comment" can speak louder than any words.
A town, its paper and authorities can work like a well-oiled information machine - it happens all the time.
Sympathy for the devil
"In the House" column from http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/.
Like most fields, the world of journalism is a very competitive place.
The time it takes to break a story can be the difference between making or breaking a reporter. Even for a weekly, such as the Free Press, the pressure is still there since cyber stories are expected to be updated constantly.
But just because there is pressure on journalists does not mean they should throw their morals to the wind when writing a story — the photographers snapping up shots of Britney Spears in intimate moments like they are gold are not journalists.
People can’t paint all in the media with the same brush; just as politicians are not all lawyers, not all journalists are paparazzi.
The job of a reporter, in my eyes, is to inform the public and dispel rumours that may swirl around an incident.
I’m not nosy by nature, but I’m curious; nosy refers to being too interested in other people’s affairs; being curious means someone’s eager to know or learn something.
I do not feed off of the suffering of others; I do not live for a tragedy.
I, in no way, enjoy contacting someone who has just suffered a loss, but sometimes it’s the only way to understand and describe the whole story.
True reporting involves not just covering the news, but uncovering it. Uncovering a story does not
necessarily mean badgering people or digging up “dirt”; it may just mean describing an event from a different angle, talking about not just what happened, but why and how.
I’m not into eavesdropping or snooping around other peoples’ belongings or property; if I show up to a scene of a crime, it’s because I need to know — it’s not only my job as the editor of the paper, but there are more benefits than disadvantages in keeping the public informed.
When I show up to an event — crime, sports or otherwise — I’m not there to make trouble.
Especially in a small town, when people see a big fuss happening on their street, they start to talk; it’s human nature to wonder what’s going on.
It’s understandable when a matter is before courts, under investigation or involving an extremely sensitive issue, but when officials withhold all information and disclose nothing, it paves the way for rumour and speculation.
But a newspaper is not necessarily a public service; it is run by a company and needs to make its own independent funds. Unless it is a paid ad, a newspaper has no obligation to run or cover an event, story, etc.
My favourite part of a paper is the letters to the editor; whether a big city or small one-horse settlement, I read a paper’s top stories in the front then skip to the letters because nothing describes a town’s main issues better than its readers.
But, just like stories, not every letter makes it into print; depending on time frame and space constraints, some letters may have to wait or some will be cut all together. I do my best to get every letter in because, as I said, they’re important.
As for editorialized pieces, like what you’re reading right now, readers have to remember they are opinion; I know you may never agree with what I am writing, and might doodle horns on my head shot at times, and that’s fine.
If you don’t like what I’m saying then I welcome your letters.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Trying taekwondo
It takes some getting used to; bowing to others can feel pretty submissive.
And it makes it all the more awkward when you are at least 10 years older than everyone else in your class and your fellow students’ parents are watching diligently from the sidelines.
Those were my initial feelings during the start of my first taekwondo class at Whispering Pines in 100 Mile House.
I was told to just wear comfy workout clothes, but I felt out of place in my stretch pants while everyone else was in their white jammies.
I lined up with the
rest of the participants and waited to be called to the front, where I bowed and listened to my classmates recite “The Spirit of Taekwondo.”
Then, we were told to bow again – “kyung
nae” – in Korean. But the way instructor Lois
Gray said the command,
it sounded like a guinea pig or Pikachu the Pokemon singing out for love.
Our first task was to perform 20 number one front kicks. Initially confused, I wondered what my number one appendage was, but got into the swing of things quickly as Gray (who we had to call “Ma’am”) demonstrated the moves.
After 20 reps, we switched sides.
Following punches and more kicks, the belt groups separated to act out their forms.
I had absolutely no idea what this meant.
Ian Levic, a 15-year-old black belt, stood in front of the white belts (and wannabes, like me) and slowly took us through the appropriate form.
“Chamber, high block. Chamber, punch...”
This “chamber” business sure didn’t make sense but, not wanting to look dumb in front of the little ones, I kept my mouth shut.
I thought my kicks were high enough, but it seems my fists were a little floppy.
“It’s more like you’re doing spaghetti-style form than taekwondo,” laughed one student.
Once we had gone through the forms a few times, we were partnered up; I was placed with the kid who looked the youngest out of them all. We lined up, facing each other in a “ready” stance.
My first thought was “This would look bad if I beat up this kid,” immediately followed by a more embarrassing thought: “And it will look worse if he beats me up!”
What I thought would be sparring turned out to be another kind of form, called a one-step. My partner came at me with a punch, which I blocked and retaliated with a pre-determined block-punch combination.
The time flew by fast and, before I knew it, it was time to wrap up an hour of working out, while having fun and learning how to defend ourselves.
We lined up again, said another taekwondo blurb and bowed, then had to face our superior classmate and bow to him or her.
Although the kids were silly sometimes, when it was time to get down to it, they showed respect to their instructor and to each other, and it was a good healthy dose of discipline for young and old alike.
I guess sometimes leaders have to be
followers in order to be better leaders.
Set the standard
Three pedals. I just didn’t understand why there are three pedals.
Who needs a clutch?
I sure never have — I’ve been an automatic driver up until now.
My car is ill; for the past few weeks I’ve been searching for a something else.
Trucks seem to be the vehicle of choice here in the Cariboo. But there’s a problem: most trucks are standard transmission.
Stick shifts do look fun to drive, and there are four-by-fours galore for sale in the classifieds and on roadsides.
Yet it’s hard to test drive a truck when you can’t actually drive it; I found that out when I looked at a great 1988 Toyota 4Runner last week and had to watch the seller drive it around the block for me.
When friends offered to sacrifice the transmission of their old Chevy S10 for the sake of my better stick handling, I was grateful.
But my appreciation mounted to frustration once I was in the driver’s seat.
“OK,” said my friend-turned-driving-instructor. “Put in the clutch, all the way, and start the car. Now, slowly bring you foot off the pedal while giving it gas.”
Stall.
“That’s OK. Try again.”
We sat there for 20 minutes until the truck lurched forward and down the grassy hill of the yard.
“Now put the clutch in,” coaxed my ever-patient instructor, “and switch to second gear.”
I go to the end of the yard — into a sloped ditch — and slammed in the brake.
Stall.
“Put it into reverse, bring out the clutch and hit the gas.”
Stall.
I rolled down the window to get some air and cool my building aggravation toward the stupid truck. I thought about putting the stick in neutral and just rocking back in forth in my seat until it left the ditch by force.
Eventually I rolled it back enough to drive forward, and back up the hill.
I thought about how hard it would be to air drum or eat a sandwich while driving a standard, and started to think maybe it really wasn’t right for me.
“You know, your footwear isn’t exactly suitable for this.”
I looked down at my red thong-sandal heels slipping across the clutch, brake and gas.
There are three kinds of people in the world: automatic, manual/standard and chauffeured.
I want to be a standard, making my own way in life, not just cruising through on autopilot.
… But I can do that in other areas of my life; it doesn’t have to be in my car.
Who needs a clutch?
I sure never have — I’ve been an automatic driver up until now.
My car is ill; for the past few weeks I’ve been searching for a something else.
Trucks seem to be the vehicle of choice here in the Cariboo. But there’s a problem: most trucks are standard transmission.
Stick shifts do look fun to drive, and there are four-by-fours galore for sale in the classifieds and on roadsides.
Yet it’s hard to test drive a truck when you can’t actually drive it; I found that out when I looked at a great 1988 Toyota 4Runner last week and had to watch the seller drive it around the block for me.
When friends offered to sacrifice the transmission of their old Chevy S10 for the sake of my better stick handling, I was grateful.
But my appreciation mounted to frustration once I was in the driver’s seat.
“OK,” said my friend-turned-driving-instructor. “Put in the clutch, all the way, and start the car. Now, slowly bring you foot off the pedal while giving it gas.”
Stall.
“That’s OK. Try again.”
We sat there for 20 minutes until the truck lurched forward and down the grassy hill of the yard.
“Now put the clutch in,” coaxed my ever-patient instructor, “and switch to second gear.”
I go to the end of the yard — into a sloped ditch — and slammed in the brake.
Stall.
“Put it into reverse, bring out the clutch and hit the gas.”
Stall.
I rolled down the window to get some air and cool my building aggravation toward the stupid truck. I thought about putting the stick in neutral and just rocking back in forth in my seat until it left the ditch by force.
Eventually I rolled it back enough to drive forward, and back up the hill.
I thought about how hard it would be to air drum or eat a sandwich while driving a standard, and started to think maybe it really wasn’t right for me.
“You know, your footwear isn’t exactly suitable for this.”
I looked down at my red thong-sandal heels slipping across the clutch, brake and gas.
There are three kinds of people in the world: automatic, manual/standard and chauffeured.
I want to be a standard, making my own way in life, not just cruising through on autopilot.
… But I can do that in other areas of my life; it doesn’t have to be in my car.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Friday, September 19, 2008
Golfing for the first time
I had lived in 100 Mile House for four months and managed to avoid picking up a single golf club.
I had never golfed before, well, besides mini golf and beer at Castle Fun Park in Abbotsford; but I was told that didn’t count.
100 Mile is a golf town; succumbing to pressure, I decided to give it a try — and the Crime Stoppers tourney at the 108 on Sept. 14 seemed the perfect opportunity. All I needed was the most patient person in the world to volunteer his or her golf expertise and time to my cause; I found that person in Val Nickless.
Val was nice enough to not only volunteer her time, but also her clubs.
As an avid golfer, I understood what a possible sacrifice this was for Val and I vowed to treat her clubs as the precious pieces they were; but what I was really excited about was driving the cart.
When I helped Val lug her golf bag onto the cart, I was slightly intimidated with the amount of clubs sticking out of the top.
“I only brought half of my clubs,” said Val.
I got into the driver’s seat of the cart and pressed the gas pedal. Its lawnmower-like engine whirred to life and we took off to the number 10 hole, where I would be starting.
At the 10, Val handed me a ball and a handful of tees. She told me to grab the number five club and showed me how to hold and swing the thing.
The stance I took felt awkward; my first practice swing left much to be desired. But when the club made contact with the ball and sent it flying straight out onto the fairway, I couldn’t help but feel a small sense of satisfaction.
I also realized how one could twist his or her body up while playing; and here I had been laughing at Tiger Woods for giving up last season to injury.
As much as I loved driving the cart, I found myself running after the ball more times than riding and was beginning to work up an appetite — by the second green.
My shots weren’t all that bad, commented Val. And, lucky for me, she kept me from making golf faux pas, like using a nine club when I needed a putter, shoving my club in the ball washer or running over other players with the cart.
But, a few greens later, my famine faded to fatigue under the low September sun and my shots started to go astray.
Somehow, though, I managed to stay on the fairway the entire round and ended with a nine-hole score of 76, owed all to my caddie and coach.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Almost There
Her mind was a thoroughly erased blackboard, one
without even a smattering of chalk dust
around its edges. Waves of sleep were beginning
to cascade through her and her face relaxed,
her body reverting to its resting position
without thought.
If a black can become blacker, her mind was creating the shade;
her brain was devoid of thought and feeling. Sleep
would finally allow her through
its elite gates. She had waited so long…
That’s when she felt it: A nudge on her left shoulder.
Her arm twitched, and her brain flickered,
but the rest of her did little
to react to the movement. And that’s when
she felt it again, the hard edges of the spine scraping
across her shoulder, up to her neck. Suddenly
her mind was letting in thoughts,
allowing them to scrawl themselves across
her imagination. She clenched her eyes shut, determined.
Her face became taut.
“Not again,” she whispered
into her increasingly uncomfortable pillow.
And then a page dragged across her face,
leaving a stinging line of blood in its wake.
“But I’m so close!” she yelled, her words
filling her crowding brain
as they echoed in the empty room.
Her bed may have well become a cutlery drawer,
and she shifted and turned
on the now unbearable mattress.
“All right!” she said at last,
reaching for the small light switch above the bed nightstand.
“Just one more chapter!”
The book had won again.
without even a smattering of chalk dust
around its edges. Waves of sleep were beginning
to cascade through her and her face relaxed,
her body reverting to its resting position
without thought.
If a black can become blacker, her mind was creating the shade;
her brain was devoid of thought and feeling. Sleep
would finally allow her through
its elite gates. She had waited so long…
That’s when she felt it: A nudge on her left shoulder.
Her arm twitched, and her brain flickered,
but the rest of her did little
to react to the movement. And that’s when
she felt it again, the hard edges of the spine scraping
across her shoulder, up to her neck. Suddenly
her mind was letting in thoughts,
allowing them to scrawl themselves across
her imagination. She clenched her eyes shut, determined.
Her face became taut.
“Not again,” she whispered
into her increasingly uncomfortable pillow.
And then a page dragged across her face,
leaving a stinging line of blood in its wake.
“But I’m so close!” she yelled, her words
filling her crowding brain
as they echoed in the empty room.
Her bed may have well become a cutlery drawer,
and she shifted and turned
on the now unbearable mattress.
“All right!” she said at last,
reaching for the small light switch above the bed nightstand.
“Just one more chapter!”
The book had won again.
I am
If I could cease the picking of my canvas scabs
with my paintbrush,
then I wouldn’t be an artist.
If I could stop scratching the itch of scrawl and script,
then I would not be a writer.
If my hunger for flesh
was ever satisfied,
then I would not be a lover.
And if I could snuff the fury
that burns acres of anger within me,
then I would not be a warrior.
with my paintbrush,
then I wouldn’t be an artist.
If I could stop scratching the itch of scrawl and script,
then I would not be a writer.
If my hunger for flesh
was ever satisfied,
then I would not be a lover.
And if I could snuff the fury
that burns acres of anger within me,
then I would not be a warrior.
Climate change may not mean warming
Published in the Sept. 21 issue of the 100 Mile Free Press:
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/
Once people got past the initial alarming hoopla surround climate change,
some British Columbians tried to see a silver lining.
With all the blame focused on global warming for problems like the spread of the pine beetle and the potential drowning of the city of Richmond, some thought, “Well, at least there will be more sunny days.”
But with unseasonably cool temperatures, residents are starting to wonder whether the tropical paradise they thought climate change would bring is actually a potential arctic nightmare.
But maybe that’s what people need to wake up to the problem; if the threat of heat didn’t cause them to make personal, environmentally-friendly changes than perhaps the prospect of being banished into an eternal ice prison will.
Driving an older, unkempt car is frowned upon now because of its heavy carbon output; but those same people who object to gas-guzzling vehicles drive gas-powered mowers around their lawns and leave their vehicles running while they run into convenience stores. Essentially, they make up for it.
Political leaders don’t offer the best example of green living, either; the amount of travelling they do just for photo ops could be halted and the resulting energy saved could probably bring down the price of gas by 10 cents.
And now, with election campaigning, office helpfuls and hopefuls will be offering more carbon into the atmosphere than their speeches do in office.
But stopping the spread of Yukon-like weather is only half the incentive.
Usually things good for the environment go hand-in-hand with things good for a person’s health: cycling, using push mowers and avoiding fast-food drive-thrus.
Hopefully, with all the ominous problems climate change threatens us with, there will be positive change for people as a whole.
Perhaps obesity levels will go down with the increase in forced physical activity; maybe air quality will improve and asthma incidents will decrease.
For those inland, more frequent frost may be a better motivator than fun-in-the-sun.
Of course, the opposite might be true for those on the coast — especially for those who can’t swim.
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/
Once people got past the initial alarming hoopla surround climate change,
some British Columbians tried to see a silver lining.
With all the blame focused on global warming for problems like the spread of the pine beetle and the potential drowning of the city of Richmond, some thought, “Well, at least there will be more sunny days.”
But with unseasonably cool temperatures, residents are starting to wonder whether the tropical paradise they thought climate change would bring is actually a potential arctic nightmare.
But maybe that’s what people need to wake up to the problem; if the threat of heat didn’t cause them to make personal, environmentally-friendly changes than perhaps the prospect of being banished into an eternal ice prison will.
Driving an older, unkempt car is frowned upon now because of its heavy carbon output; but those same people who object to gas-guzzling vehicles drive gas-powered mowers around their lawns and leave their vehicles running while they run into convenience stores. Essentially, they make up for it.
Political leaders don’t offer the best example of green living, either; the amount of travelling they do just for photo ops could be halted and the resulting energy saved could probably bring down the price of gas by 10 cents.
And now, with election campaigning, office helpfuls and hopefuls will be offering more carbon into the atmosphere than their speeches do in office.
But stopping the spread of Yukon-like weather is only half the incentive.
Usually things good for the environment go hand-in-hand with things good for a person’s health: cycling, using push mowers and avoiding fast-food drive-thrus.
Hopefully, with all the ominous problems climate change threatens us with, there will be positive change for people as a whole.
Perhaps obesity levels will go down with the increase in forced physical activity; maybe air quality will improve and asthma incidents will decrease.
For those inland, more frequent frost may be a better motivator than fun-in-the-sun.
Of course, the opposite might be true for those on the coast — especially for those who can’t swim.
This year's race begins
Published in the Sept. 12 issue of the 100 Mile Free Press:
We have a federal government who can’t see west of Ontario and north of Sudbury; we have a provincial government who isn’t even sitting this fall to avoid questions over a wage scandal.
Canadians have a federal election hanging over their heads, with municipal races also revving up. And before we know it, British Columbians will be at the provincial polls as well.
But besides the scattering of civic-candidates’ signs and flyers, it’s always been federal elections’ bombardment on voters in every available media that can’t be ignored.
The Conservatives are not very good at keeping a secret; on the contrary, they are horrible. Long before the election was even called, citizens were receiving propaganda by way of electronic and paper mail — also known as spam and birdcage liner — touting the greatness of the Tories and the idiocy of Stéphane Dion’s Green Shift; they caused a big stir when they wanted to put an attack ad on Ontario gas station service screens, trying to sway customers with an over-used photo of Dion holding out in his upturned palms in an act of submissive shruggery.
Daily, in my email inbox, I receive transmissions from all parties blaming each other for everything from global warming to offending Canadians with pooping puffins; imagine if they worked as hard at the welfare of the country as they do at attacking each other?
The Conservatives say Dion is “a weak leader who doesn’t know where he stands and doesn’t know where he’s going.” The Liberals say, “Mr. Harper has proven that he’s entirely incapable of providing real leadership.”
They might as well be calling each other “buttface” in an elementary schoolyard.
The most unsurprising event in this race thus far is that David Emerson will not be seeking re-election.
Safe to say, his writing was on the wall — in block letters; the only way he’d have a hope in heck of regaining his seat is if he moved constituencies — perhaps to Zambia.
But, should the Tories be back in office, the close colleague of Harper is sure to find some sort of cushy employment in Ottawa.
The Conservatives, on their website, claim Canadians have a choice between two leaders, two visions and two records. “The choice is clear.”
Where is Jack Layton in all this? Is he really so off the map?
As far as leaders go, when you review the competition – the control freak and the flip-flopper – Layton, as an individual, looks great; too bad his party doesn’t look as appealing.
So who do we choose: the Dictator, the Muppet or the Mustache?
Harper wants you to know he is “a leader who has put the aspirations of families — and the pressures they face — at the heart of national decision-making.”
(Unless you’re gay or faced with an unexpected pregnancy.)
On the net, I think Dion said he wants to reconcile the people and the environment.
(But at what cost?)
Layton says “It’s time for a decent minimum wage, it’s time for a break on ATM fees, on affordable education, child care and prescription drugs.”
(But let’s go soft on criminals.)
But hey — there's still the Green Party (who aren't even allowed in the televised leaders' debate).
We have a federal government who can’t see west of Ontario and north of Sudbury; we have a provincial government who isn’t even sitting this fall to avoid questions over a wage scandal.
Canadians have a federal election hanging over their heads, with municipal races also revving up. And before we know it, British Columbians will be at the provincial polls as well.
But besides the scattering of civic-candidates’ signs and flyers, it’s always been federal elections’ bombardment on voters in every available media that can’t be ignored.
The Conservatives are not very good at keeping a secret; on the contrary, they are horrible. Long before the election was even called, citizens were receiving propaganda by way of electronic and paper mail — also known as spam and birdcage liner — touting the greatness of the Tories and the idiocy of Stéphane Dion’s Green Shift; they caused a big stir when they wanted to put an attack ad on Ontario gas station service screens, trying to sway customers with an over-used photo of Dion holding out in his upturned palms in an act of submissive shruggery.
Daily, in my email inbox, I receive transmissions from all parties blaming each other for everything from global warming to offending Canadians with pooping puffins; imagine if they worked as hard at the welfare of the country as they do at attacking each other?
The Conservatives say Dion is “a weak leader who doesn’t know where he stands and doesn’t know where he’s going.” The Liberals say, “Mr. Harper has proven that he’s entirely incapable of providing real leadership.”
They might as well be calling each other “buttface” in an elementary schoolyard.
The most unsurprising event in this race thus far is that David Emerson will not be seeking re-election.
Safe to say, his writing was on the wall — in block letters; the only way he’d have a hope in heck of regaining his seat is if he moved constituencies — perhaps to Zambia.
But, should the Tories be back in office, the close colleague of Harper is sure to find some sort of cushy employment in Ottawa.
The Conservatives, on their website, claim Canadians have a choice between two leaders, two visions and two records. “The choice is clear.”
Where is Jack Layton in all this? Is he really so off the map?
As far as leaders go, when you review the competition – the control freak and the flip-flopper – Layton, as an individual, looks great; too bad his party doesn’t look as appealing.
So who do we choose: the Dictator, the Muppet or the Mustache?
Harper wants you to know he is “a leader who has put the aspirations of families — and the pressures they face — at the heart of national decision-making.”
(Unless you’re gay or faced with an unexpected pregnancy.)
On the net, I think Dion said he wants to reconcile the people and the environment.
(But at what cost?)
Layton says “It’s time for a decent minimum wage, it’s time for a break on ATM fees, on affordable education, child care and prescription drugs.”
(But let’s go soft on criminals.)
But hey — there's still the Green Party (who aren't even allowed in the televised leaders' debate).
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Badger counting
When I first noticed the Badger Crossing sign on the north border of 100 Mile, I thought it was a joke.
On the way to Seymour Mountain in North Vancouver, motorists are entertained by various joke animal-crossing signs, like camel. I didn't realize badgers resided in BC.
When I think of badgers, Wind in the Willows seems to come to mind. What I didn't realize was Mr. Badger wouldn't have gotten along with
Mole and the other inhabitants of the Wild Wood - he would have eaten them.
Then again, as student and researcher Richard Klafki told me, English badgers are not as tough as their North American counterparts.
I went along with Klafki on a badger count, part of the Cariboo Badger Project. Klafki and others from the Ministry of Environment, Ministry of Transportation and Thompson Rivers University are using radio telemetry to track members of the dwindling badger population in the province.
Badgers have few natural predators; the steel monsters driven by humans are what really picks them off.
Roger Packham, biologist with the Ministry of Environment, set me up with Klafki, a Master's student doing his thesis on badgers.
We set out on a Sunday morning, driving along Horse Lake Road toward our Bridge Lake area destination.
Along the way, Klafki tried to enlighten me on the ways of the badgers.
He laughed when I asked if I could pet one, and told me we'd be lucky if we even saw one from afar during our trek.
He said, contrary to popular belief, badgers are not rodents - they are part of the weasel family - and they are not interested in eating household pets.
Also contrary to a popular Internet fad video (available at www.badgerbadgerbadger.com) - in which multiple badgers dance about while singing "Badger, badger, badger, badger; mushroom, mushroom! Oh no, snake!" - badgers are not afraid of snakes - they'll eat those, too.
Once we reached a known badger's territory, Klafki turned on the equipment in his truck and I could hear a faint beep.
"That's a female who has two kits,' he said.
He explained 10 badgers - five male, five female - had been trapped and implanted with transmitters.
"Badgers don't really have necks, so it's hard to fit them with a radio collar."
Occasionally Klafki would exit the vehicle and hold out a long antenna to figure out the location of the badger.
Soon we were out of the vehicle, trudging across a vast field, Klafki holding the antenna above his head. The beeping was growing stronger and more frequent, and he pointed to a field and said the badger was in a particular mound of grass.
And that's when we saw a tiny, striped head poke out of the ground.
Mother badger was inspecting us; she was only a few feet away. She slow
ly dragged her pudgy body from her temporary den and sat on a mound of dirt, lazily scratching her side.
She didn't seem exactly comfortable with our presence, but she wasn't bursting out of the hole like the rabbit from Monty Python's Holy Grail, either.
After a while, two more striped faces could be seen emerging from the ground, and mother shepherded her kits a few feet away from the strange visitors.
Klafki and I backed away, leaving the family and allowing mom to hunt the plentiful ground squirrels that whistled warnings around us.
On the way to Seymour Mountain in North Vancouver, motorists are entertained by various joke animal-crossing signs, like camel. I didn't realize badgers resided in BC.
When I think of badgers, Wind in the Willows seems to come to mind. What I didn't realize was Mr. Badger wouldn't have gotten along with
Mole and the other inhabitants of the Wild Wood - he would have eaten them.Then again, as student and researcher Richard Klafki told me, English badgers are not as tough as their North American counterparts.
I went along with Klafki on a badger count, part of the Cariboo Badger Project. Klafki and others from the Ministry of Environment, Ministry of Transportation and Thompson Rivers University are using radio telemetry to track members of the dwindling badger population in the province.
Badgers have few natural predators; the steel monsters driven by humans are what really picks them off.
Roger Packham, biologist with the Ministry of Environment, set me up with Klafki, a Master's student doing his thesis on badgers.
We set out on a Sunday morning, driving along Horse Lake Road toward our Bridge Lake area destination.
Along the way, Klafki tried to enlighten me on the ways of the badgers.
He laughed when I asked if I could pet one, and told me we'd be lucky if we even saw one from afar during our trek.
He said, contrary to popular belief, badgers are not rodents - they are part of the weasel family - and they are not interested in eating household pets.
Also contrary to a popular Internet fad video (available at www.badgerbadgerbadger.com) - in which multiple badgers dance about while singing "Badger, badger, badger, badger; mushroom, mushroom! Oh no, snake!" - badgers are not afraid of snakes - they'll eat those, too.
Once we reached a known badger's territory, Klafki turned on the equipment in his truck and I could hear a faint beep.
"That's a female who has two kits,' he said.
He explained 10 badgers - five male, five female - had been trapped and implanted with transmitters.
"Badgers don't really have necks, so it's hard to fit them with a radio collar."
Occasionally Klafki would exit the vehicle and hold out a long antenna to figure out the location of the badger.
Soon we were out of the vehicle, trudging across a vast field, Klafki holding the antenna above his head. The beeping was growing stronger and more frequent, and he pointed to a field and said the badger was in a particular mound of grass.
And that's when we saw a tiny, striped head poke out of the ground.
Mother badger was inspecting us; she was only a few feet away. She slow
ly dragged her pudgy body from her temporary den and sat on a mound of dirt, lazily scratching her side.She didn't seem exactly comfortable with our presence, but she wasn't bursting out of the hole like the rabbit from Monty Python's Holy Grail, either.
After a while, two more striped faces could be seen emerging from the ground, and mother shepherded her kits a few feet away from the strange visitors.
Klafki and I backed away, leaving the family and allowing mom to hunt the plentiful ground squirrels that whistled warnings around us.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Recent columns
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/25489479.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/24258429.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/25489484.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/24258544.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/22821359.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/20818344.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/22821349.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/24258429.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/25489484.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/24258544.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/22821359.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/20818344.html
http://www.bclocalnews.com/bc_cariboo/100milefreepress/opinion/22821349.html
Monitoring a budworm spray
It was early - 3:20 a.m. early - when my alarm woke me. I dressed cozily and drove to the 108 Airport where Ministry of Forests and Range entomologist Leo Rankin was waiting for me.
He introduced me to air coordinator Don Wright and helicopter pilot Jay Camille; they were there, in these wee hours, to combat an invisible enemy: the spruce budworm.
"We'll be flying in the helicopter over the Air Tractors (planes) as they spray the forest," Rankin told me. "They'll be spraying BTK all around the South Cariboo today."
Then Camille shared his mandatory safety-spiel with me, which my sleep drenched brain didn't seem to absorb.
"So, in case of engine failure, it's imperative that you..." I just nodded, trying to keep my eyes open.
"All right, we're ready to take off," said Camille after showing me how to do up my seatbelt.
I climbed into the back of the helicopter, sitting next to Rankin. He helped
me with the belt and talked about bugs while passing me my headset.I learned the spruce budworm was more interested in Douglas firs than spruce around the local forests, eating the buds and needles of the coniferous foliage until they resembled something Charlie Brown would pick out for his Christmas tree.
"The budworm doesn't kill the trees immediately," said Rankin. "It weakens them so other pests, like the Douglas fir beetle, can take advantage."
By this time the rotor was in full spin, and my stomach lurched as we lifted off the ground. I took out my video camera and filmed our ascent into the still-dark sky.
We flew over the 108, and then over miles and miles of red trees. I thought the pine problem looked bad from the ground; it looked ten-fold worse from the air.
The pine beetle epidemic is over, said Rankin. "Virtually all of our mature pine is dead. That's why we have to protect what trees we have left."
We spotted one of the Air Tractors streaking BTK (the bacteria used to kill the budworm) over the woods near Alberta Lake.
Rankin said they must spray early as the product needs specific climate conditions to be affective.
We circled the plane so I could get good photos and footage of the spray; but the circling was starting to coax my breakfast back out.
"Do you have a good shot?" I heard Camille say in my headphones.
"Yes, thank you," I replied. The truth was I had no idea, but the helicopter had to steady or else my fellow passengers were going to see Cheerios all over the cabin.
I must have looked how I felt, because Rankin asked me if I was OK. Camille brought the copter down in a middle-of-nowhere forest, where ground coordinator Joan Westfall and her dog were waiting.
Westfall's job was to monitor the spray from the ground, checking weather readings every few minutes; she broke open some fir buds and showed me the munching menace this whole operation was about: a very tiny black worm.
The mosquitoes were horrendous, though. My face was so covered with bugs I felt like a bee-beard fellow I once saw on TV.
I didn't know what was worse: twirling about in a warm, cramped helicopter or being eaten alive by blood suckers.
But all too soon we were back in the air, heading back to the 108 to watch the planes reload and refuel.
"Now we'll be heading out for another round of spraying. You up for it?" Rankin asked me.
I made some excuse that I had enough information for my article and than
ked the team for bringing me along.I would have stayed but my stomach and my skin just couldn't take another trip.
Move to the Cariboo
Until I moved here two months ago, I had never ventured north of North Vancouver for an extended amount of time. Lower Mainland temperatures rarely sneak below minus five, so, consequently, I had never experienced anything colder.
I didn't contact extreme cold until last February, while at a conference in Ontario. Stepping outside the hotel in Ottawa felt like a million needles stabbing my face with a horde of gremlins chewing off my ears.
As the frosty wind cut into my eyes, I swore I would live in Coquitlam forever.
Fast forward a few months: I'm offered jobs from around the province, but I am skeptical of the weather. Potential employers try to reassure me with comforting words:
"The thing about (insert Northern community here) is there are four distinct seasons."
"It's a dry cold here, not like the wet of the coast that you can feel in your bones. Minus 25 here feels like minus five down there."
"Snow? Barely."
"Rain? Never"
"Winters are always sunny, the skies are so clear. No one gets Seasonal Affective Disorder here!"
"The mosquitoes aren't so bad."
Convinced the Cariboo was some sort of year-round paradise, I moved up here and again heard the repetitive weather-related rhetoric. But some of the stories changed:
"Well, we had a bit of snow this year; but nothing major."
"There was snow, but the roads are always quickly cleared, and easy to drive on because of the pebbles Interior Roads puts on them."
"The mosquitoes are only bad because of the wet spring."
Now, as I become more settled and comfortable in the community, people seem to be a bit more honest:
"The huge rocks dumped onto the roads during the winter will destroy your windshield, over and over."
"It gets darn freezing here; you need a block heater for your car."
Regardless of the weather or the fictitious tales, I'm glad I moved.
But my tune might change come winter.
Ride for the first time
As soon as I walked up to the barn, I knew TJ was for me. He seemed a gentle spirit, not as intimidating as the other horses.
But the guide laughed at me.
"I think TJ's part donkey," said Bryce Stewart, employee at the Hills Health Ranch and horseback trail ride expert.
I ignored him.
TJ was saddled and ready to go - somewhat. He seemed a bit hungrier and sleepier than the other larger, more regal-looking horses, but I empathized - it was 35 C outside and now he had to exercise with someone on his back.
After a brief safety instruction, I mounted my steed in one swift jump. Proud of myself, I patiently waited while the other ride participants were assigned horses according to size and experience and used the time to braid TJ's stiff mane.
By the time we were ready to go, TJ was the only
horse in the line with a mohawk.The initial steps on to the trail were easy. I wondered how anyone could fall off a horse.
But that all changed when TJ burst into a trot to catch up to his stable mates.
And it got more intense when, halfway through the hour-long journey, the group was split into two.
"The fast group comes with me," fearless leader Bryce announced. "We'll be trotting and cantering; so I recommend the slow group if you're a beginner."
I felt confident in TJ's sure-feet and opted for the fast group, but it seems my own feet weren't as sturdy in their stirrups.
I bounced to-and-fro in the saddle, and held on for dear life positive I would be flying off the cream-coloured creature at any moment.
The bouncing wasn't the only surprise; I was unaware how much faltering the horses did. I watched them occasionally stumble and wondered how they didn't fall on their faces more often.
But between contracting shaken-person syndrome and fearing for my skull, I annoyed the group with squeals of glee as we travelled through the brush.
And just like that the ride was over, and I was standing next to TJ back at the barn. I expected him to nudge me good-bye, but he ignored me once I dismounted, resuming the search for hay I had so rudely interrupted by riding him.
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