The Stranger in a Garbage Can, Illustration by Diane Wood

Jean and I were walking at Spanish Banks one fine morning with the sea sighing softly and the mountains watching us like old friends. Down the path was a garbage can, one of many used to collect the left-overs from numerous picnics.

As we approached the garbage can, a paper plate came flying out of it and rolled on the grass. We stopped in surprise, and saw another paper plate sail into the air, do a graceful loop, and land a few feet from the container.

“Someone is binning this morning,” I said. “He’s looking for a treasure where others see only trash.”

“He’s trying to make some money so he won’t starve,” Jean said, “and he must be very small to fit in that garbage can.”

A styrofoam cup flew out of the container, followed by a small paper bag.

“Maybe he’s a child who got left behind after a picnic,” I said.

“Maybe,” Jean replied. We were about twenty feet from the garbage can, and we stopped to consider the situation.

“A small bear could be in there,” Jean said.

“Bears don’t come to Spanish Banks,” I replied.

“Yes they do,” Jean said. “I heard that a bear tried to register in the Humanities 101 course at the University of British Columbia.”

Another paper plate flew out of the garbage can, along with a plastic fork and half a hamburger.

“Maybe he’s a coyote,” I said. “Coyotes live all over Vancouver.”

“I think coyotes would push the garbage can over,” Jean said.

Another paper cup, a paper towel, and a baby’s toy rattle shot over the edge of the container.

“A raccoon! That’s it. There’s a raccoon in that garbage can,” I exclaimed.

“Good guess,” Jean said. “Let’s be careful because raccoons can be quite fierce.”

We had moved closer to the garbage can, and we could hear something moving around inside it. That noise had our full attention, and we were ready to back off should the creature in the can prove to be dangerous. A slice of pizza erupted out of the garbage can. Then silence. We waited in this ominous silence with a mixture of fear and curiosity.

Slowly a black, feathered head, with black beak and eyes dark as midnight, appeared above the rim of the garbage can. “A crow,” Jean said in surprise.

“The mother of all binners,” I said.

The crow hopped up on the garbage can rim, and eyed us defiantly. “He looks like a general defending his territory,” Jean whispered.

“He sees us as a nuisance, not as a threat,” I said.

The crow dropped to the ground. He strutted among the delicacies he had rescued like a king among his treasures. He took his time. He was completely aware of where he was, and where we were.

“Black-robed priest,” Jean said.

“Or black-robed gangster,” I added.

“They stick together. They support each other,” Jean said.

“They do,” I agreed. “They have much to teach us about survival.”

The crow picked up a chunk of hamburger bun, gave us a dismissive look, and flew away. We were left behind, at Spanish Banks, beside the garbage can.

“If we could see crows as crows really are,” Jean said.

“That could take a lifetime,” I said.

A Bear Story, Illustration by Diane Wood

Jean was afraid of bears. She wouldn’t go into the forest without her bear bell. It was a tiny bell which she fastened on to her blue jeans. It made a tinkling sound when she walked, and that metallic noise warned bears that she was in the area. When people asked Jean if her bear bell actually worked, she would reply that she hadn’t seen any bears, so the bell must be working.

Now Jean was not a person who frightened easily. When it came to fighting for higher welfare rates or for a higher minimum wage, she would battle any politician in the country. In political debate she could be as fierce as the mighty grizzly, yet in the forest Jean was afraid of bears. She knew a lot about politics, and that knowledge gave her courage, but she didn’t know much about bears.

One beautiful Sunday morning in autumn Jean and I decided to go for a walk in Cypress Bowl which is located in the mountains of North Vancouver. We walked up an old logging road on Black Mountain, and then we took a winding trail through some old growth forest. Our destination was a tiny lake in the flat country behind Black Mountain. We liked to reach this lake while the morning mist was still on it, and we liked to watch the water lilies, so dignified and calm on the still water. I named this small lake “Jean’s Lake”, and it was so peaceful there that it seemed to us that Vancouver was a thousand miles away.

Jean was wearing her bear bell, but her fear of bears was not as strong as her love of the forest, the mountains, and the beckoning sky. Blueberries grew along the path and around the shores of the lake. We stopped to pick some, but this was not a berry picking trip. Jean had picked her winter supply of blueberries at sea level about a month earlier. The lake was at an elevation of four thousand feet, and berries at that height ripened later in the year.

After spending some time at Jean’s Lake, we decided to walk to the top of Black Mountain. I led the way. Jean meandered along, picking a few blueberries from time to time. She was about fifty or sixty feet away from me when suddenly Jean ran towards me in a great rush. She grabbed my arm and said in an agitated tone of voice, “I want to go home right now.”

“Jean, what’s the matter?” I asked.

“I saw a bear,” she said, and her eyes were wide with fear. “I want to go home.”

“Where did you see the bear?” I asked.

“Back there. It stuck its head out of the bushes. I want to go home.”

“What did the bear do when it saw you?”

“It disappeared.”

“Jean, that bear is probably a mile away by now. It’s more afraid of you than you are of it.”

“I want to go home.”

“The bear was probably looking for blueberries, just like us. Bumping into you would be the last thing the bear wanted. You must have scared it something fierce. We’re safe here.”

“Do you think the bear is far from here?”

“Oh, yes. It might be in Squamish by now. Tell me more about the bear.”

“I was just walking along when I heard a rustling in the bushes above the path. I looked up and saw this little bear face poking out of the bushes.”

“And then it disappeared.”

“Yes. It was just a little face, and it didn’t look very fierce.”

“You want to go home because you saw a little bear face?”

“Well, I don’t know how big the bear was.”

“The bears have been on this earth longer than we have. They are our older brothers and sisters, and they, too, are suffering from the ravages of imperial progress. Shall we walk along the trail a bit further? I’m sure we won’t see any bears.”

“Alright. We’ll go a bit further, one step at a time,” Jean said.

“I’ll drink to that,” I replied.

Of Mountains and Mice, Illustration by Diane Wood

In 1989 Jean and I went for a hike on the Singing Pass Trail at Whistler, British Columbia. I knew Whistler Mountain well because I had done some prospecting there in 1965. In those days I used to slide down the glacier on Whistler Mountain on a piece of cardboard because no ski resort existed at that time. In 1965 the village was called Alta Lake, and logging was the main occupation for most residents.

“See how gracefully the light falls on the trees,” Jean said as we walked up the Singing Pass Trail towards Singing Pass itself. “The light sings to us, and I feel like singing.”

“The wind also sings to us,” I said. “This trail has a singing name, and so does the pass up ahead. Melody Creek is below us and Piccolo Summit, Flute Summit and Oboe Summit are above us. The mountain is called “Whistler” after the marmots who whistle to warn of danger. The person who gave these places their English names heard the wind’s music.”

“Yes,” Jean replied, and she hummed to herself until we reached the open space of Singing Pass with its symphony of wild flowers in purple, red, blue, white, orange and yellow, and its fine views of Blackcomb Mountain on one side and Cheakamus Lake and Cheakamus glacier on the other. From Singing Pass we took a steep trail that led to Russet Lake, and I ran out of gas on this trail. “I don’t think I can go any further,” I said as I lay on my back and looked at the pale blue sky. “Russet Lake must be up in the clouds somewhere.”

“We’ll make it,” Jean said. “We’ve come too far to turn back now.”

And we did reach the lake, and the small red cabin for hikers. The cabin was empty, so we picked out a couple of beds and made ourselves to home. Then we walked close to a huge glacier, and gazed apprehensively at fierce mountains with names like “Macbeth” and “Overlord”.

When we returned to the cabin, we found that a group of six people had moved in. They were a friendly, respectful group, and it would have been easy to share the cabin with them. However, Jean and I decided to put up our small, red pup tent. This move would make the cabin more comfortable for the other hikers, and it would bring us closer to the earth and the sky.

“The weather is good. We really don’t need the cabin,” Jean said.

“Let’s go,” I agreed. “We’ll sleep in our pup tent under the stars, and we’ll share with the other hikers the doorless outhouse which overlooks Fitzsimmons Valley and the surrounding mountains.”

“It has the most beautiful view in British Columbia,” Jean said.

“That outhouse is more majestic than the throne of England,” I added.

We set up our tent, cooked supper on our gas stove, watched the stars appear in the clear, night sky, and crawled into bed. In the darkness Jean said, “Something is trying to get into our tent.”

Sure enough, I could hear a rustling on the sides of the tent. “It’s not a bear,” I said quickly.

“The noise is on the roof of the tent,” Jean said. “Something is sliding down the roof.”

“Let’s wait. Our eyes will adjust to the night,” I said.

“There’s more than one of them,” Jean said.

“They’re sliding down the roof of the tent,” I said. “It’s as though they were doing it deliberately.”

“They’re trying to get into the tent, or they’re just having fun,” Jean said. “They slide, and then they climb back up and slide again.”

“I’m having trouble believing this. Are we awake?” I asked.

“We’re awake, and mice are sliding down the roof of our tent as though they were at the P.N.E.,” Jean said.

So we waited in the night as mice played on the roof of our tent. They never got into the tent, and eventually they stopped. In the morning we visited our neighbours in the red cabin. “How did you sleep?” we asked them.

“Terrible,” they replied. “Mice kept us awake all night. They were everywhere, and they were eating everything. We didn’t get any sleep at all.”

I had left my leather camera case hanging on the wall in the cabin. “Here’s your camera case,” one of the hikers said. Half of it had been chewed away.

Jean and I packed up our gear, and prepared to descend to Singing Pass. “Good-bye Russet Lake, and goodbye mountain mice,” we said. “It can’t be an easy world for mice up here. The winters are long and the summers are short. You have given us a story that people will have trouble believing. We thank you for that.”

The Wind and the Stars, Illustration by Diane Wood

The dark and threatening afternoon sky matched the somber mood of the campground near Youbou on Vancouver Island where Jean and I had pitched our tent. “These ancient maple trees and thick evergreens create a world of shadows,” Jean said.

“Shadows that move with the wind and the flickering light of Cowichan Lake,” I added.

“The ferns are tall here, and moss hangs from every tree,” Jean said.

“Rain and sunlight,” I said, “and the sound of waves on a pebble beach.”

The sun appeared from behind a bank of clouds, and streams of light entered the dark woods. A small evergreen burst into gold, and shimmered in the warm light. “A golden tree,” Jean said. “Tree of fire,” I said. “Goddess of poetry, goddess of the hearth.”

Then the light faded, and the vision was gone. We had seen it, though. “The first Christmas tree,” Jean said.

In the night the wind blew stronger. It blew the clouds away, and stars appeared. “The stars are beautiful,” Jean said, “but the sound of trees falling in the wind is not beautiful.”

“I agree, but I think we are safe at this campsite” I said.

“I hope so,” Jean replied.

The wind whistled and roared. It sounded like a freight train coming. We could hear some of the old maple trees crashing down. “Maybe we should move away from this campground,” Jean said.

“Where could we go?” I asked.

Jean: “We could find a field somewhere.”

Sandy: “In the middle of the night?”

Jean: “It’s not midnight yet.”

Sandy: “Maybe the wind will die down.”

Jean: “Maybe it will get stronger.”

Sandy: “Some of the other campers are staying here.”

Jean: “And others are leaving.”

Sandy: “A tree could fall across the road.”

Jean: “A good reason to leave now.”

Then there was a huge crash close to our campsite. The falling tree took smaller trees with it, and a thin sapling hit the front of our truck. It didn’t do any damage, but its message was clear: “Get out of here while you still can.” We grabbed our sleeping bags and a tarpaulin to put on the ground, and jumped into the truck. I drove slowly on the narrow campground road, and prayed that all would be well.

We reached the main road, and turned in the direction of Youbou. “Now what?” I asked.

“We’ll find a place,” Jean said.

And we did find a place. We found the Youbou baseball park, and we put our tarpaulin and sleeping bags between first base and second base. The wind, which had died down a little, had blown all the clouds away, and we could see more stars than we could ever see from the city. “We’ll be safe here,” Jean said.

“I hope so,” I replied.

“I see the seven stars of the Big Dipper,” Jean said.

“The seven grandfathers,” I said.

“Say thank you to the grandfathers,” Jean said.

“Yes,” I said.

“There’s a shooting star,” Jean said, “and there’s another.”

“I see them,” I said, and then I added, “We are made of stardust, you know.”

“ I know,” Jean said. “That makes us children of the universe.”

“First Nations people use the expression ‘All my relations’ at the end of some of their ceremonies,” I said.

We watched the stars and listened to the silence of the night. Then the automatic sprinkler system clicked on, and the ball park became a fountain of water glistening in starlight.