Larry Gibbons
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Does Wily Have a Microwave? 

28/3/2016

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Picture
Our Local Coyote
This coyote is wanted by some angry neighbours. He is wily and I think he’d catch the Road Runner in quick fashion. Anyway, I snapped the photo while he watched Sue, Buster and me strolling down Gold Brook Road.

We are pretty sure that he’s the coyote who killed a neighbour’s cat. He also ate all the cat food and dog food that our neighbour had put out for her many pets. But get this, there was also a bowl of frozen milk on the woman’s porch. Old Wily picked up the bowl of milk and carried it into the forest, I assume to defrost it before he drank it. Milk builds up the calcium in your bones and is good with kibble. The coyote is more than crafty and a vegan he is not.
Of note is that Buster is now nervous at certain spots on the road. He is a smart dog and does not want to become a coyote sandwich.
***
I think I need to give a wee explanation about my Buster Wear photo. And while I’m at it, also let you know that Buster is excited about how well his Buster Wear clothing project has been doing. It’s selling like hot kibble.

Anyway, a fella read my blog and wondered afterwards what the yellow area was on the front of the black Buster Wear shorts. I explained to him what it was and now I am going to explain it to the whole blogosphere.

It is a picture of a yellow chick who is looking at a fried egg on a plate. The chick is saying, “Holy crap! Larry, is that you?!?!
Picture
***
Here’s part of a poem I could have used in my last blog, in which I expressed one of the reasons why I regard money the way I do.

             “Honest John Tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,
               Although he was poor, didn’t want to be richer;
               All such wishes in him were prevented,
               By a fortunate habit of being contented.”

                                                                                         “Anonymous” John Tomkins

***
It seems to me that I spend an inordinate amount of time writing blogs with the word ‘Buster” in them. Have you noticed that? Lots of photos of him too, and here’s one more.
Picture
Be cool. Wear Buster Wear!
A friend of mine told me that she often thinks her husband’s dog is the other woman. I sometimes wonder if Buster isn’t the other woman in my blogs.

You see, I could write a blog that answered one of the greatest philosophical questions of all time. The question being: “Why are we here, in this world?” This blog answer could potentially set the world on a new course and still, I’m sure, I would receive emails that wouldn’t mention my solving the big universal question. Nope, they’d ask me, “Where’s the Buster stuff?
***
 And yes, Buster does give me material for my blogs. Like last week...

I have read that some Indigenous tribes believe animals can understand what we are saying. I have never really believed this. My line of thinking has been that animals, especially Buster dogs, have an ability to glean an amazing amount of info from the tone of our voice and from our body language. As one fella told us, dogs have had centuries and centuries of time to learn how to understand us humans and how to fit into our human lives.


Well, after yesterday’s walk, I may have to change my theory.

You see, every afternoon without fail, Buster waits around in the trailer while Sue finishes up her lunch. Once she’s finished, Buster goes into his song and dance. Which is to bark, bother, growl, and get in the way. Because it’s his Sue/Buster walk time.

Sue will, right smartly, snap a leash onto Buster’s red collar and then off they go. Usually for a one-and-a-half to three-km walk. The weather plays no role in this operation. Buster has decreed.

However, Buster’s decree has played a key role in one aspect of Sue’s life. He has improved Sue’s health immeasurably - both physical and mental - and I recommend that people get a dog to improve their health.

Anyway, after the walk, Buster and Sue will come inside where Buster gets his treat and then afterwards he has a little nap. Where he dreams about expanding his Buster Wear business into Buster Punk Rock Neck Collars. Using Trump’s foreign workers to save money.

Well, yesterday, while I was walking with Sue and Buster, I mentioned to Sue that I was going to go to Margaree and get some post-hockey beer and then maybe drop into the excellent Dancing Goat Coffee Shop and have a tea. Sue asked me if I wanted her to tag along. We got into a confab about this. The conversation theme was whether or not Sue will or won’t ride shotgun with me. We discussed this at some length while little furry Buster sniffed, peed and walked his walk.

At some point in our discussion, after we’d parsed to death my words, ‘Yes, I want you to come with me’, and we were able to come to the conclusion that I really did want Sue to be part of my coffee shop adventure, we also decided, somewhere in the smoke of words and meaning, that we’d leave Buster at home.

When we got to the deck, Buster wouldn’t climb the stairs up to the front door. No sir. He just wanted to laze around outside. Enjoy the scents and sights. Life is too short to rush, that kind of attitude.

So we hooked the outdoor dog chain onto his collar and then we went inside while Buster nosed around. However, when I took a peek out the door window, there was Buster, sitting on the porch looking in while I looked out. Making no attempt to get us to let him inside. Where he would get his usual post-walk treat. Rather unusual, wouldn’t you think?

Had Buster understood that we were planning on leaving him at home? In which case, his coming into the trailer would make it a damn sight easier for us to carry out the leaving-him-alone procedure.

Anyway, the result of Buster’s approach to this situation was that he enjoyed a bird’s eye view from my truck’s arm-rest, as he watched Sue and me sitting inside The Dancing Goat Coffee Shop enjoying our mugs of hot java. Did I mention that they make excellent home-made bread and other baked goods? We didn't tell Buster that, needless to say.
Picture
***
NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH! BUSTER WINS ANOTHER DECISIVE BATTLE! WHAT CAN I SAY, OTHER THAN “MAY THE FORCE BE WITH ME”?
Buster has been turning his nose up at his meals. Even when we mix some of our food into his dry kibble.

The reason we feel that some dry kibble is important, other than because it’s the accepted and politically correct way to feed our presently scientifically raised canine buddies, is that it stops him from having an anal blockage. And I’ll tell you something, if you heard your beloved Buster dog trying to blow crap out of his or her intestinal pipes and not being successful, well, the cries and whines and howls are memorable.

 However, last Sunday morning I said, “Screw it. Forget the correct dog feeding methodology.”

Instead I said, “Get the frying pan, kettle and toaster rolling. Move ’em on out. Yah, hah,” and all that sort of Sunday morning nonsense.

You see, most Sunday mornings I make breakfast for Sue and me. I usually cook up fried or scrambled eggs with bacon or sausages, toast some bread and add a few slices of tomatoes or cucumbers. Often I sprinkle curry and pepper on the fried eggs. Two eggs for Sue and two eggs for me. Three sausages or bacon strips for Sue and three sausages or bacon strips for me.
 
Last Sunday we had sausages. And here is what I did. I fried six sausages, because that was all I had, fried five eggs, sliced up some cucumbers and made some toast.

Notice I said five eggs? Well, to quickly summarize this part of my blog, I made three breakfasts this morning. And Buster loved his and then he even ate his kibble. He looked awfully happy. And he ate the cucumber slices. Can’t even get plenty of kids to eat their cucumbers.

But when Buster jumped on my lap, turned his head to the side, so he could catch my eyes and then telepathically ordered a cup of tea with a teaspoon of sugar and a little milk, well, I had to draw the line. You have to draw a line somewhere. Don’t you?

But when he sat next to me while I was watching another pathetic bit on CNN about this Trump blow-hard, Buster telepathically said he would like to remind me that he was expecting a few buddy burgers when we go to Kingston, and I knew that buddy burgers it would be.

Since that breakfast, Buster has feasted on bits of steak, carrots, baked potatoes, spaghetti, bread and jam, but, and I must emphasize the BUT, he always has kibble with it. And he eats the kibble last of all. BUT he eats it. And he’s crapping just fine, thank-you.

And there you are. An almost one hundred-proof Buster blog. Please be warned. Blog 53 may not have Buster in it.  Sorry.   
***
             “Now I’m walkin down that long lonesome hallway
              Headin’ for the kitchen again
              All I want to do is eat everything
              Then I want to eat it all again.
              I need way more food, Babe.”
              Four-course meals at 8, 12, 6 and ten.
                                                      Merrill MARKOE, Ballad of Winky


Picture
Snowshoers on the Skyline Trail in a blizzard a couple of weeks ago
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Escapees

31/1/2016

1 Comment

 
Picture
Wreck Cove, Cape Breton
Wow! Blog number fifty! Woo-hoo! Hard to believe I’ve managed to stay with this blog writing endeavour. And, maybe even more surprisingly, that Sue has managed to hang in there and continue editing and submitting my fifty blogs to the blogosphere. Is there a medal for that?

Now I know some bloggers write a blog almost every day, but for me, fifty is a satisfying number and maybe that’s why I like the colour of the fifty-dollar bill. I might like the colour of the one hundred-dollar bill, but I’ve never spotted one. Maybe they're extinct.

***
About three weeks ago, four of us snowshoed on the Skyline trail. It was a blustery wintry Sunday. The snow was blowing itself dizzy and it didn’t look like it was going to get any better. Furthermore, the Skyline trail is located on top of a mountain, a sure recipe for down home snow trouble. However, we all travelled in some mighty fine four-by-four machines so I wasn’t too worried.

We parked our vehicles next to a brand new emergency station. This little building has a land-line phone, a wood stove, a bench or two and a goodly amount of firewood. I have, at other times in my life, attempted to get trapped in one of these emergency mountain accommodations, just so my partner and I would be forced to share the hut overnight with only a little food, a large bottle of champagne and some big ideas.

Picture
Emergency Hut
Anyway, we had plenty of snow on which to snowshoe to one of the most beautiful lookouts in the world.

But first, we had to pass a little washroom. Which always causes us to stop for a few seconds of silence. For it was here some hikers came upon a woman lying on the ground, bleeding and very close to death. Standing on her was a coyote. The hikers had shouted and thrown all kinds of things at the coyote while the coyote remained reluctant to flee his or her takeout. He did scram off eventually, but, sadly, left the woman critically injured. Apparently she was able to whisper her name before she died. A sad tragedy and a clear warning to never take wildlife for granted.

One of the characteristics of the Skyline trail is that a hiker has about an eighty percent chance of seeing a moose or two. One hiker with us had never been on this trail and he was looking forward to seeing a moose. He was hoping to get a photo of one.

Well, not too far in, we all saw a moose run across the trail in front of us. None of us was camera ready, but we all did see the moose and we all laughed and joked about how nobody had their camera or cell phone ready for the ‘BIG MOOSE PICTURE’.

About halfway down the trail is a huge, fenced-in area with two gigantic gates. This barrier protects acres and acres of land where they plan on planting about 50,000 trees. The moose have devastated the forest in this part of the highlands.

We entered through a tall gate and walked to the other end, where we exited by another tall gate. It felt like being in Jurassic Park, so I stopped snowshoeing for a brief time, and imagined feeling the vibrations of gigantic moose dinosaur feet stomping outside our fenced-in refuge. I have a vivid imagination.

At the look-out we couldn’t look out. There was nothing to see but gray snow-filled emptiness. So, as the wind attempted to gain entry to our bare skin and we bundled up tighter than ever, we ate a quick snack. Eventually, it got so blizzardy we could hardly see twenty feet in front of us. So we headed back. The snow settled down once we got into the forest.

                                  Out where the winding foot-path goes,
                          Out by the singing rill,
                          Out to the edge of mystery
                          And the land beyond the hill.
                                                Henry Holcomb Bennett, Adventure

Picture
Visibility Nil
The funniest incident of this venture involved a hiker taking a selfie. He had those huge, one plate of glass, ski goggles which look a little like a skin diver’s mask. Actually, they’re quite a bit like "beer goggles", (Google it!), except when you look through them, everything is clear, and no female or male hikers can be mistaken for the prettiest or handsomest persons in the whole wide world, bar none, until you sober up, anyway.

The goggle wearer likes to do the selfie photo thing. This is now a very big fad. He took out his cell phone and pointed it at his face while we all stood behind him. As he took a picture of his own face, which he probably sees a lot of in the mirror, a moose chose to cross the road.

Why did the moose cross the road anyway? So he could get to the other side and give the chicken a pointer or two.

What a laugh! What a hoot! Wally getting a picture of the wrong face! But, this is what happens on these hikes and makes them so much fun.

More interesting still, if you look carefully at the picture, which I have included, you might see a strange reflection in the fella’s goggles. Doesn’t it look like a moose?

Picture
Check out the goggles...
***
A week later I went snowshoeing up by Wreck Cove, God’s country, as one fella put it. I, however, replied that when I am skiing on our road and I stop to take a long gander at the mountains and the snow blowing around their crowns, I think that where I live is also quite godly.

Now, I should note that I didn't group hike often when I was in Ontario, but because I’m not as familiar with Cape Breton trails and because there are a plenty of big critters around here and the terrain is much rougher than where I used to hike, I now often go on group hikes.

And, as if to remind me that it wasn’t a bad idea to be with other hikers, a coyote crossed the road in front of us as we drove to the trail head. Let me tell you, this was one healthy looking coyote. I’ve seen coyotes in Ontario and they’re not as big as this one. He was more the size of a wolf and I’ve been told these coyotes run in packs, the same as wolves. I believe they call these Cape Breton canines, coy-wolves.

Last summer I met a fella on his favourite bridge over a section of the Middle River. He told me he’d had to fight a coyote off. The coyote had been quite determined and had tried different tactics to get himself a finger-licking good meal. Luckily, this fella won the battle or he’d not have been around to tell his tale.
 
Anyway, there were about fifteen hikers assembling at the trailhead while four dogs excitedly scampered amongst our pack of humans as we prepared to head up the mountain. They obviously couldn’t wait for the hike to begin.

But alas, on the porch, was a poor, sad, large German shepherd type of dog. He, apparently, wasn’t allowed to go on the hike. He was howling and crying and barking and tearing back and forth across his verandah jail cell. Poor dog. Poor, poor dog and that’s what everyone was thinking. And partway up the mountain, we could still hear his sad cries of abandonment.

Speaking of up the mountain, it was up the mountain that the THING happened. The event happened. The whatever you want to call it happened. Things happen to me. It’s my tagline.

I was climbing up a fairly steep grade. I was at the tail end of the lead group, but behind me, quite far behind me, were the slowpokes.

Up, up and away I went, until, at some point, I looked down at my right foot, and lo and behold, I saw there was no snowshoe to behold.

I dropped to the ground and started digging in the snow with my ski pole. I dug and dug, as if I was looking for an avalanche victim, while the hiking party ahead of me disappeared into the forest. I dug some more and there was still no snowshoe to be found. I was a little embarrassed, because the THING had happened to me and nobody else.

I surmised that it might have come off further down the mountain. Hadn’t I realized that my snowshoe had fallen off? Apparently not. This is what other hikers and folks to whom I’ve told this tale have asked me. “Didn’t you realize your snowshoe was missing?”

“No sir. No ma'am. It was the THING that came with me and I never know where the hell it’ll show up. This incident happened and I didn’t know it happened until when it became a THING.”

I think this part of the blog might confuse you and my editor, bless her heart. 

(Note from Ed: "No surprise to me!")

Anyway, I stopped and looked down the mountain. Oh god, how far down had it fallen off my footsie without my noticing it? Then suddenly I hearkened to the sound of a voice. A voice further down the mountain. The voice said, “Surely they’ll miss it eventually?”

The eventually had arrived. I shouted that it was I who had lost his snowshoe. Ha, ha, ha. And as they were all filled with mirth and laughter, guess who blew by me, sans snowshoes, and as happy as a flea on a grizzly bear? The German shepherd escapee. He was making up for lost time.

Near the end of the hike, as I walked along the Cabot Trail, snowshoes in hand, I saw a small barn. In front of the barn was a horse. I wasn’t going to take a photo of the horse until who should pop his head out of the barn entrance, but a small goat.

Now this goat had personality and even from the fair distance I was standing from the barn I could tell he was the boss. Why, it looked like the goat was saying, “Horse, what are you gawking at?  Do you know that fella with the bushy beard? Do you have some business with him? Stand back, I’ll deal with it.”

I just had to take their picture. So I did.

Picture
Goat, Horse and Dog Escapee
Later on, the owner of the horse, the goat and the escapee German shepherd, told us that her horse gets super lonely if the goat wanders off. The goat seems to keep him calm and happy. She also explained another thing. Most horses feel better if there is a goat around. For example, if a horse is going to race and his goat friend isn’t around, the horse gets all upset and will probably lose the race. She said, “that’s where the phrase, ‘He got my goat’ comes from.”

Now isn’t that interesting?

I will sign off now and wait for the THING. It’s the THING that has helped me write fifty blogs. He or she is a rather speculative fella so I’m not evicting the THING any time soon.  Not even if I could, because I have a thing for the THING.


          My modus operandi this--
                      To take no heed of what’s amiss
                                              And not a bad one:
                      Because as Shakespeare used to say
                      A merry heart goes twice the way
                                              That tires a sad one.

                          Ellen Thorneycroft Fowler, The Wisdom Of Folly


Picture
View of Cabot Trail from Skyline Look-off
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Thirty-nine Different Pieces of I.D.

23/4/2014

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We still don’t have the Middle River figured out. However, last week’s warmer temperatures and heavy rain gave us a pretty good idea something was coming down.

But how would the river react?  Well, first it went into a temper. That’s a constant. It always throws a fit. But this time it spread out more. Sent a massively wide flow of water at us. Which roared by our little mobile home like a Panzer Division. One group heading for the Cabot Trail bridge. The other section veering to the left. Pouring over, not only our walking trail, but an area many times wider than our hiking path. 
Middle River Flood
Middle River Flooding our Land...Again!
However, the snow wall kept the river away from our home. This barrier was created by the winter rains, which later froze when the temperatures dipped. Which turned the snow banks into an icy hard dam, so the water couldn’t get onto our property, at least, not in the part near our home.

Thank you, winter rain.                        

                                                                                 ***

Did you know, and really, how would you, that I’ve climbed or partially climbed two mountains since I submitted my last blog entry? And, if I’d sent it out one day later, I would’ve been able to brag that I’d climbed three.
snowshoesnowshoes
You see, a few weeks ago, I bought a pair of snowshoes in North Sydney. The first time I put them on, I thought, “Where have you been all my life?”

For years I’ve been trying to cross country ski into the back country. The problem is I’m not a very good ski turner. So, I have a great deal of difficulty negotiating corners and steep hills and when I’m skiing in the woods, with its constant twists, declines, ascents and turns, it’s rough going. My life and limbs are in constant danger.

Then I bought the snowshoes and now the snow world is my oyster. Let the band play!

A great feature of snowshoeing is that it’s hard to get lost. Because all I have to do is follow my snowshoe tracks back to where I began. When I’m hiking at any of the non-snowy times of the year, it’s easy to get lost. Because I can’t see my tracks unless I stay on a well-marked trail. In the highlands, there are many old trails, but they are overgrown. Sometimes it is almost impossible to figure out if I’m still on a trail or wandering off into cyber wild. That’s why I carry bright green trail marker tape.

Snowshoeing also forces me to use different muscles. So, if you haven’t done it before, taking it easy is a good thing. Especially if you’re getting long in the molars.


                                                                                  ***
Moose droppingsMoose Droppings
Yesterday, which was a beautiful sunny day, I climbed Eighty Degree Mountain. I gave it this name because it is very steep. Parts of the climb are well beyond an easy climbing angle.

I was up there by myself and during my snowshoe cruise I saw super large moose tracks along with mega large doo-doo piles.

And I was alone. Which made me think the number of members in my hiking party was going to make it terribly easy for said moose to make a decision about whom he or she was going to charge.

And don’t think I wasn’t a little bit aware of other possibilities. It’s spring. Even though the snow is still up to my chest and beyond in places. And, because it’s spring, the bears are probably out scouting around. Hankering for a little nourishment, other than what they’re able to suck from their paws. Apparently that’s what they do during their long hibernation. Suck toes. I don’t want my toes tasted.

Eastern CoyotePictureEastern Coyote
Also, the Eastern coyotes found here in Cape Breton are almost twice the size of the common coyotes found in Ontario. They are believed to be a cross between wolves and coyotes. I would think they’re a bit famished, as it’s been a very long and heavy winter.

However, I don’t think too hard about these things. If you love doing something enough, you will do it in spite of the fear.


                            “---I wasn’t going to tell you and I mustn’t.
                            The best way is to come up hill with me
                            And have our fire and laugh and be afraid.”

                                                             Robert Frost’s Bonfire

                                                                              ***
I named another small mountain, ‘Fallen Spruce Mountain’. There is a fallen spruce on the way to the top. It’s the tree I sit on. From it I can see a considerable distance, and it’s on this tree where I write in my journal, or read something from my Robert Frost book, or the hard copy of my New Testament. Which I think I rescued from a city dumpster. Something about the words, ‘from a city dumpster’ gives me a poetic nudge. I’ll have to think about it some more.

It was on this tree that I thought about a Robert Frost poem I have been in the process of memorizing. It’s called, ‘The Vantage Point’. I recited a bit to myself as I looked out over the highlands, the fields and the few houses dotted here and there.

                                       “If tired of trees I seek again mankind,
                                       Well I know where to hie me-in the dawn,
                                        To a slope where the cattle keep the lawn.
                                        There amid lolling juniper reclined,
                                        Myself unseen, I see in white defined
                                        Far off the homes of men, and farther still,
                                        The graves of men on an opposing hill-----”

                                                                           ***

Blue Toe Mountain has that name because I got two bruised toes after hiking up and down its bulk. I was wearing a new pair of hiking boots.

“Do they fit you okay, sir?” the sales clerk had asked.

I’d said, after I stomped around the flat store floor, that I thought they fit perfectly.

On flat land. On flat land, they fit perfectly. However, when walking down the side of the mountain, they didn’t fit perfectly. They fit snugly. They fit tightly and painfully, because the decline forced my toes into the front of the boots. Which, after a few miles of descent, caused those toes to be very sore. Later on, the nails of my big toes turned blue and one is still an ugly colour.             
                                                             

Wild Honey
  As I mentioned in blog sixteen, I am not a book reviewer. However, I think I can be a book talk-abouter. So I want to mention another poetry book that I enjoyed recently. The book is called, ‘Wild Honey’ and its author is Aaron Schneider. The book was published by Breton Books. Aaron Schneider lives in Cape Breton.

I savoured his poems. They are elemental. Connected to the earth, sky and sea.

“Life at Sea” is one poem in his book which reminded me of our experience this winter, as our little green mobile home was battered by the winter storms.

               “Today we are again at sea
              the house sails
              into the white storm
              stoves blazing. Trees
              bend like stripped masts
              and the white earth rolls.”


                                                                                                      ***


squirrelScavenging squirrel
I have always liked the smell of firewood. Any wood, for that matter. But the last few loads of wood I have taken into the house have had a peculiar smell. Like Pine-Sol mixed with piss. And the sad reason for this odour is that I am now dismantling the actual condo living space of the poor squirrel.

Now, I have to say that I gave him every chance to vacate before I threatened to send in the sheriff. I purposely bought him time by taking wood from the far side of the pile instead of directly over or near his nest. 

And I’d loudly bang the door before I entered the shed. I’d shout, “You’re going to have to move because I’ll have to be dismantling your house soon. You have to be out before this happens. Because I don’t want you jumping out while I’m grabbing a piece of fourteen-inch firewood and scaring the crap out of me. Sue doesn’t need the extra laundry work.”


The poor squirrel did vacate. I think his present address is 216 Slab Wood Pile. Located next to the woodshed. Good for him. I’m glad he’s resilient and street smart enough to be able to start a new life, while the cold winter winds were still blowing.

Do you think he will be able to find, out of the thirty-nine pieces of ID allowed, one that will prove where he lives and one with a picture of his furry mug? Because he’ll need it to be able to vote for the naughty nuts he wants in office.

This squirrel still gives me the occasional lip. Even though I allow him to hang around in the woodshed when it’s not in use.

Like last week. Nuttsie said, “It’s so damn cold. How can you be so heartless?”

“Because it’s cold. That’s why we need the wood. That’s why we put it there.” My logic, as usual, was rock solid.


RavenPeeping Tom
He wouldn’t let up. Danced his little squirrely jig, so I said, “Next year, I promise we’ll buy three-and-a-half full cords. That should give you an uninterrupted living space all winter.”

This whole conversation was watched and listened in on by the draining-sink-voiced raven. Who probably knows everything we do. I don’t want to think too hard about that.

I think I’ll call him, "Peeping Tom".

Cape Breton Mountains
View from 80-Degree Mountain
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