See what you are missing

We have traveled far and wide to see what we have sought, out our back window. Fall has just begun, yet Fall colors are coming to a close. The annual "turning of the leaves", a ritual to which we look forward in the Eastern time zone, began for us in Acadia National Park on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. There, there were some color changes and the smell of wet leaves. As we headed West, particularly western Maine and the eastern foothills of the White Mountains, the autumn leaves began their color show, initially high on the hill sides and slowly descending to the valley floors. After a night at Hastings campground in the White Mountain National Forest, we regained US Route 2, pulling Rudy along a very good, wide shouldered road.

In northern New Hampshire we jogged between scenic turnouts. Descended into riverside New England towns, past elite boarding schools, and signs to regional snow skiing areas, not yet open. The colors were distinct: reds were brilliantly red, as were the oranges and yellows. All this punctuated by the evergreen green. The trees still had carried their leaves, few on the ground. A full-color Fall.

On one particularly broad vista scenic turnout, we stopped behind a pick-up truck, back cover open, and artfully displayed, all manner of Vermont maple syrup. Jars of whipped syryp. Unique bottle shapes as well as an assortment of maple syrup candies. The man purchasing syrup ahead of us said that the women's prices were the best he had found. We believed him and bought our share, spredding the flat-land mid-Western wealth to the rural hill people of Vermont. We did our duty. By the time we had reached the home-base for Ben & Jerry Ice Cream, the colors were less intense. Past Montpelier, the capital with >8,000 people, continuing westward, up Lake Champlain and further up Upstate New York, really a muddy color, orangish reds and yellows, everything running together. Over the hump and then down along the southeasten shores of Lake Ontario. ("Is there an Off tario?")

We finished up our fall color tour in the western foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, Chagrin Falls Ohio. Some trees are just beginning to turn.

Looking out our back window, it was all here. You should see it for yourself.

Ahoy matie

Our Mississippi Covington Inn B&B was a "towboat", a misnomer of course since these tugs push barges, not tow them. At night, when it is very quiet, the engine sounds of passing tugs are barely perceptable. The engines are buried below the water line, making a muffled, low pitched humming sound. Inspite of their great cargo, their square shape, a 6 or 8 barge ensemble barely makes a wake. No rockin' or rollin' for those tied to shore. The towboat at night is lighted fore and aft with its navigational lights displayed, and a solitary companionway light midships. Our towboat is permanently docked, with city water and sewer, great for showers and flushing toilets. The long dark vertical poles keep the boat in place as the Mississippi River water level rises and falls. The life ring is mostly for show as we are fast lashed to shore on its port side. On the starboard side of course, with the expanse of the River; a life ring may come in handy. Topsides is open, and, because of a raised teak deck, the railings are somewhat low, for the party crowd.

Opening the midship's companionway, through the swinging doors, deposits you into the main salon, nautical in authenticity. This is where breakfast is served at 8:30 AM. Our first meeting was at 7 AM at the Minneapolis Convention Center 20 minutes away. Needless to say, we missed breakfast. The fireplace is real only it is propane fueled; it takes the chill off the moisture ladened Fall evening. Cozy. We met our ordained minister hostess who marries couples officially on board; 36 so far. All the elements for a shipboard romance. We were the only ones on board so we had the pick of accomodations. The lower level, down a companionway, below deck and the water line, where engines once hummed, was not our first choice. On the salon level, just steps from this cozy environment was the 1st mates quarters, smallish, with a queen sized bed taking up most of the space. We passed.

The spiral staircase, not like that of "Tara" of Gone With The Wind fame, is a compact helical contraption, brass rails worn from frequent use, leading to the Master's suite and Pilot house. A jingling bell key fob hung from the door's lock. A quick turn ushered us in. Plenty of room, a fireplace, wooden blinds; with starboard and port egress narrow passageways, to the open party deck. A "Sleep Number" bed provided some brief entertainment. The "head" was small but sufficient as we have become accustomed to such facilities onboard "luxury liners" during our travels. Our seafaring quarters quite in keeping with our maritime theme. We had arrived in the middle of Middle America, as far West of the East Coast, and as far East of the West coast as we can be, again, we are aboard ship. Kathy, for all her protestations about seasickness at the slightest hint of boat motion, has booked us into another water adventure, and of course, it has paid off in a wonderful and memorable experience. Go Kathy!

Another day in the life of Ivan Ivanovich

I drove from East Lansing sunshine into rain yesterday evening as I arrived at the cottage. Big Red managed to make a whopping 28 mpg as I slowed down going into towns traveling at 37 miles per hour, the transmission still in gear 5 and the engine using only 4 cylinders. Pretty amazing. I averaged 23.9 MPG for the entire trip. I'll bet Al Gore would be glad, NOT.

I unloaded Big Red of all the important stuff and started my brand spanking new Made in China 4800 watt electric heater to warm up the cottage, only to find that the emergency shut off switch was defective and kept shutting off the heater after 3 to 5 seconds of heat. Needless to say, I was lucky that the outside and inside temperatures were in the 49 F. range and not 39 F.

This morning I awakened to not see the crashing into the moon of an Aires booster and payload. I am told the crashing was a success. Time will tell.

The internet works well as I was able to do my Pulmonary Function Testing interpretations on line and on time: 300 miles away.

Jumping into Big Red during a particularly heavy downpour, I went to Miller Lake area and the Peninsula TimBr Mart Hardward where I had purchased the heater, and exchanged it, without proof of receipt, just my word. This one puts out 4800 watt of heat. The place is toasty warm now. However, the oil residue on the calrod heating coil sent out fumes and the smoke detector loudly anounced its displeasure.

I drove back from the hardware store in a pouring rain, wind from the North, again, only 2 of the three wind turbines working, just like this Spring and this Summer. Either the folks up here in the Northern Bruce Peninsula Municipality aren't using electricity, or, the resting wind turbine is still malfunctioning. To support the former hypothesis, there are no lights across the way even though this is the Canadian Thanksgiving holiday. I am the only one here on Little Pike Bay. I am doing my best to use all the electricity those turbines can generate. As the wind has die recently, I probably am using the electricity from Bruce Nuclear, a more consitent base of generation. To support the latter hypothesis, several times this last Spring and Summer there was a crane with its arm raised tinkering with the balky windmill. Wind turbine reliability is an issue it seems. If we hitch a ride on the "alternative energy" boat with its unproven and currently evolving (ie, over several decades) technology, we may find ourselves crashed up on the rocks, lights out and in the cold. Enough said.

An outing on a Tuesday night

The municipality of the Northern Bruce Peninsula extends from Pike Bay to Tobermory. It has 3900 year around residents. Their ancestry is mostly Scottish. They work the fields, the forests, are shop keepers and wait persons at the local eatery. They band together around their faith, believing in the fundamental nature of all things of heaven and earth. They sing, grouped in unison to give concerts in small congregation churches up and down the Peninsula. The Spirit Singers are a 50 person group. The women are decked out in white blouses and a long Bruce Tartan scarf draped over their left shoulder while the men wear a Bruce Tartan vest. The Spirit Singers' director, accompanist, instrumentalist-music writer, as well as the Suzuki violinist are from one family; grandpa to 7 year old grandson.

We gathered, some 125 of us, in the Bethel Missionary Church which has been preaching the gospel for 105 years, recently in these new digs, but before, in a clapboard structure resurrected from a bygone era. The gray heads, the all-one-color-hair older people, plus a smattering of salt and pepper styles made up the majority of the crowd.

The song selections matched the environment: church music, Down East Nova Scotia sea and parting with loved ones music, medley of 1950's Broadway Musicals, and the most impressive piece to me, the choral rendition of two Elvis Presley's ballads. Fiddler On The Roof medley was opened by the 7 year old Suzuki violinist and closed with same. Several pieces were written for them, by them as they performed them. The choir sang with good diction and enthusiasm.

The middle set featured various soloists, instrumentalists, and the 7 year old "fiddler" doing early English tunes, some from Scotland, and some others straight out of Appalachia. His father had arranged the music for "Dueling Fiddles" which was a gas: father and son.

The last set was an extended Broadway Musical medley finishing with a "Restoration" piece written by the father of the fiddler.

The music was fun. What was interesting to me was the plaintive tunes from "Down East", Appalachia, mixed with Scottish Presbyterian church songs that contained some of the song phrases heard in Gospel music.

At the end of the concert, people began filing out slowly, chatting with one another. Choir women's purses were still out on the chairs, and the white heads bobbed towards the vestibule, bulletin boards announcing various doings including "Deconstructing Darwin" on Thursday night at the Sauble Beach Fellowship Hall.

Outside and to the West, layers of pastel colors remain as the sun fell. Night time approaches, and, if it is a clear sky, then the early phases of the Perceid meteor shower may be seen. I will look for it.

Clinging to thoughts of summer

Clinging to thoughts of summer, I sit inside, sliding-glass door half open; I see the lightning and hear the thunder while the rain pat pat pats the deck. It didn’t start out as an all day rain, but it ended up that way. I awakened at 5:02 AM. I didn’t want to be late to go fishing with Ian Davis on his boat. We were to meet at 7:15 AM so I knew I couldn’t sleep in as I usually do. But, I got back into bed and just lay there. I got up again at 5:58 AM, and went back to bed again, waiting for 6:15 AM. At 6:14 AM I got up for good, made coffee and got ready for my morning adventure. Bag packed with life preserver, raingear, hat, sunscreen and sunglasses I drove to Tyler’s dock. Ian was already motoring in Mare Nostrum. We hailed one another.

He was in a different boat than the one I remembered. This one, maybe 20 foot with an inboard engine. He has had it for 6 years he said; keeping it at the Lion’s Head Harbour because the water level on the Huron Lake side of the Bruce Peninsula has been so low he couldn’t get into his man made cove in front of his cottage.

As he came close to the dock, I handed him my bag and coffee cup and then I tumbled into the stern, there are no steps to transition from its high freeboard to the floor, let alone from the dock to the hull. Plop. I was in.

The day had been overcast, but inside Little Pike Bay there was little wave action. As we motored out past the South Point alongside the shoal, the wind struck us at the bow. The seas that had been building from yesterday were riding towards us, lots of whitecaps. In a boat that size, small weight variances have a big influence, impacting the center of gravity, and, in this case, how far astern the pivot point is. The boat looks a lot like a very short version of the 35 foot Cape Hatteras “Picnic Boat” made several generations ago with a high prow to take on the Atlantic Ocean when Island hopping. In this look alike but diminutive boat, the high prow and heavy inboard engine in the stern results in two nasty situations when the wind is strong off the quarter beam; the wind catches the forward portion of the boat and tries to drive you sideways and then around, forcing the boat to run before the seas; and two, with an already heavy stern, made worse when anybody goes into the stern, the bow rides high and does not cut through the waves. Predictably, the boat hobby-horses in seas. You are pounding and slapping the water constantly. Bang bang bang. “How are your teeth?” Ian asks me. “Still got your fillings?” He said he didn’t understand why the boat was pounding so, “it’s a deep V hull and shouldn’t do this.” I didn’t point out what was obvious to me as I hung onto two built-in handles, eschewing my coffee mug as his portable GPS went flying off of its built-in mount and onto the floor. To make progress in these conditions and this boat in particular, it had to have enough speed to overcome the force of the wind and waves, so out we went banging our way to open water.

After a couple of miles of staccato conversation, in between banging episodes, we slowed down and headed directly into the South by Southwest seas. “Head South” he said turning over the helm to me as he went aft to set out the lines and attach the downriggers so that we could troll for salmon close to the bottom, about 65 feet. He had cut the inboard engine and started the trolling outboard engine and left me facing 6 ½ foot waves at 1.5 miles per hour. The compass course was supposed to be 180 degrees. The outboard is offset on a port bracket and was underpowered to drive us into the wind and seas to maintain course. So, we were all over the map, East, West and at one point North. The bow would rise high and then slap onto the next wave, at times pitching the boat one way or the other. Water sprayed over and around us. Ian was making progress in getting the lines out and the downriggers down. The stern was not pitching as much as the bow and the helm where I was sitting. “One hand for the boat and one hand for yourself.” A sailor’s adage. So true. To increase speed, I gave more gas to the outboard, but no response. “There must be something wrong

with the cables” said Ian. So we started up the inboard engine again. The fishing line suddenly came off the starboard downrigger, but no run of the line to suggest a fish, just too much tension. Back to the stern Ian went, exaggerating the weight and pivot point issue again. He was being bounced around now. “I think these are all signs that we shouldn’t be fishing today.” And so he reeled in the lines, pulled up the downriggers, raised the outboard back onto its perch and we slowly headed back in; with the wind abaft, we were rock’n and rollin'. Our conversation was now steady and enjoyable.

Back at the dock, I clambered out and said my thank you's and good-byes, we will try to go fishing again some other day. It had started to drizzle, the beginning of our rainy day.

The promise of summer

Rain is coming straight down. There is not a breath of breeze. It is so quiet that you can hear the drops upon the wooden deck. It was not so this morning. Quiet, clear skies, not a breath of breeze, and a mirror of a lake. No lapping of waves, just the rivulets emptying and then filling the front cove. A perfect day for a sail, eh? Well, as it turned out, there came a breeze from the Southwest bringing warm humid air that swung around to the North and began to build. It was time to launch the SunFish, and so I did. Tacking furiously out of Mare Nostrum I achieved the rumpled water of Little Pike Bay, heeling hard to Port and hiking out to Starboard we flew, tension on the mainsheet, entertaining just a hint of luff in the sail. Lots of pressure on the sheet, I remembered I should have taken my sailing gloves. And then, dark ominous clouds in the South. Pillars of rain shown light against the darkening background. I came about and headed in, although there was still gentle puffs of white clouds overhead, and a sun beating down upon my skin, burning my skin; but the clouds were coming, the rain was coming, thunder and lightening were coming. No time for another exhilarating run into deeper waters. Time to run in, wind ahead of rain, moor and wrap the sail tightly so that it would not flap in the storm. Back at home, safe and sound. The wind has gone, and, as I write, the lake is once again a mirror, not even ripples. Mini rivulets resume their ebb and flow in our front cove.

Bounty was launched yesterday. The barometric pressure was high, the seas calm and a run out into the open water was inviting. The lure to the water was mitigated by my deliberate planning of each step, engine position, spark plugs, new

tubing for the gas cans, petcock closed, and then she was launched. She ran like a top. I headed out, past the shoaling waters into the deep blues, the engine now purring, achieving a new state of perfection, almost a quietude. In coming back from a Purgatory Cove visit, I sped through the South shoal finding the deep slot of water on my way home.

The first picture is sunset, oil on water, the oranges and purples of evening. Silence. You can hear yourself think

Sunday at the Cottage

The sky is crying, clouds' hands reach from horizon to horizon, the barometer has fallen. It is raining; the kind of rain farmers usually love, steady, and long lasting. I am not so sure about this rain though. After a long cold winter with lots and lots of snow, the fields were wet into June. Last week it rained 3 1/2 inches in one night. Fields and roads were flooded. the drainage ditches were full and fast flowing. After dinner with the Thuerigs last evening, traveling to Wiarton to pick up their daughter and friend from a rock concert at the airport, we saw brown field after brown field left after the water had receded, and other fields still with spots of water in them. We want the Great Lakes to fill up again, and I have been watching water levels in Lake Powell in Utah and Lake Lanier, the water reservoir for Atlanta Ga., they are also rising, dramatically. So what is good for fresh water restoration in many parts of the USA, does have its downside here at Little Pike Bay. The bush is wet, everything that is suppose to be green is deep green.