We're back. A wonderful time was had by all.
Spent Friday through Sunday in Cumberland, a very small town with a rich mining history.
- Are you from Bevan?
- I said from Bevan?
- Where those fields of stumps, they beckon to me!
- I'm glad to see you,
- tell me how be you?
- And those friends I'm longing to see.
- If you're from Union Bay or Courteney or Cumberland,
- anyplace below that second Bevan dam...
- are you from Bevan?
- I said from Bevan?
- 'Cause I'm from Bevan, too!
Stayed with old friends of Nola's, lovely people. Poked around the town Saturday morning, then ran off to the sheep dog trials going on outside of Courteney. Quite a lot of fun, those were-- the handlers and shepherds were serious about it, but without going overboard in any way. And the dogs had a blast! I rather suspect the sheep thought it just another day in hell, but they got their innings. The second gate was when they could make their break for the trees, and every group of 'em tried it on. Made the dogs work for it, and as often as not, the sheep won. These were young dogs, most at their first trial, and many of the shepherds weren't any too experienced. The dogs do what they're told, by voice or whistle or hand signal, and if the shepherd isn't on top of what the sheep are thinking, they'll get far out and away from the dog.
After a couple hours of that we wandered off to the banks of the Puntledge and drew for awhile, then home to steaks and green & yellow beans fresh from the garden, home-baked bread with homemade pesto spread, and other goodies.
Sunday waddled out to the car and drove up Mt. Washington. Hiked up to Battleship Lake, where we ate a picnic lunch and drew some more.
Then Monday gathered our things together and headed north to Schoen Lake to camp for a couple of nights. Saw no bears, though one had pooped in the not-too-distant past on the access road. I'm beginning to think that old saw about bears and the woods is a fable. Bears quite obviously do not shit in the woods-- they shit on the road, every chance they get.
We, along with all the other campers, were regularly visited by whiskey jacks, however. Gee, wonder why? [innocent look] It's not like we fed them, or anything. I mean, not like it was real food (old gorp). And if we hadn't, they'd've stolen the pasta right out of our bowls. They said so. So, anyway, we did not really, when you come right down to it, violate provincial law forbidding the feeding of wild creatures. Whiskey jacks aren't really wild, anyway.
Spent long lazy hours reading or drawing. I whipped through a real page-turner, Wedding Cakes, Rats & Rodeo Queens, by Anne Cameron, and just today followed up with Hardscratch Row, the sequel. Any one wanting to stock up on Cameron works, Little Sisters on Davie Street is for sure one outlet.
I couldn't put either of them down. Nola had to pack up the campsite around me Wednesday morning. It's her own fault, though, as she'd brought the first book along just for me to read.
Anyway, we're home now, dead tired for some reason, and we haven't done more than minimum unpacking. Skookum the Cat is overjoyed to see us, none of the bills are overdue, and the three most urgent phone messages were not for us. I'll have to try to remember to phone Crystal, whoever she is, and explain carefully that while we don't know Jason, we're pretty sure we know why he's not returning her calls.
