Author Archives: John

Victoria, B. C.

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Another beautiful day in Victoria, I have found fresh optimism in this micro-climate of Vancouver Island, British Columbia, one certainly accentuated on our brief visit to Salt Spring Island and one that is centered around sustainability as evidenced by the many farm stands along the road and again within the menus of restaurants and cafés offering, almost exclusively, local food and produce. In part because of its separation from the mainland and the cost of shipping goods from factory farms from elsewhere, this sustainability seems to be an unspoken credo locally, an accepted luxury that is taken for granted as a way of life that works.

As a short-time visitor, it is easy to contrast the direction of agricultural practices in the Central Valley of California, perhaps the richest agricultural region in the world, and the short vision of California’s corporate farming that will soon deplete the region’s underground water resources, drought or no drought, because the corporate model is based on growth rather than maintenance and sustainability. It may be presumptuous to ascribe this mindset or philosophy to all Canadians, or use the example of Butchart Gardens as a 100-year model of profitable mining reclamation, but one cannot ignore the differences between this small part of Canada and the USA in both practice and attitude.

Most consumers in the States seldom see farm fresh eggs, a luxury Robbin and I have grown so accustomed to that we will not order eggs from menus at home, eggs that lack both flavor and color, among other things. But we have yet to see any such pale imitations on Vancouver Island.

When I was a boy on my way to school, the end of every other rural driveway had two or three milk cans waiting for morning pickup to the creamery. My mother would take one such quarter-mile driveway to a farm house to buy our eggs in a brown paper sack. Consequently, to see this kind of economy at work is more than pleasantly refreshing, but concrete validation that the demise of this economy at home over the past half-century has nothing to do with progress or the times.

Instead, it raises questions about the direction of American culture that has become an example to the world, often imitated and initiated by the corporate model of growth–revenue growth, income growth, dividend growth for short-term speculation–that is not sustainable. As my grandfather said often, “No tree grows to the sky.”

Ultimately, these questions center on the values and priorities of Americans, a cloudy sojourn into the cores of each of us that offers little for future generations to emulate. Whether the United States is beyond reclamation of its connection to the land, to the earth and its resources, whether we are beyond finding satisfaction with the work of our hands, have been rhetorical questions most of my adult life as I’ve watched the herd head off in the direction of more and more convenience.

But it’s another beautiful day in Victoria, and the weather is pleasant as well.

Butchart Gardens

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Reclamation of a limestone quarry in Victoria begun in 1907, the gardens receive over a million visitors each year.

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Butchart Gardens

Traveling with the Band

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MAPLE LEAF

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Cedar boughs like layers of ferns
shield us beside a real Maple, broad
leaves drinking up seventy-two degree

Canadian sunshine, to insulate the outside
tensions of a busy world–home so far
south that we are too helpless to worry

about water and cows, escaping the dust
and heat, blinding sweat in our eyes–
already forgetting where we’ve come from,

but not why. The plodding mantra
of routine and urgency broken,
we are cut loose to weigh our sanity,

ask and answer free of responsibility
and its intimidations–like a corral gate
opened to more ground and endless sky.

 

 

THE TROUBLE WITH DRONES

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The Red Tails lift and glide above me,
circling our gather within oak trees, chemise
and fractured granite that hasn’t moved

for centuries on this mountain. One of few
humans they know, I have wished
upon their wings and eye, like a falconer,

to inform, to lead me to what I can’t see
grazing peacefully. Someday, maybe—
or resort to drones to do my bidding,

watch the calving, check feed and water,
be on patrol for coyotes and bears,
instead of me. But who would we be,

streaming sci-fi cowboy poetry? Who
would ever know enough to welcome us
into this other world, their home?

 

 

WPC(3)—HONKERS

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From somewhere north
they arrive together
for the summer—lovin’ it.

 

 

WPC(3)—”Summer Lovin'”

EARLY MORNING SHADE

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Mid-San Joaquin summer,
you can set your watch
by cows coming off the pasture

to Valley Oaks at seven-thirty—
back out into the blazing sun
by noon, breezes off the green.

Not one gossipy complaint
among them, chewing cuds,
relishing the timeless shade.

 

 

WPC(2)—JESS & JARO

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When all that follows
begins with a kiss
that only lasts a moment.

 

 

For the Archives

Kauai Wedding

WPC(2)—”Summer Lovin'”

WPC(1)—OUR REVERIE

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End of day in the shade,
100 degrees
of everything we need.

 

 

WPC(1)—”Summer Lovin'”

Closer Longer

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During the past decade, the Great Blue Herons have become less tolerant of our presence, it seems, quicker to fly as we go about our normal routines of feeding and gathering cattle, or irrigating. In the 1950s, their rookery was in a stand of sycamores along Dry Creek, located a mile south of where we now live. It was not uncommon to ride beneath their rookery and not have them fly. The closest residence was three miles away.

Sometime in the 70s, they moved downstream two miles to another stand of sycamores along the creek between our irrigated pastures and closer to the recently abandoned gravel pits below Terminus Dam and Lake Kaweah. At that time, the Great Egrets began to appear on the ranch, but maintained their rookery elsewhere.

The Great Blues moved again in the mid-2000s to somewhere within the abandoned gravel pit area, about 100 acres of thick riparian at the confluence of Dry Creek and the Kaweah River, a ‘no-man’s land’ and home to deer and feral pigs, diverse raptors including Osprey, among other things.

I have encountered the heron above two or three times a week along the shore of our irrigation pond since spring. The comfortable space between us has decreased to about 100 yards now, down from 400 when our irrigating began. Whether thinking it was hidden in the cattails or getting used to me, this photograph with my Olympus point & shoot was closer longer.