And No Mosquitoes
Excerpt - The Ice Show
The ice storm of 1989 was an unrivalled phenomenon in terms of its unique beauty, its intensity, and its awesome impact on the senses. Long after the physical destruction had been forgotten, the storm lives in the memories of those who experienced its power.
The storm started gently enough, with a warm front sliding in slowly from the south-west and moving across the Fraser Valley. In meteorological terms a warm front moves over the ground as a reverse wedge, trailing the sharp end of the cold air in the wedge along the ground while the air at altitude above the wedge is warm. Normally its effect is only felt when the trailing edge of the front slips through and the temperature starts to rise. In certain unusual circumstances this formation can create havoc, in a dramatic way.
The circumstances in January of 1989 were perfect for the development of havoc. The temperature in the lower mainland had slipped below freezing, as an Arctic high-pressure air mass dominated the region. A few inches of snow had fallen to give a traditional winter effect to the region. At minus 10, it was bearable, albeit chilly, and the news that a warm front was moving in was welcome. But something happened that was not as welcome. The movement of the warm front stalled, with moist, warm air overhead and a two thousand foot wedge of cold, freezing air resting on the ground. As well, and this is normal with warm fronts, there was no wind associated with its passage.
157 pages
ISBN 0-9737390-2-9
As the front slid in, the gentle rains started. When the droplets fell into the sub-zero wedge of air, they quickly super-cooled. Since the ground temperature was well below freezing, the droplets froze to whatever they contacted. The coating of ice built up quickly, forming beautiful designs and, of course, causing problems everywhere.
Terry had gone to Regina for a week, leaving me alone to experience this memorable natural drama. As it turned out, she lost contact with me at an early stage of the storm, which not only pulled down power lines but also cut off the telephone system by ripping down the telephone lines. The sensation of complete isolation, impassable roads, no telephones and no power was not at all unpleasant. The trusty air tight stove kept the house warm as toast and candles provided enough light for a romantic with an overactive mind to thoroughly enjoy the overall effect. The fact that I had no job to go to helped. And our dear little mutt, Muffin stayed close to me, out of fear I believe, and gave good company.
The rain had begun in the late evening and had fallen gently and steadily all night long. Lower mainland residents awoke to skating rinks for roads, trees gracefully sagging under their coating of ice, power lines down in various areas, and radio announcers reading out lists of school closings and other civic announcements. Those with battery-driven radios were able to tune in; otherwise, it was complete isolation.
The view out the back door in the morning was a crystal show, muted by the continuing drizzle and the low cloud condition. As the day progressed and the coating of ice built up, branches sagged lower and lower and smaller trees bent under the weight. It formed a graceful scene of curves, an artistic masterpiece in monochromatic greys and dull whites with the occasional sparkle of crystal.
By evening the worst was occurring. The power lines were being forced down by falling trees and heavy branches, and also by the sheer weight of the accumulated ice. Every time the wires shorted, a flash illuminated the sky. Transformers were also being destroyed, adding to the colour show in the darkness and the murk. Along with the eeriness of the flashes in the sky were the incredible sound effects of breaking branches crashing onto the ice coated snow, and reverberating like cannon shots, and the echo competing with new breaks and crashes throughout the evening and night.
Late that evening, I bundled up, left the comfort of the airtight stove and the candles, and wandered about the yard for what must have been an hour, listening to the constant crashes and reverberations and watching the sky light up with blue flashes every few minutes. It was an eerie, magnificent and totally unforgettable experience! The noise of the falling trees and branches, as ice smashed on ice, was almost constant and in complete random in terms of direction and distances. Sometimes a crash in our woodlot would make me jump, then the next crash would be a mile away, and always another and another. Poor Muffin stayed very close to me, uncomfortable on the ice to begin with, and in total fear of the strange events of that night.
The next day arrived, revealing the damage in the woodlots, with trees stripped of branches and young saplings broken in half. Roads continued to be treacherous and salting crews fought to keep emergency roads passable. Hydro crews worked around the clock to repair critical lines, not even promising relief for rural residents. It was apparent that candles and woodstoves would have to be tended to for a few more days. Fortunately the rain had stopped, but because the front was stalled, there was no immediate relief. The meteorologists were scratching their heads trying to provide answers and the general public obliquely expected the meteorologists to make things happen. Theirs was a no-win situation. "Why did God invent economists? To make meteorologists look good." Except that the disquiet of the public was directed at these poor unfortunates who were but the messengers, yet could not even deliver the message, being unable to explain the reason for the stalled front.
The day was without additional rain, but the temperature remained below freezing, ensuring that whatever ice was attached, stayed attached. Temperatures above freezing were needed to prevent further damage to the woodlots and power lines. What was not needed was wind.
Under such conditions any wind would cause a sharp increase in damage. And that is exactly what occurred. Towards evening the front began to move again and with it breezes sprang up and played with the defenceless trees. God was pruning his forests. The result was an even more dramatic evening, with crashes and echoes and blue flashes in the January night. Fortunately, the temperature also began to climb and by morning, had reached the plus side. As well the sun came out, displaying the crystal world in the glory of its light. And what a sight it was; a million sparkling jewels on every tree! Ice-diamonds and rhinestones also covered every shrub and all the tall dry grasses.
Throughout the day, the ice detached from the trees, and with the help of the wind, sprayed down on the layer of ground ice, making a noise similar to constant shattering glass. By evening most of the ice had melted and the woodlots looked dark and bruised and sombre.
It was now safe to walk through and assess the damage. Branches were ripped off tree trunks and scattered throughout the woodlot, or draped over the perimeter fencing. Small trees had snapped in half and others were bowed down, looking tired and unable to lift their heads. The snow was littered with small twigs as well as with the larger branches, and the roadway to the back would need some serious cleaning. Because of the needs of the ever-hungry wood stove, most of the damage became firewood. The rest was stacked in piles, where everything dried and became the fuel for wonderful evening bonfires the following summer.
In a few days the power was restored and life returned to west coast normal. However, for the next few months, until the new spring growth camouflaged the damage, the Fraser Valley woodlots looked stripped and sorry. But the drama of those few days has stayed in my memory, attesting to the magnificence of nature"s majestic force.
Excerpt - The Shepherd
About early February of the following year, the Jacksons arranged a two-week stay at their time-share in Los Cabos, on the Mexican Baja Peninsula. We had established a mutually beneficial neighbourly type of an agreement with the Jacksons, agreeing to look after their farm whenever they went away. In turn, they monitored our acreage. Well, this time there was an added responsibility, the sheep. Tom had established that a number of the ewes were pregnant, but also was certain that there would be no births until a few weeks after they returned. Wrong!
Tom briefed me fairly thoroughly, advising me how to look after the watering and what time to open the gate to let the sheep come inside the barnyard to avoid nighttime coyote attacks. A few sheep had already fallen prey and it was not a pretty sight to discover hooves, wool and heads during the morning patrol. Tom also told me about the ewes that were to give birth and confidently predicted the dates. No preemies expected. With that, he and Flo left the farm on a Sunday midnight in a great frame of mind, to catch a 2:00 AM flight for margarita country. They knew that I would be at their place in the early morning to let the sheep out, feed and release the chickens and make sure everything was in order.
The next day, after a late breakfast, Terry and I strolled over to their farm not contemplating any surprises. Well, we were in for a shock. The first sight to greet us was three little lambs with a new mother; one of the ewes had triplets and, as we watched in distress, was mistreating one of the lambs. She must have only recently finished giving birth and two lambs were already locked-on having breakfast. The third lamb was not going to be permitted to feed and we had no idea why this was the mother"s decision. Quick action was necessary, but what to do?
We knew that the Jacksons had a favourite veterinarian but did not know the name. So a panic call was initiated to their daughter-in-law who just might recall a name. Fortunately, she was at home; unfortunately, she was no help. So we attacked the Langley telephone book and by the process of deduction located the right vet. Her advice left me feeling somewhat inadequate. She made it clear that a ewe instinctively decides that, as a mother, she only has enough milk for two babies. My first thought was that I was glad I was the second-borne in our family. She then suggested that the third lamb would either have to fend for itself by finding a surrogate mother, a daunting challenge, or go out into a moonlit night and sacrifice itself to a marauding coyote. Having conditioned me with those scenarios, she suggested that I could buy a lamb-nipple, put it on a lamb-bottle and be prepared to spend long hours feeding the abandoned one like any little baby.
The answer was clear; someone would have to feed it and raise it – for two weeks anyhow, until the rightful owners came back. Certainly, we were not about to notify Tom and Flo of the events or they would have had to wrestle with their conscience about returning immediately or leaving all the problems to us to resolve. I wrestled with that one as well, wondering how I could appeal to Tom"s sense of gratitude and ensure that he brought back a nice bottle of tequila for my troubles.
In the meantime, a more immediate requirement existed. According to the vet the lamb needed some of mother"s first milk to ingest the absolutely necessary special antibiotics in that milk, thus reinforcing its chance of survival. Yet the mother refused to allow the little one to suckle and would butt it away like a soft and curly little bowling ball. So what to do? My decision was instant and daunting. I would corner the wretched mother and milk her! Having milked smelly cows for years, I had the technique down pat; however, there was a small difference in the size of the spigots. Could I handle it? Yet it had to be done, or we would be guilty of allowing the little thing to croak.
So we herded the mother and her two sweet little lambs into a stall, closed the entrance and assessed the situation. In the meantime, the rejected one looked at us with pleading eyes. I have always been sensitive to beautiful eyes and am normally glad for it, but this lamb could lay it on! Anyhow, we drew up a plan. I"d take a milk jug, enter the stall and tackle the mother to the ground. Terry would come and hold the ewe"s head down while I tried to extract some milk from her precious supply system.
In fact, it worked like a charm although mother was not at all happy and the little ones made their concerns known as well by nuzzling up to their mother during her state of panic. She sputtered and kicked and made life difficult, but I persevered, struggling with the small teats, and eventually reduced her overall weight by two or three ounces. We figured out how to get the precious milk into the abandoned one. There was enough to save it from numerous unknown diseases.
The story has an even more humorous post-script. The abandoned lamb was returned to the farm and was raised in the Jackson household with the dog and the cat. Nick-named Margarita, what else?, she romped and played and acted as if she belonged not on the meadows or the barn, but beside the stove, and in the front yard with the other pets. When Tom eventually decided that sheep were not his choice of tax-farming income, he had them trucked off to the auction block. All except Margarita, of course. She was now part of the inner circle.
But the time came to get rid of Margarita as well. She was approaching adulthood and no longer fitting into a kitchen setting. So Tom mustered his resolve, calmed down his teary wife and loaded Margarita into the cab of his pickup for the ride to the auction. She was a frequent front seat companion and usually a happy passenger, enjoying startling passing motorists who never expect to see the face of a sheep in the front seat. On this day, however, she must have had a premonition, suspecting that something grave was about to be inflicted on the relationship between her and her adopted family, Tom included. Tom swore that she stared at him with her big, soft brown eyes and they appeared sad and accusative. He became more and more uncomfortable and tried not to look her way, but whenever he did, her stare never wavered and her eye contact became so disconcerting that he began to sweat.
Now nearing the auction house he gave up, made a u-turn, and brought happy Margarita back to the family. The ribbing he received when the story was released became hilarious, but his good-natured self was quietly enforced by Flo who rewarded him amply.
Shortly thereafter, this saga ended happily with a good home being found for Margarita in the Vancouver Animal Park petting zoo located a few miles north of Aldergrove. Margarita lived to charm many a young child, a fitting ending for a creature that survived rather gloomy odds, a credit to positive human intervention in the natural order of life.