Transgender

The classic text, Hermaprodites and the Medical Invention of Sex by Alice Domurat Dreger (1998) states that there is indeed a biological position for male, female and other.  Gender, by Ivan Illich, (1983)another classic, that looked clearly at the historical sociological approach to male and female role. This was before the advent of Marxist religious binary reductionism. The appeal of Marxism is that it takes associative dichotomies and reduces everything often arbitrarily to binary ‘oppression,” Despite Marxist reductionist feminist theology Queen Victoria was not and did not feel oppressed.  

As Ivan Illich pointed out the ‘comparison’s’ made in the Modern age are not at all consistent with the comparison perceived by Medieval times or earlier.  Retrospective falsification is the tendency of inexperienced academics to geocentrically seen the past based on their day.  In the past men and women were equally admired dependent on relationship, financial position and culture and local laws . Today investigators look more closely at multi factorial analysis and the weighting of contributions rather than the moralistic approaches of law, politics or Marxist reductionism. Scientific research has no room for feminist self pity and gender studies projections of hate. Identity politics is pseudoscience, 

Psychologically transgender is a truly valid consideration from a bio psychosocial and even spiritual  perspective.  

The idea that someone is ‘born into the wrong body’ is philosophical and theologically quaint. It has little objective basis. Subjectively,  it  is a common perception which unfortunately became part of the criteria for SRS considerations. That whole idea challenges notions of fate and determinism and free will. It also creates a hierarchy between the self perceived ugly person who seeks beautifying cosmetic surgery and the transgender who wishes some of the same procedures.  The issues of legal liability is involved in each but also is the question of public funding. The argument that the transgender was a ‘choice’ while the person needing heart replacement was ‘determined.’is no longer so relevant.   Even this separation preceded our knowledge of psychosomatic medicine which showed that heart disease was primarily a ‘lifestyle choice’.  Certainly liver transplants are too.  There is a false belief too about choice and determinism which somehow creates victim and needs and rights which give way for the rhetoric. 

This is all challenged by the belief that I am different species born in a human body. Everyone  considers that a delusion.  The novel Birdy by William Wheaton (1979) however was immediately appealing. Certainly I at times , I feel I am a dog trapped in a human’s body. This is , is how I began a controversial talk on transgender and Tran species and public funding. I was physically assaulted then and my life was threatened   for months thereafter. Similarly a Scottish surgeon was severely punished when he removed the arm of a person who insisted that the arm wasn’t his and wanted it removed. Before insurance and rapacious legal ambulance chasers these would be simple non sensational cases.  However  today it’s mostly politics and if one wants to have publicly funding SRS (Sex Reassignment Surgery) it is best to ‘remember’ wanting to be a girl or boy when others were likely indifferent or ambivalent. The ‘memories’ are themselves flawed given that memories are dictated to a large extent by emotion.  After WWII many people who were not in the resistance insisted they were, not just the psychopaths, but those too who could not accept themselves as banal beasts so to survive replaced the truth with the psychologically useful liveable false. Post divorce we too often hear ‘I never loved him/her’. 

Different affectations such as learning Oxford English over Cockney or learning to dress and act like a Lawyer rather than an agricultural worker, or behaving like a lady versus a ‘slut’ have all been done through the ages to ‘better’ oneself without the thought being that ‘I was ‘born’ in the ‘wrong body/station/class,etc”.  People move to America for freedom and advantage without saying they were ‘born in the wrong continent’. These ‘justifications’ are where the awkwardness gets strange.

In the classic book , Transgender Warrior, Making History from Joan of Arc to Dennis Roman, by Leslie Feinberg (1996)it is clear that her gender transition is for advantage.  The process begins much as a boy would go to the weightlifting gym or to ‘university’ to ‘better himself’.  There are clear advantages for Feinberg as a male in her location and with her attributes.  Her book despite her lack of education and the appeal of the low brow Marxist interpretations is an excellent sociological reference that looks at the history of cross dressing as well.

Sex is binary. There are X and Y genes and XX is female and XY is male.  There are variations like XXY but they are rare and only serve to confirm that there are but 2 sexes with a third swing vote. The middle is a bit gender fluid. This is like 1 and 2 and 1-2 in math. Gender by contrast has been labelled as ‘sexual expression’ which has been seen as a spectrum from ultra masculine to ultra feminine.  Dr. Dorothea Bea of Berkeley did classic research and published a delightful paper Macho Men and Fluffy Women.  In the research there are those who would rather die than  act other than their sex and those in the middle who will ‘switch’ for profit.  At one level this is considered ‘bisexual’ but it equally applies to work as Dr. Dorothea Bea points out. Dr. Jordan Peterson found similarly that women might choose less high paying work that would allow them be enjoy more feminine roles and  pregnancy.  

Hormone studies of Testosterone and Estrogen and associated behaviours show that physiology is a primary consideration.  Sociologically rewards have gone to those who ‘delay gratification’ or ‘take significant risks’ and hormones and intelligence have more to do with this than society.

Always there is the play of the individual and the society.  As Feinberg points out there are through history those who appear not to be restricted by society despite the claims of some sociologists , especially constructionists,  and Marxists that insist society dictates behaviour.  The long existence of gay behaviour especially in Muslim countries where they are still throwing homosexuals off tall buildings shows the limits of society’s influence on behaviour. Behaviour is much more complex than our media or the academics that the modern media quotes. Behaviour is the outcome of a multiplicity fo often competing factors.

Imitations is the sincerest form of flattery is the basis of much transsexualism.  Boys raised by women just like cats raised with dogs with imitate the dominant behaviours around them.  Women have been transvestite and cross dressing for over a hundred years. Chanel , the great fashion leader, spoke of the introduction of the ‘pant suit’ which Hilary Clinton with her ambiguous sexuality promoted in her political aspirations.  The female lawyer today wears a ‘power suit’, identical to the male lawyer, except for the addition of a pair of heals and a skirt instead of slacks. 

 Men were greatly admired after WWII when collectively the military had saved the world from Hitler’s National Socialism, Nazi Germany.  Women had worked in the war effort.  Women’s liberation and Egalitarianism ruled.  Individualism were at a high point before the devolution to identity politics.  Meritocracy had followed the war effort with none of the corruption and waste note worthy in peace.  The best individual sharpshooter was chosen in the resistance not by gender, race or whatever, but rather simply based on who could get the job done.  Increasingly tasks were seen as unisex and everyone was encouraged to work where they were best suited and performed most favourably.  Ironically despite all manner of support financial and otherwise for the necessary, dirty and dangerous jobs, women rather intelligently preferred indoor clean work and increasingly even men outsourced this work to immigrants, male and female. 

Identification with the Aggressor.  Men who wish to present as women and women who wish to present as men are often doing so as a product of trauma and to be safer in the chosen gender identity.  

The unisex barbers and clothing movements which persists today and is evidenced best by the relatively short hair, jeans and t shirt generation is evidence of the ubiquity of cross dressing and movement of both men and women from the extremes of gender expression celebrated in the 30’s to the middle position of today. 

Mirroring is the psychological technique used by sales to engage customers. The sales of the Beatles was greatest to the female fan support initially with the Fab 4 having ‘long hair’, followed by the play, Hair, and the song ‘Are you a boy or are you a girl, with your hair so long you look like a girl.”  Later hyper masculine 90’s Metal bands took long hair back to the tribal times sporting beards and hair and tattoos and rage.  A far cry from the 60’s ambivalence best expressed by Bowie.

Today cross dressing is as common as make up and cosmetic surgery.  Male fashion increasingly lifts the best from the female line up with even Levi Jeans producing a stretch denim and male underwear being sold for softness and stretch.  

Now men are taking anti testosterone medicine and testosterone or other male hormone enhancers just as women take birth control and estrogen .  

The problem is with children, parents and the courts and society at large. That’s a whole separate issue of government encroachment and propaganda and the rights of children over their lawyers. By contrast in the adult world the issue is passé.  

When Transexuals initiated the gay rights movement with the famous Stonewall riots, the gays and lesbians have today become incorporated into greater society with Metro Sexual Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada  dancing in the gay parade. It’s not a ‘closet’ matter in the west with naturally some push back by heterosexuals whose domains have been increasingly infringed on by homosexuals in the new vying for relative power. 

But both groups have politically turned their backs to some extent on the very ‘fairies’ who raised the issue to the degree that legislation was necessary. The book Pink Swastica about Nazis, Auscwhitz and the millions of Jews murdered points out that the ‘macho homosexuals’ were indeed welcomed into the Gestapo. As a macho Mexican police chief was famous for saying “I’m not bisexual, I’m so much more of a man women can’t satisfy me and I need boys sometimes.’  As Scott Lively pointed out in Pink Swastika, while all Jews were being exterminated in the Final Solution, only the effeminate gays were exterminated.  

Indeed historically no one cares what the rich and powerful did for recreation as long as they produced heirs.  In contrast today where children are considered a luxury historically children were a necessity and the principle source of wealth and power.  Much of the nonsense one reads in Gender Studies follows from the ignorance of the role of numbers to survival in the world before modern times.  The error is further seen in seeing the past in terms of individuals where as the alienated individual is mostly a concept of modern times. Even Thomas Merton, the famed Catholic monk noted that the Christian hermits were part of a community as were the Buddhist monks.  Individualism is a very recent phenomena.

So today we have a spectrum. Cross dressers which include all modern women and most men if only to a lesser degree. 90% are heterosexual.

Drag Queen’s imitate and mock women and are mostly gay.

Transvestites are those who wish to be the opposite sex but may only be at the stage of hormones in their transition.

The term ‘she male’ is sometimes reserved for those transvestites who wish to be women but wish to maintain their male genitalia and male organisms.  They may well be Transexuals or drag queens. The whole Transvestite crowd is a mixed bag.

To complicate matters ‘sexual addiction’ may influence choices as much as childhood trauma.

Transexuals by contrast are those who are considered’pre op’ or ‘post op’ and are actively ‘redesigning’ their bodies surgical ly with the ultimate aim SRS. Sexual Reassignment Surgery.

Obviously a post op Transexual is not a Genetic female but they have the characteristics and appearances to the extent that I as a physician have not known a Post Op Transexual from a Genetic Female on initial examination. I’ve deliver a hundred babies and yet wasn’t aware a female patient in interview told me she was Transexual. Increasingly males and females ‘pass’. The successes of cosmetic surgery and hormones etc are such that just as we can’t know a person had a ‘nose job’ without history so it’s not readily apparent that what is male or female without sometimes a ‘bucal smear’.  

That is how advanced the process is with tens of thousands of transgender ‘living among us’.  This is not a conspiracy but a fact just like the recognition that countless women are on birth control pills and the majority of people don’t know that.  Even families and intimates may not know. Certainly a doctor on examination might but not necessarily.  

When most people think of Transexuals they think of their ‘idea’ of masculinity and femininity dictated by media. Feinberg makes a strong case for the number of people who don’t ‘fit’ these stereotypes and while being genetic males or females are increasingly thought to be Transexuals.  

There are many ethical and moral issues associated with this. Not the least of which is public versus private funding and the legal implications.  20 year old women insisted on hysterectomies only to sue their surgeons when they became 30 and had ‘changed their minds’. The John Hopkins Transexual Program stopped at one point because of the poor outcomes and high incidence of suicide.  Michael Jackson tried to be ‘white’ and ultimately died perhaps because of his ‘struggles’ with ‘acceptance’.  The real play here is indeed about ‘acceptance’ and ‘choice’.  

I am seriously concerned about the bullying of therapists and psychologists who object to individuals having counselling when ‘confused’ and insist that the only acceptable counselling is ‘affirmative’.  I was trained in an era where therapists explored options. The book Ethical Slut: Polyamoury, Open Relationships, Non-Monogamy by therapists and sex educators Janet Hardy and Dossie Easton (2017) is clearly non biased and a bit of a free for all Laissez fair discussion of the permutations and combinations of the modern fringe communities.  

At the end of the day one wishes that there was some sort of actuarial investment counsellor simply telling people what is ‘healthiest’ and ‘least healthy’ in the traditional medical sense. Even a ‘face lift’ is a dangerous procedure but no longer is consider a ‘moral outrage’ as once women wearing pants were. As late a 1968 Canadian boys were called gay for supporting girls wearing pants, not by men but rather by other girls and by women who wanted to maintain the traditional clothing and saw women wearing pants as likely to lead to rampant lesbianism and debauchery.  

Frankly older I’ve been know to wear male clothing that is not so age appropriate such as ‘skinny jeans’. I’ve long been won over by stretch jeans from urban fare versus the scratchy Levis I used to wear or the itchy Stanfields compared to the Italian designer briefs which are so much more like ‘women’s underwear’ . Traditional male clothing was made for war. The underwear of men was meant to last unchanged for whole campaigns and seasons and withstand the roughest use.  

The Halloween full moon. Halloween was long considered the cross dresser’s holiday but what is maradi gras then. Dr Carl Jung posited a host of persons or archetypes and Joseph Campbell , anthropologist, saw life as the ‘hero’s journey’. Today he’d probably call it the ‘heroine journey’ but what then of Mother Mary and the Transexual journey. 

 

Friday Morning, day before Halloween

I woke early and decided to stay up.  6 am, 6 hours of sleep. I’d been unable to put down the book I was reading.  

Now I’m back to reading it, a Jasmine Frame detective novel. 

Halloween weekend. It’s the time of year for cross dressers and Samhein.  Our Christmas in a way.  Since Rocky Horror Picture Show I’ve been dressed in some form of women’s garb. Before that I’d worn diapers and witches costumes. Now I’m just thankful for a night when it’s perfectly acceptable for a bloke to wear a skirt.

I’ve worn my kilt and scottish regalia on other occasions but that’s military and masculine garb.

I like the soft fabrics and easy clothing of ladies wear. I remember as a child and young man I was very much into the dandy male wear. A dancer and actor in the making I’d loved wearing a new sports jacket and slacks. But after medicine and the white lab coats I was back to uniforms. Then as a consultant it was the return to a sportsjacks and slacks. I liked wearing ties. They were the one piece of male wardrope where one could express the whimsical and individual. I had a collection of wool ties and ties reflecting fine art. I loved my Rembrandt tie.  

Then one day, 20 or 30 years ago men’s clothing really did seem ‘au drab’.  I loved wearing women’s clothing and enjoying the make up like I was back in the theatre.  No doubt the dissociation associated with trauma and the added even worse trauma of the disclosure of trauma contributed. 

Halloween was the night. There were the ball nights, so called Drag Queen Balls. I did enjoy those. I even had my hair done up and nails for one occasion.  Friends didn’t recognise me till we met on these occasions and I whispered who I was.  It was so much fund to be incognito. 

I felt free and confidential dressed and made up while as a man I felt forever on guard.  I never did recover fully from the appalling trauma I experience decades back when all my civil rights were stripped and I was roundly abused by sociopaths in suits.  I’ve simply never felt safe in Canada since. We only lease our houses from the government and bureaucrats can imprison anyone.  I was released but the lies and the fowl play stayed like Hamlet.  Romeo and Juliet, the Death of a Saleman but my own fault for muy associations.  Out of the country I relax. Often I’ve taken holidays and lived out the fantasy of au femme in some foreign place where no one would recognise me. I always found Joni Mitchell’s song “Freeman in Paris”, playing in my head at those times. There was a lightness to my step. I thought too of Leonard Cohen’s song poem, Lover Lover and his line I want a new face. The sad part about betrayal is it is done by your friends.

Now I don’t care so much and for years I’ve just not thought anything of going out on occasion in a dress or skirt. I’ve enjoyed buying the alternatie clothing.  It’s all exciting and taboo. A whole journey which only others like you have shared. The humiliation and stigmatisation and judgemental attitudes of transphobic shop girls versus those other wonderful women who are simply so loving and helpful. I remember decades back getting the first breast forms and the pocket bras.  I loved the ladies who fitted me and helped me.  Those early days it was all so scarey and exhilerating.  

Of course I talked ad infinitum to pscyhiatrists, counsellors and pastors. I was even exorcised but it didn’t seem to take. There was that whole business of collecting clothes and purging but ultimately the cheap Scottish genes kicked in and I simply moved the women’s clothing to the locker only to bring it back months later.  Finally there was a separate locker or suitcase and on occasion I’d enjoy the repreive from the war footing.  I’d always had to protect and provide.  I’d always had to defend. Defending those who were injred and abused meant I was their ally and the very people and institutions who hurt them hurt me for even associating with them.  I fought bullies in school and at some point past middle age I realized thet it didn’t end.  I actually spent some years seeing a psychiatrist to discuss why I helped the needy and how best I could change to be more selfish like I ought to be. Being empathic helped my patients but certainly did not stand me well with the hierarchy. I’d actually identified and had removed senior doctors, nurses, hospital administrators and even a judge all who had been corrupt, sick but by their evil behaviour hurting others.  I”m thankful for those who had my back but I was usually alone in the fray and the system tooks days, months or years to right itself.  I still wonder what life would be like if I just didn’t care. I asked people not to kill people in front of me but they seemed to take greater glee in the act of killing and the act of doing it in front of me.  

I’ve been most suspicious of smooth operators.  The school yard bullies were stereotypical but the adult bullies looked like lawyers, mayle and female, ‘power suits’ and gentile manners, well groomed and well heeled.  A certain indifference.  I loved Arendt’s description of the Banality of Evil,.

Au femme I didn’t think of such things.  ‘Girls Just Want to Have “ fun was the song that ran through my mind. I tried to get along with everyone and didn’t object or care what people did outside of my contact with them.  It’s amazing but a girl can have coffee with Hitler and he can be very charming and it can be a fine night and that’s all it is.  Once you find out that the person you met briefly socially was a psychopaths then it’s on you to continue the relationship. I walked away but as a girl wasn’t engaged in work or service.  I was in the au femme mode on vacation. The clothing assisted me in the leaving behind of the white lab coat and the sports jacket that had been fashioned on the British Empire Officer’s military jacket.  

When I wore high heels and a white silk free flowing dress carrying a designer bag with only a few possessions, I don’t feel any desire to step forward and stop a fight or a rape or literally get involved with anyone else’s monkey’s and circus.  I had slip on heels on Davie one late night, possibly another Halloween, and was walking alone when a car with 4 jeering angry south asian man circled by me twice.  I was actually afraid.  They’d been beating up gay men and it was in the news and there I was looking like prey and wondering why women don’t carry purse guns, hat pins and wear sensible shoes. I was ill prepared and realized Feminists don’t want ‘women’s rights’ like the ‘women’s liberation' crowd I was part of.  Feminists just want to wear 4 inch heels and blame men for not protecting these little princesses.  I’d done my share as a man of protecting drunk and drug addicted ex’s with bad mouths from the consequences of their behaviour and frankly didn’t like that role. But we’d argued back then for women to have the right to purse guns and I taught women self defence.  Now here I was in these silly shoes knowing I’d at best take two of the four. Au drab I’d consider the odds not insurmoutable. I’d hospitalized three of 7 attackers once and had escaped many a hairy situation but here I was in nylons and fuck me shoes that were not even meant for walking. I was glad they left and later weeks later the police would catch them and I’d recognise them as the very same guys who followed me.  Perhaps at 6 feet tall broad shouldered and proud walk despite the coiffed hair and padded bra and flimsey dress I’d seemed to threatening to these low life low brow cowardly thugs. 

I’ve always missed the one on one cowboy fighting my friend Kirk and I engaged in as children. Later I’d do martial arts and even competed one on one in wrestling one year. I lost and wasn’t interested in belts but loved learning the skills and starting as a teen the oponents didn’t bow. They also carried knives, scars I remember painfully learning to avoid, and usually came with two or three on one.  It was only in my 20’s I began to be shot at, revolvers appearing out of nowhere and shots whizzing through the air from rifles.  I know that anyone who has faced guns has respect for them and those whose world is tv and games don’t.  I’m deeply disheartened that so many Canadian girls are so utterly ignorant of guns, and war and men.  Our military and police have done simply too good a job.  When I was in charge of the dangerously insane wards in jails and asylums I met the people that one one one scared me and I wished that it was a requirement of politicians especially liberal women to spend some time with these individuals so they could leave off their utopian fantasies and join us blokes in real world.

I envy the princess.  I wrote “I want to be a pricness for a day”.  I admire all the good mothers in my life and the great women I know. Transexual M-F go through an interesting phase when they begin to come out, often dressing age innappropriately or like hookers. The first is the appeal of the girl becoming a woman teen and trying out of different fashions, the too short skirt, the obviously not sensible shoe.  The longer one cross dresses and the older one becomes the more appropriate one is. It’s the teens thazt go through a range of styles and fashions till the settle on what works for them We do the same though with less time and less feed back.  It’s the secretiveness that surrounds us. 

Also the young transgendered aren’t dressing up for work but for social life so there’s an emphasis on the erotic. The difference between the celebrity and the whore is subtle and watching men frequently fail in achieving the right balance is a source of amusement.

I’ve not cared to ‘pass’.  I once read a delightful book called the ‘lazy cross dresser’ and realized that women have been cross dressing for a hundred years and most cultures don’t have the rigid differentiation that ours done. In the tropics I was content to wear a sarong or shorts and t shirt. It’s only in winter Canada that I ‘m even considering hose and undergarments.  

Halloween is a fun time. The Parisian and Italian Concubines and the Western Saloon girls and Burlesque all have a flavour of the 30’s flapper party. Mail order allowed all of us to order clothing fitting for home and since we were not going out it’s not surprising that the transgender crowd has robes and night gowns but not a pinafore in their wardrobe.  It’s only late in the game that cross dressers, transvestites and transexuals actually where gender distinct work clothing. My friend the Transexual Diesel Mechanic simply didn’t change from blue overalls to pink overalls. The overalls the girls working with him wear are blue like his and men and women have long hair and earring so for the trades its often only an issue of their choice of underwear and because they don’t want boobs caught in machinery everyone wears the equivalent of the sports bra or binder. No bullet bras in the journeymen and journeywoman world. 

The Transgender ‘clothing’ issue arises in the legal profession and the office where the female stil wears the skirt despite Hillary’s ‘pant suit’. Ironically high heels remained and make up and lipstick feminists refused to go Amish because theyt really didn’t want equality but rather wanted leverage. Their natural sexuality and appeal to counter the male muscle and brawn.  Hundred thousand years of natural selection.  A hundred years of modern society.  Freedom a very recent matter for the masses. The rich and powerful were always wearing women’s knickers one days armour and swords the next.  What mattered was power.  Conformity was the means to survive for little guy. 

The oldest law is the Chinese law of the fish: There are big fish and little fish.Little fish must be fast and numerous.  Parents wanted children of the middle and lower classes to not ‘stick’ out’.  The tall poppy synderome of the Australian world is the one that got chopped off. The elitte by contrast could in their private world do wahtever. As one poor black man said , ‘social workers and police are in every aspect of our lives. We live on the streets or among others.’ Only the rich can live alone in mansions with no one monitoriing their coming and goin.

In Communist countries everyone is an informer. Wealth and power give those that can afford it the Epstein Island experience or as novelist Patterson wrote, the cannibal dinner party experience. The jaded crave new sensation.

Halloween and All Saints Day and Samhein are all about transpersonal reality. This world and these passing cultural fads and fashions are nothing to the reality of life and death and questions of heaven and hell and purgatory.  We mock convention.

I wear a dress. I have no desire to be a zombie or dress as the dead. I’ve seen far too much death. But I’ve not known enough of the world of Jane Eyre and the Bronte Sisters. That DH Lawrence and Somerset Maugham world placed before the responsibilities of adult hood where families are formed and people live in the fish bowl created by their children who are questioned by teachers and bear tales of the house to neighbours and all.  I didn’t have children. I wasn’t policed. I had a dog who didn’t care if I wore leggings or pants as long as we went for interesting walks and he was well fed and I threw the ball. I can throw ball in skirt and heels or jeans.  My dog might have told the other dogs I was a bit queer but he didn’t tell the authorities.

My friends and family have not really understood but have been tolerant.  I’m surrounded by people who like the male me which I’m thankful for. I’ve served well but at the cost of leisure and self.  Dressed in a skirt I am still capable of writing. But I was driving by an accident au femme and stopped. I stood and observed that those already there were doing a reasonable job. I’ve saved so many lives at accidents and stepped in a took charge. But I actually thought I didn’t want to be exposed or dirty my clothes or get involved so only stood back observing. If anyone had done something wrong I’d have stepped in but au femme I was content to stand on the sideline. I’m also old and learning to let the young muddle along. After a while I left and seeing ambulances with flashing lights, adrenaline and testosterone coursing through the veins of the young.  I pulled out and drove on, glad not to be involved except peripherally.  

I don’t want to be centre stage. Most of my life I’ve enoyed the role of the assistant to the king. I used to be my father and my brother’s assistant and even my mother’s assistant and in surgery was sought after as a surgical assistant. I have definitely been in charge.I’m a solo sailor and a captain but I much prefer the militia to the offiial troups, the role of scout to the role of colonel, or simply being one of the crowd. I have been president and vice president but now am thankful to be able to serve. I’ve always liked duty and service and doubt that is affected by my sense of twin spirittedness or clothing.

Halloween is a time to celebrate the dark passenger or the breadth of the Jungian anima/animus/personna and shadow.  It’s a full moon too.  And an American election year. And the unspoken war with Communist Chiina continues while our PM appears more and more stoned but claims now that he’s ill. Everyone is playing the pity card. I don’t wish to. I like Gladwell’s writing on outliers. I’ve been castigated for intelligence, wealth, poverty, clothing, lack of clothing, sexuality, etc.  Judgementalness is a major coping strategy for many. I love the Catholic list of sins and how those with gluttony and sloth condenm those with lust and the avarice condemn all. I’m trying very hard to learn the Franciscan idea of acceptance, of myself and others. 

Halloween Hallow’s Eve.  I’m fay too. Its definitely the time of the year to be fay. 

 

 

New Day October

It’s a new day so I’ve asked again what God wants of me. How can I serve. I’ve said the Lord’s Prayer. I’ve meditated, called on the Holy Spirit, spoken Jesus’s name, made made coffee and had yogurt and a power bar with it. I read Facebook. I’ve been following the unconventional war by Communist China on the west. When I read the history of the 30’s when that ‘nice guy’ Chamberlain was the British leader there was a similar attitude to the other’ nice guy’ Hitler. Time put Hitler on their front cover.

Now I’m thinking of showering and dressing and going for a walk. I miss Gilbert. He always had great ideas for the day. He liked me to rub his tummy and take him for a walk and fetch ball. Simple good things.  I’m looking forward to getting the mail.

I’ve thought on the weekend I’d upgrade my iPhone 11 to the 12. These days for work I’m on the phone a lot.  I’m also working with computers from home and doing a lot of video conferencing. I didn’t think it would go on this long.  I like wearing skirts at work.  I like the commute from the living room to the garage. I like lunch when I make a sandwich and coffee and sit outside. The work is hard with the pandemic.  There never seems to be enough time or resources.  I’m exhausted at the end of the day and find myself making dinner and watching Netflix before going to bed early.  

I’ve been asking God what the meaning of it all was. I asked for protection and guidance. I feel my relationship with God is fine.  I just wonder when I’ll follow my family and dogs to the other side. I’ll likely have decades to go but of course who knows, I could go tomorrow.

I’m thankful I woke up today. I love the air and breathing. I’m thankful for the sunshine but without it I use my SAD Lite each day.  I love the birds. I’m so enjoying watching them more carefully.  I like photography. I enjoy carrying my camera with me like I did as a teen. As a teen I always had a note book and a camera. I wrote poetry and took pictures.  I played guitar poorly and sang out of key.  I’m 50 years later and I’m enjoying doing the same. I should get the guitar out and sing.  It’s stored in it’s case and I think I’d play it more if it hung somewhere I could get at with less effort. I’m lazy.  If I had to get the couch out of a closet I’d lie on it less watching Netflix. For decades I had the tv in the closet so I’d get more done.  Right now what needs to be done is cleaning so I’d rather keep the tv and couch where they are. 

Yesterday I meant to shake out the rug and sweep the floor.  Gilbert used to take care of all the food crumbs   I’m truly looking forward to a new puppy.  Life is easier without a dog but lonely in a sense.  I like the commitment.  

Halloween this weekend and full mood. But with Covid I don’t like to socialize.  I enjoy my isolation.  Compared to the average person I’ve had a life of being too much with people. They are so loud emotionally and behaviourally shouting at me with the incongruences, tells and all manner of body language and vocal tones. Alone I can relax. The dog was a delight. Always true with so little deception.

I loved the salmon run.  I worry about all the poaching going on today and the lack of regulation. The government attacks law abiding citizens and celebrates the criminals high and low. It’s discouraging. It’s all the corruption and graft and the success of criminals that upsets me as I go about my Boy Scout existence.  I feel an outsider. I feel I don’t belong because I’m moral.  I consider the venal sins and how lust is judged harshly by those who wallow in avarice and gluttony.  I’m a sinner.  I miss the mark. I aim to be a better person each day but usually just muddle through.  I’m in a state of identity confusion.  I really don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.  I’ll be a dog master, I guess. That’s an anchor. I’m also happy as RV trash and right now a Vespa driver.  It’s chilly on the Vespa and I may have to use the car more for longer trips.  

Hunting season could be over. I wonder about another trip but it’s on the back burner. I’ve partridges to eat. No venison which I wanted but I certainly did have fun and exercise hunting this year. Winter is coming and to avoid getting fat I really ought to plan cross country skiing or snow shoeing again.  I’really do need to consciously plan or the couch will wrap me up for the winter hibernation in the joy of sloth.  

Thank you Jesus for this day. Guide me.  Holy Spirit come. 

Silence

“I included you”,  he said, looking directly at her.

“I never said you didn’t” , she said, looking away. She read his tones .She read tones like weather reports and dressed accordingly.

“You went silent. There was no enthusiasm”.  

She thought about that. Hoping it would go away. She longed to sit on the veranda hoping the clouds would pass. She didn’t want to go inside out of the rain. She didn’t want to dance in the rain either.

“There was no enthusiasm.” He said. Not meaning to accuse. Just stating a fact.

“Would you like coffee or tea,” she asked.

“You know I like coffee,” He said distracted

“You used to.” She said.

“What does that mean?” She got up and went into the kitchen hoping the storm wouldn’t come.

“You changed,” she said.  

“We are always changing.”

“I know,” she said, “I liked it the way it was.”  

He could hear her grinding coffee beans and running water.  He hoped the clouds would pass. He wondered if he should put up a screen so they’d not have to go inside when it rained.  People are finding ways always to stay outside more. He’d just been looking at heaters.  He heard the coughing sound the expresso makes when it was finished. She returned to two cups, each with cream and honey.  Normally he made the coffee. He served her and that was the issue. She liked to be served.  She deserved to be served. They both did but now older so much had been taken.  Age itself took it’s toll.  But the losses were many. Now the government was taking more.  Costs were rising. He didn’t feel he could afford to move.  She’d wanted that.  They’d talked about it.

“Here’s your coffee,” she said, smiling. She was still very pretty.  His heart lifted just to see her. She was good and pure if just a little selfish. More and more his friends felt owed. They looked to each other for support. It was the constant Chinese torture. The drip drip drip of the silent erase.  He’d lost so much before he awoke. Now he wanted change and she was withdrawing. Further away.  

They’d waited for Godot so long.  On this veranda.  Shall we stay or shall we go.

“Do you think the guys are still at the station?”  

“I think so. If they weren’t, we’d have heard.”

“Everyone’s waiting, as we said, aren’t they.”

“Yes,” 

“Would you like to dance?” 

‘Not if it’s going to rain.”

Morning in the City

“I’m back, you know.”

“Yes dear.”

The space ship sent by God was landing in the living room as the coffee brewed.  

“Have you had any more visitations?”  

“Just the one you witnessed.  The vegetables have been complaining of late. “

The little people stepped out of the saucer and opened folding tables and chairs on the counter.

“I asked you not to let them in.”  

“I tried but they materialized when I close the vents.”

“Have they said what they wanted.”

‘I don’t understand space language.”

“Well you took a linguistics course at university. I could only hope.”

‘Right.”

“So they like the apples and bananas and yoghurt.”

“It seems.”

The space ships had a lot of lights on it and the little furry cuddly looking creatures little more than an inch tall had setttled into their tea party on the counter every once in a while getting up to cut off bits of fruit.  They’d already punctured a hole in the yoghurt container with a pink weapon beam of some sort.

For a moment they watched them, drinking their coffee.

“Were they up north? “

“Yes, everywhere I went there were sightings.  We’re rather fortunate they like our place.  Others have never had a visit.”

“I wonder why.”

“Did you see the news?”

“Yes it was bizarre as usual.  One politician wanting to attack them, another incorporating them into a marketing jingo and the last one wanting to tax them. That’s appalling.  Very Canadian. Insisting they give over their secrets for using the air space.  Taxing their breath like they do the people.”

“We don’t even know if they use O2.’

“I know. It’s all so ridiculous.”

“But it’s taken our attention off war.”

“For the time. I saw a competition for microscopic weapons development and poisonous gas.”

“That should be something since we don’t even know what they breathe or even if they digest the yoghurt, bananas and apple.”

‘The coffee is good this morning.”

“Yes isn’t it.”

Seriously Hunting

I am actually up at 6 am. Dawn is 7:30 am. I stayed up till 11 reading.  The coffee is brewing.  I’ve only got to walk a mile up hill.  The logging road side is across the main a couple of hundred yards from my camper.  I took pictures of the half moon last night with my SiOnyx Night vision camera.  Yesterday I saw a yellow hued bird the size of a robin with yellow streaks on his head. I must look him up when I get home.  

I was thinking of Gilbert and alien space ships when a grouse almost flew into my face. To avoid hitting me It veered to it’s left and landed in a tree. I had carried my Ruger 30:06 and the Argentinian 20 guage over under.  I dropped the Ruger to the ground and took aim with the 20 guage.  Kaboom. The grouse fell.  Now without Gilbert the hard part began. I searched everywhere under the tree and simply couldn’t find it in the thick brush.  It was becoming hopeless when I prayed.  I was telling Gilbert how I needed him and one last look a ways from the tree under some ferns, there was the downed grouse.  Hallelujah! Thank you God and thank you Gilbert.  

I dressed the grouse and put it in a ziplock bag I put in my pocket. Another grouse flew into the spruce but I couldn’t see where it landed in the dusk light. I continued to hike slowly up the deactivated logging road.  I finally arrived where I’d thought deer might descend into the valley. I sat and drank the can of Perrier I’d carried with me in my other pocket along with the extra shells. I’d just drunk it when a young guy and girl barrelled up the road in white GMC 1500 truck, older version.  That was it, I thought and headed back down.  They might have been hunting or just exploring but the speed they were travelling at was some kind of rush.  I had my flashlight out letting them know I was on the road when they came barreling down.  I followed them out walking simply as fast as I could. The hunt was over but I was pleased I had a grouse and had had another conversation with Gilbert.  Nearly losing the grouse made it imperative I have another puppy. One was on the way too, coming in November. A dog is simply necessary to hunting and peace of mind.

My sister in law texted me her congratulations on having another puppy coming and her commiseration with the work that will involve in the early months.  It’s worth it.

I wasn’t hungry last night. I’d a steak to barbecue but my my calabrese salami sandwiches at lunch still sustained me. I finished off the Ziggy potato and egg salad I ‘d brought then topped it off with peanut butter on bun.  After I took pictures of the night before reading in bed before sleep.  

A lovely day.  I’m supposedly hunting deer and bear here but the grouse was totally satisfactory. I remember as a kid hunting with my brother and father that we were just happy with a duck or a grouse. I never went big game hunting with my father because I was too young to go. But the success of a hunt was any bird and the joy of the hunt was the day in autumn in the country.  For me the real boon was the hiking and climbing. I’ve certainly exercised and that’s it’s reward for sure.

Thank you Jesus. Thank you God for a marvellous hunt last night.

Now I’ve actually woken before the 6 am alarm and had a debate about getting up. When the alarm went off I was awake and now I’m drinking coffee and have a thermos of coffee ready to go. I just have to dress and then actually go out the door and head one for after the other up the logging side. It’s so steep at first .

I’ve eaten my Activa yogurt and am working on the NatureValley Crunch with cup of coffee with honey and cream. All that remains is to dress. Putting on the dreaded boots, gathering the gear and heading out into the cold and dark.  Later I have to come home to the city and leave the camper winterized in storage till Christmas or spring.  The next time I’m in it I’ll have a puppy to introduce to a new adventure. Hallelujah!

Ostensibly Hunting

Yesterday I faced blizzards and climbed mountains at dawn and trekked quietly through the wilderness carrying my trusty Ruger 30:06, ever ready to shoot a buck.  I went out again at night and sat silently in ambush.  

Today the alarm went off in the dark and I silenced it returning to muddled dreams and questions about the validity of my hunting today.  My mind entered a deeply philosophical debate about getting out of bed or staying in bed.  Plato, Socrates, Kant, Spinoza all participated.  Only Emerson won an hour or so later when the practicality of relieving myself occasioned the use of the toilet. Now I’ve coffee and yogurt and nature valley crunchy roasted almond and the sun is not up.  I’m writing. If I rushed dressing I could be climbing this mountain and facing the elements. I turned the propane heater down last night.  My face was cool and I looked up at the skylight seeing the magnificent moon and stars above. Yet I was cozy warm in my blankets and comforter.  Almost womb like.  I’ve had to turn the propane up now. 

I stepped outside and it’s bloody shivering cold on bare skin. I’ve only my sleeveless night shirt on, a kind of extended wife beater t shirt that’s I imagine gives me night time European cache appearance. Fashion wise, a fashionista would probably link it and me to the Canadian prairies.  Night wear there in winter was full sleeve flannel.  It’s a luxury to wear anything sleeveless in West Coast winter but a source of pride and decadence to do so. 

I’m drinking my delicious stove top espresso coffee with added cream and honey watching the lake take shape outside my window.  The next challenge is choice of boots. The regular boots are easy to slip on but slippery climbing. The hiking boots are a bitch to put on but perfect for the activity and terrain.  I’ll need long underwear.  I have an unused full body red suit that I bought as a gag gift for a southern friend who makes occasional trips north.  Unfortunately I opened the package wondering what it is.  It’s a delicate matter but giving repackaged underwear even if I know it’s not used is still a bit vulgar.  I’d rather be on my yacht in the tropics needing only a sarong rather than dealing with the layers necessary for hunting and Canadian winter in general.

I am imagining myself as a writer and photographer.  I don’t need to dress and go out if I’m not a hunter.  The game head up the mountain to sleep during the day.  I expect the deer are too smart and are already in the deep woods. I hunted Harrison Lake 30 years ago and didn’t get anything but came here for the scenery and beauty and the prospect of spending the afternoon in the Harrison Hot Springs Pool. I didn’t know that there was little prospect of success back then, enjoying staying in the Bungalow Apartments with my dog and having a grand time. We shot grouse. There were a lot of grouse back then.  I saw bear too and saw deer but think I only shot one over many years. Now Covid has the Hot Springs Public Pool closed and my luxury is lingering over my coffee and considering another. I really don’t want to go out in the cold.  The area has become a playground for off road vehicles, teen age party animals and general loudness. This forces animals to move into the city where it’s quieter than their previous country haunts or head north.  I have little hope of getting anything this morning having used up my gusto yesterday when I congratulated myself on my good hunting behaviour and getting a Friday morning hunt in on a weekend. Usually the only morning hunt is Saturday and right now I resting on my laurels.  There is a touch of yellow over the mountains and the lake is looking very pretty through the trees outside my Camper window. Another cup of coffee is definitely demanding my attention. 

I’m not just out here for the game. I love camping and this 4x4 truck and Adventurer Camper is the creme de la creme of experiences. I sleep is a warm soft bed after an evening of listening to a magnifient Louise Penny, All the Devils are Here, set in Montreal and Paris. I really enjoyed my barbecue pork chops made better by the pine scented chill air and the sound of water lapping on the beach below where I’m parked/camped. Now I’m invigorated by the chill morning.  I’ve walked around my unit and seen all is well.  I’ve stretched and looked out on the leg glorying in the beauty of the day. If an edible animal had been near I’d have raced for my rifle and shot it for the pot.  There’s I hunted for all of 5 minutes.  

If a bear wandered by in a neighbourly way I’d shoot him.  I’ve considered the same for less edible and more offensive neighbours when I was weaponless and had to use my savage tongue to provide commentary on their morning interruption of my peace. I think it’s good that my parents didn’t feed me human as a child or their would have been more human faces missing pictures on walls about my various homes.  We were brought up to eat all we shot.  It must be difficult for children of cannibals. I’ve not seen any go fund me for them as  adults. 

There I’ve made another coffee on my propane stove using the cream from my propane refridgerator feeling the heat in this room from the propane heater. I do weary of the anti liquid heat, give me money I’ll change the weather, carnie crowds.  I love the gas in my truck that took me out to this wilderness and the joys of propane that bring me comfort while I’m here. I’ve a solar panel on top of my rig trickle charging the battery but there’s no sun yet.  It’s promised today. Yesterday it rained all day when it wasn’t snowing. My commo hunting jacket soaked and sodden has been dried miraculous through the night hanging near the hot air outlet.  

I’ve shed my nightwear and dressed in my underwear.  Black. Utilitarian.  I’ll save the red full body Santa outfit for another occasion. I’ve stepped outside and it’s actually not so cold this morning. My nipples might argue and my butt cheeks would debate but really despite the welcome wind it’s merely chilly.  I love the lower mainland especially near water. Harrison Lake modulates the temperature.  I’ve got a picture of the light cast on the distant snow capped mountain. I’ve decided the thinner long johns will be sufficient and that I won’t have to use the robust scratchy Stanfield longjohns that has saved many a gent’s manhood in the arctic or on the north seas.  I’ve these much lighter flexible Italian woven underwear I expect were developed for urban skiers given their flexibility.  I love the Italians. 

I am not progressing very quickly. This second cup of coffee has me thinking another and a good book would be a better way to spend this Saturday morning than climbing mountains. Yet the wind is in my favour. It carries my scent and sounds away from the game.  

I have actually found socks and decided to wear the hiking boots.  I have laid out the jeans.  Naturally I should have done this last night. My hunting buddy Bill Mewhort when he was a live would have had us all out in the dark to watch the dawn come up from wherever we’d chosen to sit in ambush. I shot two moose when I followed his direction.  I’d not shot them in ambush though, rather I shot them, walking in the cold and snow to get blood to my extremities and there they were.  His son and daughter in law are following in his great footsteps, shooting game together feed their children. 

The fact is I need the exercise. Sitting at a desk I grow pear shaped and out of shape.  Hunting is the fall exercise that keeps me from an early executive heart attack.  Not drinking is the other major activity that prevents the vascular disease deaths of the aging male. In summer I have lots of activities, more camping, boating, fishing, hiking, motorcycling. But in fall, given the inclement weather, hunting is the best. I used to cross country ski all winter in the biting cold of the Canadian prairies then a decade or two of intensive downhill skiing at Whistler and Blackomb. Now I don’t do the latter. It’s lost its appeal when I stopped drinking and the evening party scene was no longer muted by the shared stupidity of booze. I sailed in the winter for years after enjoying the ice on the rigging and the challenges of the North Pacific in winter.  Now my boat is waiting another expedition and I’m accepting I need a crew as I don’t feel up to solo sailing in the great seas unless I get a smaller ship with less canvas to hoist and lower.  Aging is a matter of gracious acceptance of change.

Even hunting I carry a sat phone and gps and send messages of my location to Laura in Vancouver just in case I depart from the schedule and it gives her pause.  Only recently have I cared that anyone know my location. I did let my brother know the region I was hunting in but I’m soft. The idea of waiting days for rescue should I break a leg is unacceptable. With the Iridium Sat phone and the Gamin Insight GPS watch I’d most likely be rescued in hours. I had an EPIRB at sea that would broadcast my location if my boat went down. The Coast Guard could then start their search for life from that location estimating sea and wind to find the lifeboat. I never used it but always loved the insurance. Now there’s a similar device that can be worn and triggered as long as you haven’t smacked hour head.  That triggers a land based rescue.  I prefer the Sat Phone because it does so much more. I’ve actually used it to call Laura and talk to her because I was bored sitting on some cliff after hours of seeing no game and making ready to return to base camp,.  You simply can’t whine with an EPIRB or the equivalent land technology.

The coffee is finished. The sun is up. I’m nearly two hours behind schedule but have two hours of exercise and actual productive hunting time.  Any time before noon is productive., the most being 6 to 9 am but frankly most of the game I’ve shot has been between 9 and 11.  The trick is to be where it is and that often takes an hour or two of hiking. That’s the exercise I’m after now. I’ll dress. Once dressed I’m too hot for the camper and might as well hunt.  The camper is best in t shirt and skivies or pjs.  There’s no joy in being bundled up sweating.  Here I go.  Charge.  And thank you God for this beautiful day and the glorious sunshine. I can see the blue of the lake finally and it’s splendid. The eye candy out here is magnificent.  I love to the fragrance of the forest.  Nature is the most beautiful of lovers. 

Love and Lust

I concluded that I am my own best lover if only because I’m the one that has always been there.  True there have been others but at the end of the day I have found excitement, passion and peace with myself alone. I once felt guilty and ashamed. I remember I felt the same way eating alone at a restaurant.  No more.  I was born alone and will die alone.  While I remember many lovers all of who enhanced sensation and shared the wonder of human existence, I recall as well loving myself.  I’ve taken myself on dates. I once felt peculiar sitting in the cinema alone.  Now I enjoy my own company immensely and rather like my self care perhaps not as much as shared but I’ve become rather particular about the company I keep. When I was younger I was far less discriminating Today I remain adventurous with great desire for fantasy but in the end I’m rather conservative with others.  

Carl Jung spoke of anima and animus.  He described the self and the shadow.  I studied Stanislav and Checkov in theatre becoming characters by finding the roots of their personality within my own. We all have the capacity for everyone but must blow on the embers to create the blaze. I’ve fanned the flame of love and service in my day to day life but in private I still remain passionate. I love my much older friends poetry, not quite knowing any more or caring if her immensely enjoyable stanzas of erotica are present or past or simply in the imagination.  I’ve always known her to be alive.  I love the women and men who go to the gym to remain flexible.  I watch the young dance ballet and remember when I moved as they do.  Now aging I’m stiff and struggle to maintain my flexibility and stamina.  I believe those who exercise wish too to keep alive the possibility of the actual dance of the two backed beast. Others tell me they wish to live long and I wonder what’s quantity without the quality that comes with passion and with love.  Service for sure. The parents and grand parents wish to remain available to their progeny. I’ve not such duty.  That primal tie that directed so much of the living day of those is not what directs or motivates me. I’m fond of the whole but individuals don’t hold me as children and grandchildren seem to give focus to friends.  I’m here for the adventure and the journey for sure and do think of my extended family friends and community. I once lived because I knew my dog needed me but now that he’s gone I’m in between.  I don’t wish for celibacy. I once was. A year and more at times in religious training. Back in the days of fasting for weeks on end with only water and juice to sustain me.  My fasting now is alcohol and smoke. It’s been 22 years since I drank and smoked and I don’t fancy either again.  I’m alert and present in a particularly appealing way. I’m social differently too. So much that once past me now is loud. Like I have a head’s up display for my heart and mind.  I’m aware in ways I never was before and thankful for that.

I know God. I’m thankful for that too. Jesus Christ is with me when I pray and even Mother Mary makes appearances but then so do other. Right now my dog who recently died lingers just beyond this veil of life, there with family who have gone before.  Samhain is nearly upon us and I rejoice on All Saints Day.  Thank you.  Buber described existence as I and It and said that It became Thou.  Jesus comes as the stranger.  All is God and God is good.  The trinity is God the father, God the son and God the Holy Spirit.  To St. Patrick they ware within and without.  Time to dress and climb the mountain yet again.  

More Fall Hunting

As I’d forgot the key to get into the RV storage ,we’d brought the camper home to stow another week. It had to be winterized with non toxic antifreeze as well.  

Friday morning at 2 am I was up and headed for the camper with my rifle.  I’d packed everything else I’d needed and shopped the night before.  3 am I was on the road.

My plan was to hunt between the  Coquahala Summit and Merrit.  A snow storm was in full force by the time I got up the Coquahala. Big trucks were sluicing sideways.  I had chains but couldn’t stop to put them on. By the time I got to the summit the snow was heavy and I wasn’t sure if I went out of the big truck tracks I could get back.  This was not going to work.  I left the highway at a turn around and almost got stuck trying to drive through fresh snow.  Crusty with ice underneath. 

I came back on the highway heading the other direction. I’d had to wait for the big trucks to pass and have a really large space. Even so I was drifting and sluicing and couldn’t accelerate without fishtailing the camper loaded truck.I steadily gained speed as I saw another big truck in my mirror gaining. Finally, I had enough speed  to keep ahead .  At the chain up area I pulled off to wait. I’d almost pissed myself.  Thank God for my own portable toilet. I didn’t know how I was going to get down.  Finally a plow came along and and with several big trucks we convoyed down the mountain slowly.  My wiper was frozen and visibility was terrible. It was still night too so altogether awful.  

I was praying and really thanked God when I got down to the rain. I pulled off at one of the creeks I’d remembered people tenting at during the summer.  I found just such a pull off and had a nap waking when the sun came up.  I hiked 5 km up the mountain using the Sat Phone to give Laura my Lat and Long.  High enough up the cell phone showed one bar and I was actually able to text.  

No deer or bear or grouse.  My feet hurt walking on the rocks and coming down my legs were rubber.  It really was beautiful.  4 hours of hiking in the backwoods.  I was thankful to find my truck.  I made duck and pork pate on buns and ate up.  Then I headed over to Harrison’s wanting to stay low to be out of the snow and sleet.  Harrison’s was just right. I’m parked on a bit of space separated from the main logging road. I’ve done the night hunt....walking painfully uphill a km and sitting listening to the night sounds beginning. In the dark I walked down to the camper.  

Barbecued pork chops and barbecue chips.  Delicious meal. I’ve been listening the brilliant Louise Penny All the Devils Are Here audiobook and loving it. I’m also reading a John Steel book .Now I’m going to bed.  I’m exhausted. I’ve taken robaxin and Advil .  Mostly my calves and feet hurt, but there is my back that chirps up.  Amazing how restorative a night of sleep is.  I realize I only had 4 hours sleep last night.  Hunting is a lot of repetitive work.  I stalk and slowly walk as quietly as I can be going up.  Coming down I’m not so quiet.  Tonight I sat on a log really quiet not moving.   Loved watching the night come on.  The moon and stars are out among the clouds.  Just lovely. 

This camper is skookum and my meal was perfect.

Thank you God for these days!!!!

Another Day of Hunting

It’s a different career path. This hunting and harvest. I’m out here awake at 530 am, what the alter ego psychiatrist/theologian would think and ‘ungodly hour’ despite delivering babies at this time and earlier years past.  For a hundred thousand years or more man was conditioned to awake with dawn then Edison and Tesla brought us electric light and the world changed. Maybe candles was the revolution but today people are definitely responding to electricity and the miracle of anytime light.  Of course there was fire but that was definitely inconvenient and demanding.  

I’m making coffee. It’s shipped from Ethiopian.  I roast the beans at home and grind them here. I have a stainless steel mug I pour the espresso coffee machine into. I add pasteurized cream from the refridgerator and honey from a plastic squeeze container.  My stove is propane. I’m in this little house, called a camper, that can sit on the back of my powerful 4x4 Ford F-350 truck.  

It’s not raining or snowing this morning. Yesterday was a downpour of freezing sleet. I woke late and was in a pissy mood. I read FB with people I didn’t know attacking my character and competence and mental health for disagreeing with them. FB has confirmed that few read post secondary and Piaget was right about cognitive development. I didn’t read FB this morning.  I did listen to the Creed as my morning alarm. 

I Believe in God the Father, I believe in God the Son, I believe in the Holy  Spirit, My God is three in one.

I am wearing St. Patrick’s Cross I obtained in Ireland.  I have thought much of the Breast plate prayer this week.  I think much of Gilbert who has died a young old dog. I believe his back injury, heart disease and blindness were all his psychic protection of me.  He was a great companion dog, a hunting dog, therapy dog and warrior dog. I miss his presence in the truck on these hunts. He sat there totally engaged in the hunt and outside would be so excited. I talk to his spirit. He told me he was in heaven, that he could see, he was with my other dogs and they ran for miles. My father and brother were there throwing him ball and Mom was sneaking him treats.

I have missed several grouse and rabbits without his participation.  Today I hope to shoot a deer. I could even shoot a bear or an elk but its venison I’m wanting most.  I haven’t shot a deer in 4 years and miss my winter supply of venison stews I cook and freeze to reheat.  For decades I’ve had the joy of the harvest. That’s what this time is. Harvest time. The men and women are up early on the ranches as round up has begun.  While I’m looking for deer I see them bringing in the cattle.  

Time to move along.  We saw the giant pig they have as a pet here.  

‘Case-demic’ and Coffee

‘Case-demics,’ politics, elections, corporate greed, pseudo-science, communist war lords, Islam hegemony, persecutions around the world.  I’m here drinking coffee. It’s warm. I have this skookum heater and a roof that doesn’t leak. The winter is fast approaching. Chilly nights and chilly morning. I stood at noon yesterday face in the sun glorying in the warmth and wonder.

God save me from the approaching insanity. That great beast of fear and war and lies and corruption.  God save me. 

I love St. Patrick’s Breast Plate prayer. The ultimate protection prayer since St. Patrick was up against a lot of celtic cruelty and superstition.  

Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ to the right of me. Christ to the left of me. Christ below me. Christ above me. 

Why is the Flue Vog lady betraying me with her constant litany of irrelevant hysterical case reports of questionable test.   Stanford, Iceland and Cruise Ship data all told us that the case was merely the tip of the iceberg.  The virus was asymptomatic in 50%.  Belgium doctors collectively report a treatable disease model.  Where did that great warrior lady doctor who spoke truth in May go? Tokyo Rose. 

I am weary of politics. The election for the world looms. Trump, the Republicans and America versus XiJinping and Communist China allied with the dictators of the UN.  Agenda 21 and the lies of Davos. George Soros and Hunter Biden, yet another Epstein child sex creature. I embrace the libertarian choice but question why I should pay for your choices. Public and personal like subjective and objective are all deluded today in a mush of luke warm or downright cool news. The modern soap opera is mainstream media.  The fact checkers are the new celebrity partisan polls.  It’s good money if you can get it.  

I believe in heaven. 

Jesus Christ. God within. God will come again. I play hide and seek with God.  

It’s an age of uncertainty.

The sadness is palpable in the lives of the marginalized. 

All day I talk to those who suffer. The alcoholism and drug abuse are making the government rich.  Perhaps if the churches gave kickbacks to the courts they too could stay open like the riots and racist communist brown shirt celebrations.  Where is the opera when we need it? To think we once only concerned ourselves with the Picton Farm before the whole world became the lair of cannibals and pedophiles in high place. Cocaine! 

Demon drink. 

The great triangle of trade, weapons, drugs and slaves. Today it continues.  

I’m praying.  It is quiet here.  My little corner of the universe for this moment is peaceful. I’m considering another cup of coffee or a shower. I think I’ll shower and dress.  It’s growing late to be sitting in soft night shirt without clothes that would allow for respectable exit from my home.  In so many places people have no change of clothes. Elsewhere men and women sleep in clothes and shoes to be able to escape at night.  I’m thankful for my safety today. We take so much for granted.  A proliferation of nuclear weapons and rogue states and terrorists and hegemonies. Yet here I am with confused police and weak government and leaders gorked on the latest drugs sated from the latest bacanalian fest not that concerned.  It’s 1939 no doubt or 1972 or some re cycle year this frightening absurdist 2020 but I’m about to have a shower with hot water and soap.  

I will dress and wonder what happened to the pretty Fluvg lady.  All along Tam has been a stranger. But she seemed so nice.  I trusted them all early days but now in the fall with more threats of totalitarian measures, draconian 1984 speech and fear mongering religiously pseudoscientific I’m perplexed.  I once would have asked how can I get some of the fancy money flying about like the millions that those Wuhan liars.  

Small businesses collapse. Neighbourhoods go under. 

But not here. I’m okay for today.  It’s hard to reassure.  Will Flue vog ask for his shoes back?  I will be hated and demonized for questioning the lady.  Since the Virgin was demonized even though the Pope embraces gays men, even the likes of me are not allowed to even question. Freedom of speech is draining away as rapidly as freedom of religion. Other freedoms are passing in the growing flood but those with licenses remain. 007

The Luke warm war.  I lived to see the Berlin Wall fall.  I want to see Taiwan remain free and Hong Kong escape. Perhaps Wexit will take place and maybe even California will clean the poo off their sidewalks. Hollywood is a ghetto.  Celebrities are the new carnival.  Soon the Gypsy’s will be everywhere.  It’s quite bizarre. Best not to think of it.

I really will have another coffee but after I shower and dress. I must be ready for the next surprise.  I’d not like to greet aliens in my night shirt though I know God will not care about exteriors.  Thank you God for all the entertainment, the news, the intrigue, the stories, the confusion, the bluster and sober rattling, the old men and young ladies and the old ladies and young men.  Carpe diem.

Life dance

There is a dance the locals call life

The music goes to the beat of the heart

Like most things important it is taken for granted

Like breath

And passion

And love

Home from the Fall Hunt

2 Partridge. That’s what I brought home from  8 days of getting up at 5:30 am to be in the woods around sun up 6:45. Several days I was in the hills sitting in ambush waiting for a deer to come up past me.  Each day I stalked and hiked for several hours. In the afternoon and evening I pretty much drove slowly around logging roads off the beaten track staring out over slash.  No bucks

I saw a fox and a coyote. I saw lots of doe. Rabbits, squirrels and grouse.   I saw a red brown black bear, a spirit bear of the local people. I’d never seen that colour of bear. Almost Irish hair colour. Given the sexual proclivities of that people, one had to wonder seeing this magnificent beautiful fat full haired red head ready for hibernation. I wonder if they considered ancestry now.

Then there was a skunk. The second last day of the hunt running along the road a head of me. Almost like God saying , “You’re skunked”. With humor. It’s not about the outcome. It’s always about the journey. Leave the outcomes to God. Carpe diem.

So I didn’t shoot a buck, or a bear or a six point elk. I’d hoped for that at the beginning of the hunt. I mostly wanted venison for venison stew through the winter. I like wild game gourmet cooking and also barbecuing so have always enjoyed a freezer full of meat ready for preparation. With the ranchers hurting with Covid I even thought of approaching one to buy a quarter. Maybe this winter.  We’ve an American world election to get through.

What I did gain was the escape. I had a tremendous break from working at home. I find my work wears. So many people are hurting with Covid. The anxiety levels and relapses and addiction and depressions have sky rocketed. Domestic disputes and separations. Grieving loss of elderly family who couldn’t be seen because of quarantines.  All that is tiresome. I’m isolated too.  I’ve been to zoom meetings and watched some zoom church but participated little. 

There was Gilbert’s death. I was surprised at how his departure awakened all the losses in recent years.  It was reassuring to have glimpses of the other side through his eyes. He told me he had his sight back and he could run forever. He even let me see my other dogs running with him and my father and brother throwing ball for him. My mom and aunt were there too but I didn’t see them.  Mostly it was Dad and him. Dad called him “monkey dog’ and they loved to play with each other.  

In the truck hunting, I missed his prescence in the passenger seat but we talked for the first few days. Every once in a while I’d remember something special and we cried a new. So the trip was a time for me to deal with grief.  I felt each day I became stronger and now I’m ready to move on. Laura and I will bury the ashes in the next few weeks.

We have a new cockapoo on the way. I was able to get through to a breeder and put down a down payment.  He’ll be ready to come to my home in a few weeks. It’s not that far.

I loved having lunch with Laura each day. She’d make soup and sandwiches. Then she’d tell me of the visits in her little neighborhood around the camper. The geese coming and going. The momma deer and her couple of young ones. The day the bear got into the dumpster bin and made a lot of noise and mess. 

I loved taking pictures the whole week, mostly with my iPhone. The Clark’s Nutcracker was a real treat. I’d never seen them before and Rob sorted me out on them when I posted a picture.  I loved the Downy Woodpecker on the Mullen and the Whiskey Jacks that visitted me.

There was a first.  That was the unloading of the camper from the truck so I could use the truck to hunt. It worked out really well though the last night I was up several times worried the struts wouldn’t come up to allow me to reload the truck.  They did. The other technical thing that worked so well was my Iridium Satellite phone and the Garmin Insight watch. I was able to get the watch GPS coordinates and text them to Laura on the Satellite phone. That was comforting. I was climbing up and down mountainsides slipping and sliding and worried about breaking an ankle or falling and hitting my head. I’m simply not the guy who was called ‘billy goat gruff’ when I was younger. I loved the exercise though. The hours of hiking and stalking mostly.  Then the rushes after bunnies or deer or grouse that got away. I ran straight up a hill after what I thought was a buck but though I could have had a shot in the woods I couldn’t confirm the horns. 

Laura said her shoulders came down from her ears, the tension and demands of her work taking a couple of days till she relaxed. She loved the peacefulness of the place. I realized I wouldn’t have relaxed so thoroughly on a beach in the tropics but 4x4 ing along steep mountain trails alongside cliff fall off focused my attention away from anxiety and grief.

Hunting is a vacation. I admit I’d rather have someone feed me grapes as I’m poled down a southern stream in the warm as opposed to the cold and snow and rain, but God knows best. Home I feel I’ve had a fabulous vacation and I do have two grouse to cube, fry in butter and serve on rice.

It turns out I’ll even get another weekend of hunting yet so can be hopeful.  Next year I’ll have another trained cockapoo companion.  I realized that Gilbert’s enthusiasm made the hunts so much more and a dog is really so much of what makes a home. Since childhood I’ve known dogs as companions and love their company and joy.

Laura thanked me and was off to work at dawn in her red smart car. I’m going to go to the computer and video screen home office now. It’s great to be home. Thank you God. 

The Hunt Routine

I’ve been doing the deal. Bill Mewhort, my hunting buddy and a wealth of hunting lore set the standard. My father used to wake us kids before dawn and we’d be out at the marsh first light.  So no surprise when I began hunting with Bill and he had us up before dawn. We’d eat and wash up and gear up.  

“You’ve got to be in your place before light. You have to be still too. No noise. No movement.”

I followed his advice for years and shot most of my game because of it.  We’d sit in ambush 6 to 10 if we knew the game trails.  I ‘m often new to an area so I’m more likely now to be stalking by 9-10.  Bill didn’t like to move till after 10.  It was okay to drive about only after 11 or 12.

My dad would say, “You see 20 times more game walking.”  He liked to stalk game trails.  

Bill would say “You see 50 times more game sitting still.”

I think the quad spoiled me. I stopped sitting and stalking and took to riding all over  hell’s half acre like a mad man.  I’ve had motorcycles and electric bicycles and side by sides since then. The Hunt became more joy ride. The whole camping and quad ding and hiking experience is just the cake with getting the game the cherry.  

Earlier this year I even rode my Vespa in the back woods bow hunting. Now I’m back to just having the Ford truck.  

I’ve been up at 5:0 to 5:30, made coffee and filled the thermos.  I dress in long johns, jeans, socks, hiking boots, Sturges long sleeve t shirt (luck), flannel plaid shirt, (I need the pocket for my Sat phone and iPhone), red fleece vest and cammo jacket. I don’t wear red because it looks grey like deer at dawn .  I have cammo pants I will wear and prefer the whole cammo ensemble but always have a red shirt or vest I can always show another hunter during the day if I need him to see me when I’m sitting in ambush. 

I’ve got the Ruger 30:06 stainless steel rifle which got nicknamed the Sexcaliber because it was my first stainless steel rifle and it looked so sexy.  I said it reminded me of Excalibur. The girl said, “its so sexy’ .  Bill said, “Sexcaliber!” The name stuck.  

I also have the new single shots Chiappa 20 guage/22 r over under for grouse.  The rifles  ride in the front seat with me.  I have the Nikon 10 -32 binoculars to be able to identify ‘horns’ and to scan the the distance.  My truck is the Ford F-350 Lariat long box.  It’s the best truck I’ve ever had. I have it to haul trailers.  I brought the Adventurer Camper up with it.  I unloaded that at the campsite with water and electricity so Laura has almost all the comforts of home while I’m hunting. 

I’m hunting a half hour to an hour from here.  Sunrise is 630.  So far I’ve been sitting down in ambush by 7 am  Today it was rainy and cold.  Snow had fallen through the night. I was too wet and cold to stay longer than 9 am.  That’s when I began hiking up the mountain, on the logging roads or back along the game trails that run parallel.  It was a terrible slog.  

Hunting is great exercise.  I’m in a boot camp out here. 2 hours straight up, stopping and starting.  Quiet.  Listening. Scanning.  I text Laura my Lat and Long on the Sat phone or cel phone. I get cell coverage when I’m higher.  I love the Iridium feature that sends a location.  I have a Garmin Instinct watch with the GPS.  I like Laura to know where I am. Older I’ve feared waiting for rescue if I break an ankle or drive off a cliff.  

I miss the dog.  He was so enthusiastic.  He’d huddle close in with me in ambush, his little body sometimes shivering with cold , so I’d sneak him inside one of my layers of clothing so we could both be warmer.  When we walked he’d follow on heel. Coming down the mountain I’d let him range out ahead as he sniffed everywhere in search of grouse.

I shot a grouse earlier this weekend. I only got one of five because I didn’t have a dog to find the ones that ran and hid.  Today I saw another grouse but it ran before I could get a shot.  There were three altogether.  Gilbert would have flushed them and I’d have had a shot at one at least in the air. I used to love skeet shooting with my dad. My brother and he used to shoot prairie chickens, our old dog Sonny flushed when I was a child . They were both better than me with shot guns. I’m best with big game long distance shooting today but manage okay with any of the tools for hunting. 

So far this hunt I’ve  done it all, by the book..  Riding around in the truck after 11 hoping to see grouse which come out at that time, between 11 and one or a stray deer. Bear can show up anytime.  I like to explore too since I’m new to this area. 

I loved getting a call from my nephew Andrew and his wife Tanya, and hearing about Finn , now a toddler and explorer. Great to talk to Kevin and Anna and celebrate the new pregnancy and hear about the god kids, a pack my fur baby loved. 

I love the exercise.  I’ve had 2 to 4 hours of hiking each day for three days. Lots of up and down. I’m not a gym kind of guy.  They don’t like me carrying rifles there.  

Even when I don’t get game I’m so happy to find my truck where I left it unharmed. I’ve been lost coming down off mountains and only found my truck the next morning.  That was when I first came to BC ,when I was learning that logging roads were not on the grid pattern so common in the prairies. 

 The coffee was great at noon.  I drove around a couple of hours.  That’s when I saw the grouse.  I’ve only seen deer in the campground and at night coming home. 

With the snow I was exploring where the roads were okay for the morning hunt in mind.  I ‘m afraid of sliding off the road. I’ve had some too exciting adventurers sliding down hills and almost going off cliffs when the snow has made the mountain roads slimy.  I used to have the quad so I could protect the truck.  Now I feel like the old days when all I ever had a was a 4x4 truck. I’m doing a lot more hiking than I did with the quad.  I miss the quad but I only used it a couple of weeks total and storing it was a hassle.  Motorcycles are better but once the snow comes they’re out.  I have chains for my truck tires but I hate lying in the mud putting them on. I also miss my winch. I winced myself back onto the road a few times when I had the HD edition F350.  I hate equipment issues because I’m out here to hunt, not to get my truck out of the ditch.  I’m usually alone and over the years I’ve had to get a wilderness tow truck out to get me in. I tore out a tire and rim on a partially concealed spike and another time sunk into bog that lay under some snow where  the road had been. Now I’m overly cautious. The trouble with an 8 foot box is turning around on a tiny logging road. My Broncho II and the Ranger truck had been better for that.   Sometimes situations just present themselves and it’s that or backing half way down a mountain to find a spot to turn around.

I’ve been getting back around 2 or 3, having lunch and a nap before going out for the evening hunt, watching a hill after hiking a bit then hoping to get grouse driving out before dark.

It’s a routine and a bit monotonous.  It’s exhausting and my whole body hurts.  I’ve taken ibuprofen and Robaxin before bed  Tonight I skipped the evening hunt and barbecued steaks to have a nice meal with Laura.  I’ll be back at it tomorrow. I did get some nice bird pictures today, a Clark’s Nutcracker and a Downy woodpecker.  I put them up on Facebook with whatever I think they are and Rob is nice enough to correct me.  He sure knows his birds. 

It’s a great change from the office.  In my mind I’m running prayers over and over as I sit or walk or drive.  I’m already quieting down. Laura and I feel the relaxation taking over. It’s so peaceful here and so few calls. I have cell but the wifi is only at the office not here which means I’m less likely to work.  I get cell phone connection when I go to town for food or high up in the mountains.  The Sat Phone is really working out well. I’ve not had the Ham radios working out so well - no better than VHS here. Line of sight. I’ve not hooked into a repeater. I’m relearning the tech that I used all the time on the boat.  

It’s all a change.  Exercise is good and I sleep so well. I have wonderful, often heavenly dreams. Lots of people from my past checking in.  Good feelings wakening.  I love the smells out here too, pine and fir.

Hunting is a type of work. The hunter gatherer tribes did about 20 to 30 hours a week hunting.  By the end of the fall I’m hunting full time when I’m out here. My friend in the Yukon said I did pretty good for a city boy. I’ve had good teachers. Older I’m feeling the shift more in the work from desk to outdoors.  

Lots of men and women out here this year. I expect it’s Covid and the costs of food in the country.  Gas prices are awful with more people actually making camp in the deep woods. I come across these great base camps and admire the way different guys and girls have set their sites up.  I’d say I’ve got a skookum arrangement especially since I have the best woman.  I’m missing the dog.  Gilbert was such a good boy.  A puppy should be along before long and ready for next year’s hunt.