Oil, Gas, Propane

“Marijuana, electricity, alcohol, oil, gas, propannnneee…”

Yeah.

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“Pro-pro-pro-pro-propaaaannnnnnnee…”

Yeh, Queens of the Stone Age there.

Anyway, that’s what’s powering this prairie bloke.

And I hate it. (Why? Because I’m striving for one moment of true independence (from civilization and money) before I die.) I was dependent upon all that up until gas. Petrol, I say.

Fuck, man. Now I have to pay attention to gas prices. I feel low. Gasoholic motherfucking…

Enough. I need it to provide locomotion, so what can I do? Build a steam-powered submarine?

Hmmm…

Back in Halfmoon Bay after a stint in Sechelt, after coming back from the Inlet (to pick up my buddy, who couldn’t come up there this time because he has no money, because he had no work the ten days, and I showed up broke because he said he’d have cash to kick in for gas and shit; but he was broke too—broker, even, than me).

See? Nice and simple.

Oh well. Shit can happen.

Alcohol, indeed. I need it now. Painkiller, nerve-number, blood-pressure-lowerer.

Anyroad, here’s what I wrote, and here’s a fuckin map.

See where it says “Narrows Inlet?” There’s a green patch on both sides along the coast—see where it gets really narrow?

That’s where I went through. As wide as a highway, the water was rockin’ n rollin’ through there. It was like my boat was strapped to the back of a slow-bucking bull.

Absolutely stunning mountains around there—I’d forgotten my camera.

None of it mattered anyway, cuz I couldn’t find any creeks. Which would not have mattered anyway, because that green belt means that it’s a park. Tzoonie Marine Park, to be exact.

I didn’t know that—before I left. My map showed no such park. It was only the next day, looking at a different map, that I noticed that it was all moot.

Anyway, the outboard worked great. 4 (out of 5) hp brought me there and back without issue.

That was on August 4th.

I went back to town on the 10th, broke, as I said, to pick up Lenny, except he hadn’t gotten work and was broke as well.

So I house sat for G instead.

Heading back up soon…

What we do in life…

Yaw.

Back.

I gave myself a fifty-fifty chance of returning to the place I swore I’d never return.

It’s fucking complicated.

October to March in Sechelt; April, 2016, in Halfmoon Bay, May in Edmonton, June in Halfmoon Bay, half of July in Sechelt, and here I am back up the Inlet…

Without a paddle. I actually forgot my oars this time. Heh.

But not the motor. S. Both.

Of them. I took the electric up, didn’t want to mess with the new outboard. (I was too [a) drunk b) stoned c) sore d) tired e) all of the above] to bother with something about which I had not learned very much.

However, I learned quickly…)

There she is.

And the fuel line for which I suffered so…

Four trips to Ukrainian Tire and 180 dollars later, I ended up with a 12-liter fuel line system that worked out very well. No troubles, Boychuk.

The outboard has an internal fuel tank, but it’s only 1.3 liters. Every hour or so I’d have to stop, shut it off, and refill it…on a rocking boat. Pfft…fuck that noise.

With the external, I can zip about all day and still have enough for another day.

So…

Yah.

There were some heavy storms here over the winter…all the driftwood furniture in my front yard has been rearranged, and a couple trees came down. Here’s one:

(Huge old rotten cedar fell right over the creek.)

And here’s another:

Old diseased western hemlock.

This one fell directly on the fire pit I beefed up last fall (and had built in September of 2014 when Brent and I were up here). It fell exactly on the spot I used to sit and heat up my tea last year…

Weird.

Neato.

Anyway. I came out here (on Sat., July 16) with the sole mission of leaving this area. For good.

And three days later I tried…my…damnedest…

There And Back Again: A Nord’s Tale

That’s my foot trying to steer me up Salmon Inlet.

Actually, I took most of it pretty seriously. I had to break in the motor, so it couldn’t go above a fourth throttle (two of its five horses) for an hour or so, and I did not know what kind of water to expect up this inlet.

But it was flat and not too windy. For an hour I puttered along…

[That clearing has a road I walked exactly two years ago…here’s the shot from that July:

Cool…the shot I just took from the water would place my boat on the far right.

And here’s where my ex and I hiked down along the creek/power lines to the shore in 2009. (That craggy bit to the left is called “Black Bear Bluff.”)

Ah, memories.

Cruising deeper into Salmon Inlet, the motor was plugging along nicely…

As I neared the spot I’d been waiting six years to get to, my spirits where high.

I began to see the peak of the massive mountain, and it’s many deep ravines…

Ah. What a beautiful spot…

I was feeling great…until…I saw something.

Something terrible.

I Came, I Saw, I Left

Some manner of cock-smokers had already laid claim.

And they would proceed to destroy it all…

Oh well.

Progress…and what not.

I was upset. I thought bad things—

sonuvabitchinmotherfuckinwhorescumcuntragpiecesofshit

—I envisioned explosions and a stand-off leading to blood, death, and carnage….

I was choked, and moved no closer; I swung around and headed back. I had packed everything into the boat needed to set up another camp (although later I realized I’d forgotten the poles for my tent), yet, alas, the much-anticipated Camp #9 would have to wait….

I calmed down on the way home, puttering along at 3 horses.

I wish you luck, mountain.

Sun & Air

Yes.

Glorious fresh air. And sun. And, aside from the boats, peace and quiet.

What happened doesn’t bother me anymore. S’all good.

New plan. I’m already studying my maps.

Plan B.

And I’ll have some help next month.

All for now.

Yeah. Naw, I didn’t write that. Although I suppose it applies to me, too. In some ways, I’m getting worse; although overall…I am improving. In some other ways, though, I am…hmmm…that’s another story.

How about you? Are you getting better?

While I can’t take credit for the writing—it was written upon the seat of a pic-nic table, near the food bank, which we frequent to gather and partake of the cannabis emanations—I can take credit for the June bug.

Well, finding him, moving him, positioning him, photographing him, then hanging with him, listening to tunes and smoking dubes. The little fella was content to cling to my thumb for a long while (he only hissed a couple times when I had to turn him on his back…he didn’t like that, but he’s an actor, so he understands what’s at stake here), until a couple of guys showed up, then I put him on the table. Soon after he started walking and then flew up, and, in a slow half-circle, plopped back down on the shoulder of my fleece sweater.

And there he sat for a good ten minutes.

I finally set him down on the French dude’s packsack. Where he rested for half an hour, then abruptly hissed, crawled forward a few awkward steps, then launched himself into the air, caught a breeze and was gone. (His back armour splits to conceal a set of wings, and when the two sets of armour are in the air they combine to act as sails. I watched one before take off and cruise a couple football fields straight up, catch an air current, then fucking sail away. Gods knows how many miles they can cover if they get high enough. Righteous bugs, man.)

[No fucking harm came to any fucking goddamn June bugs in the making of this stupid fucking blog post.

Assholes. What do you think I am? Some sort of cunt? He’s my friend. All June bugs and spiders are my friends.]

He’s alright…here he is…

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See?

He got better.

Better than you.

So fuck off.

Anywho…

Heading up tomorrow.

So…yeh. There.

Uh huh.

What?

Be well?

Don’t eat a shotgun shell?

Throw your mamma down the wishing well?

Take a nap in a church bell?

Go to hell?

Got a storm to quell?

Or some souls to sell?

I gotta go rebel yell.

It’s been swell.