Salmon Love

Just about the minute I found out that the annual KAIROS regional meeting for British Columbia was going to be held in Sorrento, on Shuswap Lake, I stuck my arm in the air and said, "I haven't been to BC for several years, so I should go to that one." This was, of course, a blatant lie, as I had last been to BC just 2 years ago. I just had never been to the Shuswap region.


Sometimes it pays to be pushy. The Adams River and Shuswap Lake are the termini of the sockeye salmon run from the Pacific Ocean and up the Fraser River. And it just so happened that the run was beginning the weekend we were in Sorrento. It also just so happened that this was one of the big runs -- about 15 million salmon expected.

I kind of figured I knew what a salmon run looked like. I grew up surrounded by great salmon rivers: Robinson's River in Western Newfoundland, home of some of my happiest memories, when we would go to Aunt Sadie's cabin, and the the adults --along with cousin Rodger-- would go fishing. Here are my brother and me on the deck of the cabin built by our Uncle Nat.


Uncle Nat tied his own salmon flies; his room in the basement of his and Aunt Sadie's house was always my favourite. For years after he died (when I was five), every time we went to visit I would just sit in that room and smell his work: feathers, oil, smoke. Years ago while antiquing I happened upon a room of fly-tying equipment. It knocked me over. Kelly eventually found me, just sitting there remembering the kindest man I ever knew.

Uncle Nat with GrandDad.

Here's my father fishing the Humber, also in Western Newfoundland, several years after Uncle Nat died and, undoubtedly, using one or more of his flies.


My dad was not as good a fisherman as Uncle Nat, but I think that fishing isn't always about what you catch. At any rate, when I was growing up in Newfoundland, Atlantic salmon were wild and plentiful. If you didn't do so well yourself, you could go down to the Lark Harbour wharf and buy a winter's supply right off a fisherman's boat. We bought ours from a guy named Freeman. And for weeks ahead of time, we saved and washed every milk carton that came into the house. Into the carton went the cleaned fish, tails up, followed by water, then into the freezer. Every time you opened it up, you were greeted by 20 or 30 rigid salmon tails. When trans-Atlantic jets were landed and stacked up at the St. John's airport on 9-11, and Kelly and I crested the hill on the highway on our way back to her parents' house, we saw tail fin stacked upon tail fin. I thought of salmon.

Near this spot where Dad is fishing I've seen salmon "jump the falls" on their way back inland to spawn, and even further inland on the Exploits River we've seen them use an engineered "ladder" to navigate past the power plant of a now-defunct pulp and paper mill.



So let me tell you, I know from salmon. Or so I thought. The sockeye is a different thing altogether.


These fish were all spawned here four years ago, and after growing up headed out to the ocean where they grew even more, only to be pulled back to this river, within a few metres of their own birthplace, to spawn themselves. All salmon do this, but there is something spectacular, and different, about the sockeye.

It might be the fact that while in the ocean they are a steely grey but then turn this brilliant red and military green as they enter the "river phase" of their migration.


The fish move relentlessly forward, living off the fat reserves they have accumulated and battling a rugged terrain. The flesh is literally falling off some of them as they arrive to spawn. Talk about a primordial urge to pass on your genes. When they do arrive, the female stirs up the river bottom and deposits the eggs. The male, who's been fighting off other suitors, does his bit. Then they swim on, rustling up more river bottom to cover the fertilizing eggs.


And then they die.


The job done, their bodies decompose and provide fertile grounds upon which those eggs can develop.


Or they rest on the shore and become food for the birds.


And the little things that crawl.


Last year the salmon run was disastrously low. Has climate change made the waters too warm? Was the sea around Vancouver Island polluted with sea lice or some other pestilence from the large Atlantic salmon farms that have set up shop there? Were the farmed Atlantic salmon escaping from their pens and attacking or out-performing the native populations? We don't know yet. And so even though we don't yet have the answers, we should think twice about purchasing farmed Atlantic salmon from the Pacific coast.

This year, the salmon are back. Indigenous peoples along the Fraser River have once again harvested and smoked the fish as they have done for centuries. Commercial fisherman are having a better year, and Kelly and I are enjoying a fillet of sockeye for supper tonight.

But I can't shake the feeling that it's still a perilous journey.

The Bottled Water Hall of Shame

Today is Blog Action Day on Water -- a time to bring attention to the fact that more than a billion people lack access to clean water. Over the course of my career as an activist, I've done quite a lot of campaigning on water. On access to it as a human right ...

Buckets set out to capture rainwater on a roof in the old city of Jerusalem.

On protecting it from industrial degradation ...

A tailings pond --waste water from processing synthetic crude oil-- in the Alberta tar sands.

And on the perverse pricing of bottled water.

The Bottled Water Hall of Shame.

I do this from the perspective of an ecumenical social justice agency, KAIROS. Once when I was interviewed on national radio about bottled water, I explained how before I saw the light, as it were, my blue box used to be filled with little clear bottles of water. But once I realized the dangerous impact --symbolic and real-- of bottled water, I turned back to the tap. At the end of the interview I was asked "What's in your blue box now?" Pause. "Wine bottles," I said. "Turning water into wine is a great religious tradition."

I do still have a few water bottles, a little collection on my office window that I call the Bottled Water Hall of Shame. One of them is from the Second Cup coffee chain, a fundraising initiative for the development agency PLAN. Another is the house brand ("Ethos Water") from Starbucks.


Both of these chains position their bottled water as an ethical and a charitable option. You buy a bottle of water and it helps dig a well in a Southern country where access to water is limited. I don’t blame people for choosing this option if they are buying bottled water. I don’t blame them for thinking that it’s a good idea to dig a well. I don’t even blame Starbucks or Second Cup for wanting to be responsible corporate citizens.

But I do take issue with purchasing bottled water when we don’t need to. One of the bottles is from the All-Africa Council of Churches' Desmond Tutu Ecumenical Centre in Nairobi, where it was the only way to ensure sufficient potable water for the thousands of people who arrived to participate in the World Social Forum in 2007.


When I was in the West Bank in 2005, that was the only form of water deemed safe to drink. When the Indigenous community of Fort Chipewyan hosted a group of us last year, they gave us bottled water because they didn't want us drinking the same water they did, which they fear is polluted by the tar sands. In all of those cases, there's a structural problem we need to address.

Suncor tar sands plant on the banks of the Athabasca River.

I take even greater issue with the way that Second Cup and Starbucks believe we can ensure that everyone has enough clean, potable water for food, cooking, and sanitation. What they wish to ensure by charity is what the UN Committee on Economic, Cultural and Social Rights recognized as a basic human right: sufficient clean, potable water for food, cooking, and sanitation. Canada has refused to recognize this right. (Oh, by the way, there is also a water bottle --"Earth Water"-- from the UN High Commissioner for Refugees in my Hall of Shame.)


What’s wrong with their method? What’s wrong with digging wells? What’s wrong with bottled water?

Buying bottled water so that 10 or 20 cents can go towards a well undermines our understanding of water as a public trust and a human right.

It does this in a number of ways.

First, greed. If these corporations want to do good, they have a million other ways to do it rather than selling over-priced water. It’s called profit, which they already have in abundance. Surely they can donate some of that to reputable NGOs instead of enticing consumers who want to do something good to buy water and thereby further increase their profit margin.

Second, commodification and the public good. The very notion of buying bottled water when a safe and publicly funded utility provides you with an equally safe source of drinking water undermines the collective understanding of water as something which we all require for life and to which we are all entitled. Furthermore, every bottle of water we buy sends a message to our government that it’s okay they don’t invest in infrastructure in municipalities, rural communities, and Indigenous reserves. We don’t need public water; we can buy it from corporations. We can buy water; we don’t need you to recognize it as a right.

Third, charity. I work for the churches; clearly I am not opposed to charity. But I think that in and of itself it is no solution to any of the problems we face today. No matter how well-intentioned, charity is, at its root, someone with giving to someone without. But we all have the right to water. No one can give it to me, and I cannot give it to anyone. My own belief, as a person of faith, is these rights are a part of Creation. To accept the charity-based model of ensuring access to water undermines this. More importantly for the world beyond the Christian church, it undermines a profound principle that is inherent in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights – that we all have a right to the basic elements of life, including water.

Fourth, justice. Donating money to dig wells does not get at the fundamental structural injustices that are conspiring to deny people access to water. In some communities, digging a well will work but in many others it will not. Let me relate a couple of stories.

In 2005 I traveled to Israel and the Palestinian Territories. This is pretty parched land, and it is in the midst of a water war. The Separation Wall between Israel and the West Bank has cut many Palestinians off from their wells.


And the Palestinians have been under a strict series of military ordinances since 1967 that have prohibited them from digging more than a few wells: about 25 in the last 42 years. Their problem is a structural one, and no amount of nickels and dimes will give them access to the water they require. No amount of nickels and dimes will dig a well anywhere in a conflict zone where access to water is cut off.

That same year, I traveled around Canada with Elizabeth Eilor, an economist and activist with the African Women’s Economic Policy Network in Uganda. Here she is on the left with me and a colleague.

Elizabeth has written a study of the gender impacts of water privatization in Uganda. When Uganda was structurally adjusted as a condition of debt relief, many of its services, including water delivery, were privatized. In one village, the community standpipe where women used to go for clean water was padlocked. If you did not have the few pence required to purchase the water –and many didn’t– then you either walked to a nearby stream polluted with sewage, or you walked several hours to a clean stream. The first option meant risking disease. The second meant increased levels of domestic violence (because you were away too long), time stolen from other required work, or removing your children from school so they could gather water. Digging a community well here will not help, because the water service there is privatized as a condition of aid. There’s no room for community.

So what’s the alternative? What should the coffee companies be doing? Well, as a starter, if they really are bent on digging wells, then donate 10 or 20 cents from every cup of coffee or tea that they make with municipally-treated and publicly-owned water.

What about bottled water consumers? First, say no to bottled water and second, take a look at what charity can’t accomplish and what structural change can. Join movements for change. They can have an impact. As part of our 2005-2007 water campaign, more than 150 Canadian municipalities signed a "Water Declaration" recognizing water as a human right. The City of Toronto has banned the sale of bottled water in its buildings. Rural communities are challenging the right of water corporations to drain the natural springs in their areas. And in July, the UN General Assembly voted to recognize water as a human right.

Canada, of course, abstained from that vote too. Yet we continue to seek action from our government. We wait for a comprehensive water policy rooted in recognition of water as a human right and a public trust. This means halting Canada’s support of structural adjustment conditions like those in Uganda that deprive poor people of water. It means funding water delivery infrastructure in Canadian municipalities and Indigenous communities, so that they don’t have to resort to privatization. It means requiring corporations to meet rigorous environmental standards in Canada and abroad so that water is protected for future generations.

It’s a tall order. Grande perhaps, or Venti. And you won’t find it in any bottle at any coffee shop at any price.


The current KAIROS campaign on ensuring that Indigenous peoples have a say in deciding how their territories are developed, and the Polaris Institute's Inside the Bottle campaign are both ways that you can take a stand on water.

The Athabasca River flowing north from the tar sands towards Fort Chipewyan.

And so is just saying "No" to bottled water.

If you would like to read more great blogs on water, check out two of my friends' pages: artist and natural observer Vickie Henderson and general troublemaker Murr Brewster. Other blogs by people I don't know can be accessed on the Blog Action day website.

The Little Sit!

While the tree stump that Kelly and our neighbour Mark moved into our back yard looks great, let's just say that Kelly's back has not been feeling as good as that stump looks. And so on Thanksgiving Sunday, we decided to forgo our traditional walk down through the Glen Stewart ravine and along the beach. Fall migration has meant that the back yard has been quite birdy lately so we thought, why not a little Birding by Butt? (Thank you, Geoff Heeter and Dave Pollard.)

Kelly got up a little early, made coffee and tea, and gathered fleeces, bird books, binoculars and camera. Fending off the cats, she set us up on folding chairs on the patio. It was very nice, sitting there in the morning chill with my sweetheart and a fantastic cup of coffee (from Stumptown Coffee in Portland via Buehler Barista). I'm not sure what the neighbours thought.


"You know," I said as the hermit thrushes bounced in and out of the bird bath and the red- and white-breasted nuthatches set up a chorus of competing car alarms, "they have this thing called the 'Big Sit!' that's coming up soon. You just set yourself up like this in one spot and watch whatever birds come along. We should do that sometime."

Yes, we should. Little did we know until I took a Facebook break that yesterday, October 10, 2010 --Thanksgiving Sunday, birthday of our great friend Claire, and 10.10.10-- was also Big Sit! day. So we decided to have our own Little Sit!

Here, by the way, is a highly entertaining video explaining the Big Sit! No offense to the mad interview skilz of the Birdchick and Bill of the Birds, but they and 2 other members of Bill's family simply shine in the dramatic montage that begins at about the 5 minute mark. I'm surprised that there have been no Academy Award nominations.

We registered our Sit and set Kelly as team captain. After all, it was her brainchild, even though she didn't realize it. Here she is in her captain's hat (picket captain from an aborted CUPE strike a few years ago).


We had a great Little Sit! Over a couple of sessions, each about 1.5 hours or so, we saw 16 species, 15 of which were previous yardbirds but the other brand new. After a number of binocular sightings and intensive cross-referencing with the Smithsonian photo guide, Peterson, Sibley, and a nifty little handbook of Toronto birds, we pretty confidently IDed a juvenile yellow-bellied sapsucker. But even if we had seen nothing new, we would have had a great day, just sitting there together in the gradually warming day and taking in what came by. Of course, had it begun a few hours earlier, we would also have had an Eastern phoebe and a winter wren. Not that we're complaining about that ... or the modo that refused to come to the backyard.

Of course there were goldfinches.


It was definitely a good day for nuthatches.


This one is just starting to take off; I like the flutter of his wings.


The hermit thrushes, which have been here in good numbers for over a week now, seem to be slowing down but they still put up a good show.


One needs to dry one's wings well after a bath.


The cats had their own Little Sit!, though they did not obey the 17' circle rule, expanding their view to include the living room. I guess that means they can count the modo.


It being Thanksgiving, we had a 17th bird, and this one was, while in the oven, within our circle. I don't think it counts, though!!


What a great way to spend Thanksgiving! If you'd like to see how all 230 participating circles did, check out the Big Sit! results list at Birdwatcher's Digest.

Wild Things of Oregon

Last week, I had to attend a meeting in Sorrento, BC, about an hour outside of Kamloops. Well, since I was in the neighbourhood (only 785 km away!), I figured I might as well go to Portland and visit cousins-out-law Erin and Kiki, and pal Murr (who happens to come with a cat and a large man as well).

All I can say is that I had a wild time.

First, there was a dog --don't ask me what kind-- who was wildly in love with me. Uncharacteristically, I reciprocated.

Vida!

Then there were the cousins. These are seriously good cousins. They took me to watch the swifts roost in the chimney at the Chapman School. This is a big thing in Portland, as you can tell by the crowds. I guess they don't have cable.


They were selling t-shirts and pizza, and they had dead swifts in plastic cases. I did not check out the dead swifts; I just watched the wild children of Portland run around with them, and drank my beer. A local Hefeweisen with fresh orange squeezed in by Kiki. Wildly delicious.

Vaux's Swifts, doing their thing.

Then it was on to one of the wilder culinary spots: Voodoo Donuts. None of us tasted the actual Voodoo donut. When you bite into it, red raspberry jelly pours out. Or you can just stab it with the pretzel.


Erin had an old fashioned maple. It was both of these things, and good.


I had a Tangfastic. A cake donut sprinkled with Orange Tang. Why did I choose this? There are some questions to which we will never find answers.


And Kiki? Well, Kiki did what I wanted to do but could not. She had the maple bacon bar. I had a corner of it. And anyone who has ever eaten a plate of pancakes and bacon with maple syrup can stop laughing right now. With just a little architecture, you'd be where we were. Heaven.


Here are the cousins with a $5 box of leftover donuts that they purchased for Kiki to take to work the next day.


One of the neatest things about Portland is that you can quite easily get to the wild outdoors in a few minutes. From Erin's and Kiki's home in the St. John's neighbourhood, I drove about 20 minutes to Sauvie Island, which sits at the junction of the Multnomah Channel and the Willamette and Columbia Rivers. First up: field o' pumpkins.


It promised to be good for birding, and while I did not get the Sandhill Crane that I was hoping for, I did get a Pugnacious Little Yellowlegs (I've decided to name the birds myself), lots of Spotted Towhees and Steller's Jays, numerous hawks that I could not tell apart, and, best of all, got to watch a territorial contretemps between a Great Egret and a Great Blue Heron.


And I realized that while it's great to get new birds (the Steller's Jay, with its deep blue body and dramatic black head, blew my mind) there is also a great peace that comes with watching the ones that you know already, or the ones that you can't identify, fly around and do their thing. My friend Julie likes to invoke Wendell Berry's wonderful poem, The Peace of Wild Things, when she talks about getting lost in nature. And when someone else has said, better than you, what you want to say, why not?

...I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

After a couple of days with family, I headed on over to Murr's and Dave's place, from whence we headed out to the Columbia Gorge. Where the wild things are.


Heading up the aptly named Columbia Gorge Scenic Highway, we were presented with a variety of waterfalls. Our little hiking destination (well, it was an easy enough trail that it doesn't count as hiking in Murr's books) was along Tanner Creek to Wahclella Falls but we figured we'd stop and gawk at a few others along the way.

Many of the bridges along the highway and the stone walkways down to the falls or trailheads were built by the Works Progress Administration and Civilian Conservation Corps during the Great Depression, so they appealed to me historically, and to Dave, who worked in the bricklaying trades, professionally. When we stopped at Sheppard's Dell falls, we thought, oh let's walk down a little further and get a good view of the brick and stonework.

Which we got.


But we also got a good view of something else.


This little episode proved that the three of us really are well-suited companions because
(1.) We all immediately went slack-jawed;
(2.) Murr and I decided that Dave should go back and take a picture, and he did;
(3.) We spent the next twenty minutes deeply engaged in a conversation about what the heck it was. And then we came back to it over beers a couple hours later. Next time I see them, I'm sure we'll discuss it again.

We saw this interesting tree on the way out of Sheppard's Dell. Seriously.


We also stopped at Multnomah Falls...


and walked up to this little bridge. Ai ai ai.


But the jewel of the day was Wahclella Falls. We had to decide whether to stop for a quick bite before the hike, or wait and then motor down the road to a brew pub. I signalled my choice, and Dave knew for sure we were friends.

This is Dave and me in a different restaurant, on a different day, with different beers. And with some wild things from Washington. Mmmm.

On the walk into Wahclella, we saw this old guy -- a red legged frog.


Fine chartreuse lichen covered the rocks.


After a few rocky passages, we found ourselves at the double falls.


And down I went among the slimy, slippery rocks.


We took a snap before heading back to the car. I look a little stunned in this picture. Stunned by wild things.


Murr's garden is pretty wild and stunning too. Here is the largest salamander any of us will ever see. Murrmade.



What a trip. It's just about Thanksgiving here in Canada and I am, I realize, truly thankful. For the peace of wild things, for absurdity in the woods, for the friends and family I've been fortunate enough to collect over the years.

Murr, Erin, and Kiki together in the garden my last night in Oregon.

Murr has her own excellent take on the trip, including our adventure with medicalmarijuana, here.