Texada Island — a delight for masochistic hikers

Texada was our Northern Gulf Island destination last September, a quiet place more sparsely populated than the other islands we’ve visited. The two “towns” don’t have shopping hubs, so it took us two days to find the grocery store! There’s only one paved road, and most trails we hiked were rough and steep. By sparing our car long drives on potholed gravel roads, we likely avoided even rougher and steeper ones.

Our well-equipped Airbnb (Texada Island Vacation Rental) felt homey and welcoming at the end of each long, often exhausting, day of hiking. Here are some videos and photos of our trip.

Our backyard. Texada may have even more deer than Mayne Island. Look for the second one munching behind that picnic table.

Trail markers, all created/placed by volunteers — some hard to spot.
We spent lots of time just hunting for the elusive pink ribbons.

Drought was apparent everywhere, but the weather was glorious.

Went beachcombing at Shelter Point Regional Park one day to hunt for a suitable piece of driftwood for our balcony at home.
We succeeded … eventually: Mr. Fluffster has high driftwood standards.

Mount Pocahontas — the toughest of the five trails we hiked; like North Vancouver’s Grouse Grind but even steeper and rougher;
While hauling my aching, sweaty body up to the peak on hands and knees, I wondered how I’d ever make it back down again.

But the views from that peak were spectacular.

Breathtaking beauty! Silent because Mr. Fluffster wanted his voice removed.

We clambered slowly across this treacherous section of the Sword Fern Trail.
I slithered over part of it on my butt. That dangling pink ribbon was our only clue we were headed in the right direction.

Phloxes outside the Mary Mary Café, where we had ice cream sundaes after hiking up Mount Pocahontas,
and dinner on our last evening. The locals we met there — and elsewhere in the island —
were mostly friendly retirees, keen to give directions and recommend local sights.

Our next island hop will be Galiano next May. Texada was lovely, but I want easier hiking. One Pocahontas is enough for me!

Note: Ms. Fluffster is now on Mastodon.

Happy (belated) birthday, Random Bits of Fluff!

A year ago September, I started this blog. My first post, How do you feel?, seems like a lifetime ago — though I still haven’t tackled everything on that to-do list.

I like the slower pace of retirement, and my time easily fills up with fun and productive activities. A few months ago, I got tired of churning out weekly blog posts and baking bread, so I cut back, and did more cycling and socializing. Then I found a creative way to fulfill that “volunteer somewhere or other” goal (from What the heck was I thinking?)

When the spirit moves me, I “volunteer” from home recording audiobooks (novels, short stories, poems, essays, etc.) for Librivox and proofreading ebooks for Project Gutenberg, Librivox’s major source of content in the public domain. Recording audiobooks now ranks as my second-favourite pastime — after cycling.

As one of the thousands of dedicated Librivoxers who’ve uploaded over 40,000 free audio recordings (of every genre) for anyone to enjoy, I’m having a ball! To prepare, I read aloud in my head first (then reread out loud) to figure out if my voice suits the content, wrestle with technology (Audacity digital audio editor), and hone my reciting/dramatic skills (just a little; no awards expected). As a bonus, I get to “meet” interesting folks from all corners of the world (though mostly the US and Canada).

I had a few technical hiccups at first. Once, as I was editing, the program started turning functions on and off, as if it had a mind of its own. I panicked and force-quit Audacity, scrapping an hour and a half of good work. Then immediately discovered that that my iPad (which I read from) was resting on the keyboard.

My mic is super sensitive, and my living room “office” isn’t sound-proofed. Recording on weekdays picks up noise from construction, traffic, sirens, float planes, the river, etc. Sadly, most recordings aren’t enhanced by the sound of a toilet flushing. It’s easy to eliminate an ongoing background drone; far harder to edit out intermittent sounds. So I limit myself to recording in the evenings and on Sundays — in between float plane arrivals/departures and Mr. Fluffster’s guitar practice. I’ll soon have that float plane schedule memorized, and maybe I can incorporate the guitar as background music. [Mr. F’s note: NO!]

Then there’s pronunciation, which I once thought I was good at. I recently had to re-record the word “cupola” in a chapter of a children’s story (KYOO-puh-luh, not cup-POLE-ah!) Eight times. It took longer to replace one word than to record the whole chapter. Lesson learned: I now Google pronunciations obsessively.

I don’t do accents — not my forte. I need to focus just on not stumbling over the words. Occasionally, I experiment with a different voice (the rasping New York landlady was fun, but hard on my throat). Volunteer proof-listeners sit through hours of recordings to ensure the text is correctly pronounced and read in its entirety. I think of them, as well as my listeners, when I try to inject life and expression into my voice.

Check out Librivox if you’re an audiobook lover. Or aspiring voice actor.

Proofreading ebooks isn’t as entertaining, so I do only enough to feel virtuous. Beginner proofreaders (called “P1s”) compare OCR-scanned text to the originals, correct “scannos” (incorrect characters; kinda like typos, but the result of blots on the original pages), and close up end-of-line hyphenation. Starting out enthusiastically, I quickly racked up the 300 pages required to graduate to the next proofing level, “P2,” which isn’t nearly as satisfying because so few errors remain. I may demote myself just to go back to “P1” content. What can they do — fire me?

Do I miss paid work and the office? Not a bit.

More about signs ... and dog poop

On one of our walks, Mr. Fluffster and I came across the confusing sign above left. Was it meant to keep us “humans” off the stepping stones (above right) as well as out of the water? I took the photo from one of those stones. A clearer message might have been: “Please stay out of the water.”

Back in my editor days, signs were the most challenging of all my projects. Initial requests always seemed straightforward: Our Anytown Office needs a window sign to inform the public about the services it offers. Please work with the designer to create one.

Requesters always believed their signs would be quick and easy to produce. They never were. After a few such frustrating projects, my more experienced colleagues and I happily passed the buck to newer, naiver team members.

One cursed sign took four years. The office in question assigned its articling student to the project. Nine months later, when that student’s term ended, we still didn’t have basic information about the sign’s size and content.

Months passed without answers to simple email questions. “You’ve asked for a 5' x 8' sign but 5 feet by 8 feet wouldn’t fit in your window; do you mean 5 inches x 8 inches?” “Please send us a close-up of the actual window where the sign will be posted. This blurry photo of the building’s second floor and roof isn’t enough.”

Every year, a new articling student took over and ignored our emails. After Year One, when asked for updates on this project, the designer and I would glance nervously at one other and change the subject. By Year Four, we’d just laugh hysterically.

We’d (re)explain our production requirements to each new student. And each would rewrite the sign wording and send new — and incomplete — details about size and type of material. Follow-up queries rarely yielded satisfactory answers.

Whenever we thought we were ready to print, last-minute snafus would hold things up just long enough for that particular student’s articles to end. In Year Three, we discovered — minutes before we were about to send the sign to the printer — that it violated bylaws on the colours and materials allowed for storefront window signs in that community.

We finally got it done at the end of Year Four.

Every single word in a sign requires careful thought. Who is the sign intended for? What should people know after reading it? Without clear answers to such questions, signs are ineffective, like the one above.

I appreciate good signs. See below for some fine recent examples, all about dog poop, a topic that seems to inspire effective, clear communication.

Left, a one-of-a-kind homemade sign that gets right to the point.
Right, a cute one that comes with poop bags.

My favourite, though the broken web address at the bottom no longer links to the Poo Fairy page where
locals could once download this sign to post on their own property … and learn about the dangers of dog poop.

* Created by Prettycons and Nikita Kozin from Noun Project.

Mayne Island … our favourite so far

View from Halliday Ridge Trail

In May, we spent five glorious days on Mayne Island. We hiked four trails and rode our bikes twice, strolled through a Japanese garden, and saw black-tailed deer, driftwood sculptures, and much stunning scenery. We’re agreed that Mayne is the most beautiful of the Gulf Islands we’ve been to.

I’ll let my photos prove it.

Day 1: “Giant Arbutus” is the name of a trail, not this tree, in Mount Parke Regional Park.

Halliday Ridge Trail includes some steep climbing … lots of steps … and motivational messaging.

The views from the summit rewarded our efforts.

An actual arbutus trunk, though clearly past its prime

View from Bennet Bay Bistro during a well-earned dinner

Day 2: We cycled to Georgina Point Heritage Park and Lighthouse under cloudy skies, with a few drops of rain.

Day 3: Kadonaga Bay in St. John’s Point Regional Park …

… where 70- to 90-kilometre wind warnings were in effect. No better time for a cliffside hike!

The sheltered return trail, where we could still hear the wind battering the opposite side of the cape

The birds were quite loud, but almost drowned out by the wind (turn sound on).

The last stretch of St. John’s Point Regional Park trail; you’d never know a windstorm
was raging less than a kilometre away (Mayne Island lost power for 26 hours).

Day 4: At the end of the day spent cycling and hiking Mount Parke Regional Park again,
a couple of brazen black-tailed deer dropped by our cabin at suppertime …

… completely unfazed by being videotaped.

Day 5: One last hike in Henderson Park, straight uphill on Vulture Ridge Trail.
Mr. Fluffster made it to the top, but I turned back early … too many steps … too hot.

After lunch on our last day, a Japanese Garden …

… several driftwood horse sculptures on the lawn of a riding stable …

… plus a seal guarding the park across the street.

Next up, Texada Island in September.

I'm sorry, Sis

While growing up on a farm in Southern Ontario, I spent much of my time playing with my little sister. Because I was five years older, I was convinced that I was the boss of her. That assumption — and my feeble attempt to bribe her — landed us both in hot water.

Our parents set a strict house rule for their four kids: no food or dishes outside of the kitchen (picnics excepted). Our mom had enough to do without also having to gather dirty bowls and plates scattered all over our large farmhouse.

When I was 8 or 9 (my sister 3 or 4), I broke that rule.

Lunch had interrupted our game of Pick-up Sticks. As usual, my sister finished eating before I did. Back into the living room she marched to take her turn. Always the slowest eater in the family, I followed right behind her with the last morsels of sandwich on my plate. I didn’t trust her not to shift those sticks to her advantage if I wasn’t watching.

After my last bite, I set the plate down on the living-room floor. Our game ended (she won), we ran upstairs to play with our dolls.

When our parents called us both back into the living room, they were standing over that plate in the middle of the floor. My mom asked which one of us was responsible. My sister and I exchanged glances, and said nothing. (Our brothers weren’t home. We were the only suspects.)

When we didn’t answer, we were banished to our bedroom until someone confessed.

To save my own skin, I asked my sister to say she’d done it. Our parents would go easy on her as the baby of the family. She usually got little more than a stern warning.

She protested that she hadn’t left the plate there and didn’t want to lie.

I was in a tight spot. She might rat me out or just keep quiet until I cracked. But I knew how to ratchet up the pressure. “If you admit to it, you’ll get a candy,” I said, without mentioning that I’d be the one to give it to her. She capitulated.

Our parents were talking in their bedroom across the hall, so we headed over. Walking in first, my sister announced that she’d left the plate on the floor.

My parents looked at each other, and my dad thanked her for being brave and confessing. For a split second, I felt a huge sense of relief. That is, until my sister looked up at them with innocent eyes, and asked for her candy….

I froze. My parents exchanged puzzled glances, and my mom asked her to explain. She blurted out exactly what I’d told her about getting a candy.

My dad snorted in amusement. My mom turned her face away, perhaps to hide a smile.

In the end, we were both punished.

Who knows? If only I’d been smart enough to tell her that I’d be giving her the candy, the whole scheme might have worked. I never tried it again.

Sorry, Sis. You deserved better.