Ardent for a ‘lifer’ – some place we’d never seen before –
Steve introduced us to Beaudry Provincial Park, an expansively beautiful green
space stretched along the broad, splendid Assinniboine River. We had the big
park to ourselves, people-wise, but among the tall cottonwoods and aspens we
had an abundance of fliers to appreciate, not all of them mosquitoes. Bird song
flourished: yellow warblers, red-eyed vireos, wood pewees and least
flycatchers. 
The person most of you know as Jan demonstrated the aptness
of the moniker I typically apply to her: Hawkeye.
She spotted a barred owl in a cottonwood, a freshly killed red squirrel in its
talons. The owl cooperated in my effort to get a photograph. I ventured that
the squirrel would be delivered to the owl`s downy young as soon as we cleared
the scene – and I admit to hoping that young squirrels weren`t awaiting the
arrival of a parent that would never return. Do not expect kindness of the wild
kingdom.
We spent much of the Sunday at the new, imposing Human
Rights Museum at the Forks in downtown Winnipeg. If you prefer your museums to
entertain rather than edify, the dinosaur museum at Drumheller might be your
better option. After five hours intensively contemplating discrimination, subjugation
and genocide I felt hard pressed to agree that human kind has made great
progress in bringing about a world in which most of us feel inclined to treat
others as we desire to be treated ourselves.
I have occasionally been heard to say that the more I see of
people the better I like warblers. The antidote for a day immersed in the
subject of man`s inhumanity to man was a different sort of day, one spent among
the pelicans, yellow-headed blackbirds and downy young coots at Oak Hammock
Marsh. It was a glorious Monday: blue sky, plenty of sunshine and a force 8
gale to keep the mosquitoes away. On a gravel prairie road we looked for
bobolinks and admired a handsome male harrier quartering the fields for voles.
It wasn`t just birds that staged a fine show: we spotted yellow ladyslippers
and red prairie lilies; I ventured into the grass to take pictures.
Back in the car I pulled a wood tick off my knee, then
another, then three off my ankle. Soon enough my tick count reached thirteen, a
lifetime high. Steve was unimpressed: a fly fisherman of considerable ability
and great determination he is not a stranger to tick counts of 30 or more in
the Manitoba wilds. Ticks trouble me only if I find one buried in my armpit
three days after I departed the woods, but I understand that other folks are
less sanguine about them. I was reminded of the demand once made by Jan’s mother
at hearing we’d found a tick on her daughter’s head during a happy ramble in
the great outdoors: If you like nature so
much, take her to a museum!
The kids’ neighbourhood is a throwback to a bygone era:
neighbours drop by bearing beer and good cheer. They take a seat, join in the feast
and launch congenial conversation on a range of au courant topics: the
upcoming Brexit vote, the pros and cons of mosquito fogging, Donald Trump. Liz
described Terry, the man next door, as the perfect neighbour: he mows their
lawn while he’s at his own, minds Vincent the cat when they’re away for the
weekend, and never makes a racket. Liz maintains she likes her neighbours even
better than her friends. We sat around the patio firepit on the final night,
enjoying fire, food, ambience and conversation. I understand completely why
Terry likes to drop in on the folks next door. If we lived down the street we’d
be there all the time too.
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