Nobody Does Anything About It

It was the late American weather forecaster Willard Scott who famously observed that “Everyone complains about the weather, but nobody ever seems to do anything about it.” Mr Scott’s observation seems more apt than ever—nobody does anything about it. UN chief Antonio Guterres now informs us all that we have progressed from mere ‘global warming” to something the UN labels “global boiling”. The announcement gathers headlines for a day or two, then much of humanity shrugs and carries on with the important things in their lives.

Once upon a time the planet Venus had liquid water oceans, like Earth’s. Today the Venus surface temperature averages about 900 degrees Fahrenheit (475 degrees Celsius), hot enough to melt lead. Humans cannot be blamed for the fate of Venus, but all serious scientists agree that humanity is to blame for what is happening here on Earth: record temperatures, relentless heat waves, catastrophic wildfires, unprecedented floods et al. We focus on the vital business of arranging our affairs to suit immediate, short-term interests, like firing up the barbie, buying a shiny new toy, or flying across the continent for a Cape Breton vacation. Are we collectively hell-bent on turning Earth into a Venus lookalike?

More than half way through our 2023 Boularderie Island summer we see plenty of anecdotal evidence that Mr Guterres and his scientists know what they are talking about. Jan and I have been here seven weeks already. We enjoyed a few fine, tolerable days at the outset and another few just lately. Between the two interludes we had forty days of weather that fell into just two categories—extreme rain, or extreme heat and humidity. Take your pick. Temperatures on our shaded, screened porch routinely reached 90 Fahrenheit (32-plus Celsius). Activity as unstressful as reading a book became burdensome. The enduring heat is not unprecedented: last summer a long-lasting “heat dome” left life in the cabin similarly sticky and sweaty. Now in 2023 I begin to conclude that this is the new normal.

Back in June, Nova Scotia took to emulating the dry British Columbia interior by hosting out-of- control wildfires that incinerated more than two hundred homes. A spate of catastrophic wildfires is not at all a NS norm. Not before now.

Then, two weeks ago, three months-worth of rain fell in some NS locations in a single day. Heavy rains the like of which I had never seen in my 52 years here become routine. In the wake of the rains much of our private road lay underwater, some of it as deep as our gumboots are tall. Some water persists even now and the road is so ransacked that we have to call upon our local road saviour to rebuild it for us. In the meantime we restrict vehicle traffic in the hope of not further wrecking the road.

When the heat and rain relent long enough, I slowly undo the damage perpetrated by another extreme weather event, Hurricane Fiona last September. Fiona toppled trees all over the land, choked trails, knocked down a tall red spruce that came close to striking the workshop deck. Clearing the East Trail was relatively straightforward; clearing the West Trail has been anything but. I can no longer operate a chainsaw all day, but I can manage a few hours, and hope that will be enough to complete the task at hand.

A leisurely walk to Dalem Lake is still a draw. In 2023, it is often too hot to contemplate a slog to the lake; this year, when opportunity arises, I take my time, pausing frequently to study damselflies, take pictures of flowers or butterflies, relish the debut of this year’s crop of blueberries. Either because I’m deafer than I used to be or because bird populations have actually declined—or both—I hear far fewer birds. But I rejoice at what I do hear—the strains of a singing hermit thrush, white-throated sparrow, or increasingly scarce common nighthawk.

Despite the heat and rain, I cherish what ‘Bigador’ reliably still offers: sublime silence, an inexhaustible supply of projects to keep me happily occupied, a night sky unpolluted by human-made light. The galaxy is as resplendent as ever on a cloud-free night.

Will August bring us cooler, dryer conditions? Perhaps. In the meantime we enjoy regular visits from twin cousins Lynn and Louise. Lynn never loses at Bananagrams; I typically finish dead last. Next time I will suggest we switch to the card game Euchre, which is far less vulnerable to domination by a single player. I wish me luck.