Dalem: Diamond in the Duff

One of the best favours we do ourselves in a Boularderie summer is our before-breakfast 7 km ramble to, around and into Dalem Lake. Once upon a time on CBC Radio we heard a marvelous, very ancient lady reveal the secret of her extraordinary vitality and longevity: take a good long walk every day on uneven ground. I’m confident the old girl would endorse our Dalem route. Starting at the cabin we climb 80 metres up Mackenzie Hill to the local height-of-land, a fine stand of mature beeches, birches and maples. Following the shore trail around the lake we negotiate our way among conifer roots, mud-holes and hidden rocks. Alertness is honed by ardor to avoid a stumble or twisted ankle.

The lake itself is a provincial park boasting a stretch of sand on its near shore. On hot sunny weekend afternoons this spot draws crowds of H. sapiens. They loll like beached elephant seals, enjoy a nice smoke, dine happily on chips and cheezies, swill beer and pop. These park-lovers venture no further than the change rooms; it never occurs to them to follow the trail around the lake. By Monday morning between 7 and 8 all is different: we sometimes encounter Edwin, the good-natured park custodian who makes a few bucks cleaning up the Sunday jetsam.

The mornings are not entirely still at the edges of our little round lake. A month ago the woods were alive with bird song. The premier woodland songsters are the thrushes – Swainson’s and Hermit – whose ethereal, fluting melodies Nature designed to turn even the most distracted urbanite head. In breeding season we count the variety of woodland warblers going about their brood-rearing work: Black-throated Green, Blackburnian, Black-and-White, Magnolia, Myrtle, Ovenbird. 

Nursery duties are mostly done by mid-August and the woods have fallen largely silent but we still have birds. The first autumn migrants are already on the wing – a Pine Grosbeak or wave of warblers here, a Sharp-shinned Hawk or Merlin there. Best to keep eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary. 

We reward ourselves with a restorative, cooling swim at Dalem’s far shore, opposite the one preferred by the weekenders. We almost always have the swimming hole to ourselves, people-wise, but do have to share nature’s bounty with feathered folk. Kingfishers and Spotted Sandpipers regularly voice objections at our arrival; the summer-resident loons voice no offence at all, indeed once we’re in the water they seem quite curious, and often permit a closer approach. A passing Osprey or Bald Eagle adds airborne drama to the scene.

Whilst circumnavigating the lake we have to mind our footfalls lest we tromp on garter snake or toad. Wood frogs, pickerel frogs and green frogs regularly show themselves along the route and – once this summer – a prize: a tiny spring peeper, the celebrated singing frog of April. Mammals too: deer mice, voles, an occasional shrew, and ubiquitous scolding squirrels.

Plenty reward enough, you might say, but in the ever-so-blithe days of August there is more. The blueberry crop on Bob’s bank may not be quite as prolific as in some years but there are plenty enough to keep us content and we do have our own bumper crop of sweet blackberries in 2013. On top of all that, when you consider the maturing apple bonanza and the periodic explosion of prized chanterelle and bolete mushrooms we see along the trail, we count ourselves just about as blessed as the mall-goers reveling in the end-of-season clearance sales, or the gambler feverishly operating a one-armed bandit at the neighbourhood casino.

Different strokes for different folks, the cliché runs. And a good thing too: we’re just as happy that if you disregard the birds, frogs and squirrels Dalem remains a pretty-much undiscovered diamond.

Perseid Party Blows the Roof Off

Among the myriad highlights of a Bigadore summer few are more eagerly anticipated or highly cherished than a mid-August astronomical event: the annual Perseid meteor shower. Given that Cape Breton’s climate will never rival that of the Atacama Desert, the Perseid event is frequently and unhappily accompanied by a hand-maiden: Disappointment. Sometimes – more often than we like – August 12 delivers rain, or clouds, or a too-bright moon. Dark sky is essential, and Bigadore can be relied upon to deliver that, but the meteor show also demands a clear, cloudless, moonless, windless night. Which is exactly what we got for this year’s show.

When the circumstance are just right we – Bob, Lynn & Louise, Jan and your faithful correspondent – hump tarp, blankets and camp pads up to the cabin roof ‘round about 9:30 in the evening and wait for the show to begin. Conditions were so perfect this time that we stayed on the pitch for three hours, long enough to see the night sky make a good portion of its counter-clockwise circuit around Polaris, the north star.

We counted 115 meteors during the drama, close to 40 an hour. Many burn so quickly you’d better not blink or you’ll miss the flash. But there are always glories: a flaming arrow blazing across the dark leaving a trail that elicits gasps from all assembled. Just so you know, the three shining stars this time were meteors #40, 87 and 108.

What causes the Perseid show? Well, every year on or about August 12 our little old planet races through the flight path of a long-ago comet. The earth’s atmosphere collides with small – very small – particles of dust left in the comet’s wake. You could hold thousands of these particles in the palm of your hand, but never mind, when the collision occurs the tiny bits burn briefly, brightly and sometimes spectacularly for anyone astute enough to be gathered with pals on the roof of a dark-sky summer cabin.

I asked the others to speculate how many other Boularderie Island roofs might be the scene of a gathering just like the one we reveled in. The twins guessed ours might be the only one of its kind. Can it be so? It wasn’t just meteors performing for our wandering gaze. We watched the international space station – recently and famously the domicile of Canadian astronaut Chris Hatfield – sail grandly past. And many other satellites too. During lulls in the meteor action we could contemplate the three stars of the ‘Summer Triangle’, one of which, Deneb, burns at a hard-to-imagine 300,000 times the power of our puny, ordinary little Sun.

Or we could look toward the constellation Cassiopeia and see with our very own dark-adapted eyes the smudge of light that is Andromeda. Astronomers have counted billions of galaxies in the cosmos. Among all the billions, Andromeda is our closest galactic neighbour. But how close is ‘close’? Consider this, by the time the light of the trillion stars of the next-door neighbour collides with your rods and cones, it has been on the march, traveling at the speed of light, for, oh, about 2.3 million years.

How grand a time was had by all? Over the moon would seriously understate the fun. So grand that a passerby could have seen me out again, in the wee-smalls last night, between 2 and 4, not just looking for Perseid stragglers, but trying to photograph them too. And wonder of wonders, I succeeded at it. Squint attentively enough at these images and you’ll see the telltale streak of a fragment of comet dust that may have flashed – who knows – for me and me alone in this darkened corner of Cape Breton. Makes a fella lucky as all hell.

.

All Hail Citizen Allen!

Pal Cindy Allen became a Canadian this week. On a sunny day, at Fortress Louisbourg of all places, along with 32 other brand new Canadians. Jan and Bob and I were invited to join the party and we’re glad we did.

Various dignitaries were on hand and a good-sized passel of Cindy’s many friends. There were members of Parliament – two of them – as well as a council member from the regional municipality and sundry other VIPs. It was a grand affair presided over by George Springate, a Citizenship Judge who also happens to be a Member of the Order of Canada and who wears a ring attesting to the fact he is also a Grey Cup champion. A stentorian and commanding figure with a mighty voice, no one nodded off when Judge Springate orated.

It was observed that many of us take our citizenship for granted. I don’t have to think long or hard to conclude that’s mostly a fair claim, but I am not one of them. Among the things that make me a most prideful Canadian is this: our country is the most multi-ethnic one on the planet. I read the claim once in the Globe and Mail , accept it wholly and cite it as often as opportunity allows.

The Louisbourg ceremony provided further support for the boast: blue-eyed, pale-skinned people were in a distinct minority among the 32 folks swearing allegiance to Elizabeth, Queen of Canada. By their dress and skin colour the new Canadians made it evident that they come from widely scattered parts of the world.

As for Cindy, well, she is American-born, of Canadian and American parents, but she has Cape Breton roots and has lived for decades on the eastern side of the Canso Causeway. She has no need to be told who John A. Macdonald is. Citizen Allen is a fine musician and has gladdened the hearts of myriad music-lovers throughout the Island. All the new Canadians received warm applause when they were congratulated by Judge Springate but the decibel count went through the roof when it was Cindy’s turn to shake Judge Springate’s meaty paw.

Mind you, some things won’t change: though she’s now a certified Canuck Cindy has no intention of substituting one Bruce for another in her musical pantheon. Despite the musical charms of Bruce Cockburn, the Boss is still the Boss: Springsteen rules.