Canoe trip in NWT Canada

Hi all,

Finally I sit down to write about the arctic trip as I wait for my double-chocolate chip cookies to bake here at my home in the glorious high country. I meant to write sooner but have been consumed with getting ready to head south for the winter on Tuesday and sneaking in a few wonderful days of working. Plus Larry is around taking a first aid course, so we've been able to spend a bit of time together.

I posted photos of the trip on my website so will write about impressions of the experience rather than the itinerary. As you can probably tell by the emphasis in the photos, my favorite parts were the wildlife, the Sherbert Hills, and being on the coast, esp in the pack ice.

We saw the majority of the dramatic animals during the first week, including a trio of grey wolves that we watched for a half hour or so. As we slowly paddled up the Carnwath they trotted upriver along the bank staying about a quarter mile ahead of us rather than disappearing into the boreal forest. They'd pause, look back at us while we caught up, then trot onward.

After awhile we stopped for a break, then paddled a bit up a tributary before returning to the main river. Lo' and behold, the wolves were still there in the distance upriver. They saw us, stood up, stretched, then began "leading" us up the river again until the novelty wore off and they vanished. Lucky for us we were the most interesting thing going on that morning. That same morning we also had a quick view of a bear (all the bears we saw were grizzlies).

On the previous day, we watched a sow and two cubs swim across the river ahead of us (photo, but only one cub shown). We watched for awhile, binoculars glued to our eyeballs. The bigger cub climbed up onto a chunk of river ice and then did a little dance step ("Did you see that!?”) before jumping down to catch up with his family.

Another day, after watching a sow and cub mosey along digging up roots across the river, we saw her lie down and start to nurse her big toddler. Wow, what a personal moment. It didn't last long, however, as she abruptly sat up with a distressed expression, looked in our direction with her nose in the air, and quickly ran up the steep hill, hungry cub on her heels.

The second bear photo was taken weeks later where we wanted to camp. Before committing to that great site, we wanted to make sure that 1.) the bears became aware of us before getting too close, and 2.) that they would run away immediately when they smelled us. Anything less would mean we'd move on. As you can see, these two bears were especially pretty.

That camp was at the mouth of a 3-mile long estuary with a narrow neck the tides flowed through. We reveled in the thrill of watching and listening to the pack ice race through the narrows and then temporarily ground on a shallow area on it's way deep into the estuary. The pieces would pile up against each other making a wonderful crunching and grinding sound, so cool I wanted to stay awake all night to watch. Then of course 6 hours later it was rapidly flowing back out right past our camp. A fabulous sight.

It was really something to watch birds from the courting/nesting phase through raising chicks. In June it was all eggs, and July we only saw chicks. We would look at the little chicks, goslings, ducklings and wonder how on Earth the little critters could possibly get big and strong enough to fly thousands of miles in, what, 6-8 weeks?! Baffling. Observation and our field guides led to all kinds of fascinating insights about the different strategies species use to deal with the short season and harsh conditions. Animals really are amazing and diverse... so little we can really know.

Many species we saw so frequently that I really felt like I to got to know them, their ways of being, not simply that I could identify the species. It's really different getting a sense of their character, how they live, rather than the usual simple sightings. For example, my sense of bald eagles really changed. Did you know that big boldly marked bird, our national symbols, squeaks? I kind of knew it, but nothing like I understand now. So much for "Screaming Eagles" and that kind of misrepresentation. They have this delightful truly-squeaky little voice that they use freely when you paddle below their giants nests. The voice is actually quite charming, endearing, unlike the screech of peregrines or the persistent cry of rough-legged hawks. Did you know that Canadian geese raise their kids in groups of 2-3 families? And the goslings dive and swim like loons when scared, an ability they lose with adult plumage (and I really know that having skinned one and felt the deep, pelt-like chest plumage). They share parenting duties when responding to perceived threats, whereas female ducks raise their little ones alone.

The Sherbert Hills were quite fascinating as you can tell by the number of photos. (I omitted a lot, believe it or not!). It took me awhile to figure out the basics: sulfuric acid seeps up from the deeps, becoming hydrogen sulfide gas at the surface (which we smelled most of the time: the classic rotten eggs). The acid chemically weathers the sedimentary rock into clays, which don't support vegetation. Various metals and whatnot in the rock oxidize, causing the beautiful sherbert hues in the badlands-type landscape. I wished we could have had a geologist along to interpret another level; there isn't a guidebook for this terrain. I don't know what was going on with those large white crystals other than they must have precipitated out of the acidic solution; somehow I think they’re calcite (let me know if you recognize them). In the photos you can also see what the wind has done around the vegetation that does manage to grow on these unstable slopes. The water coming out of the hills was nasty acidic so we paddled out to the far side of the river for potable water. Further down the river we saw much smaller sherbert slopes with only faint sulfur scents, so the crustal cracks must be fairly long. You can see in the photos the clay-mud coming from the hills.

I have learned to love the smell of hydrogen sulfide because I associate it with fantastic landscapes: the volcanoes Baker and especially Erebus and the geothermal activity in the Yellowstone area. This place just added to my appreciation of this smell that most people consider unpleasant.

A week later I found the instability of a canoe in coastal waves much less disturbing with the cover on because the boat appeared a lot more like a kayak, in which I'm used to rocking around in river waves (past life). In fact one day in Wood Bay I was paddling blissfully along casually noticing the waves increasing when Larry noted it was time for a break. When he turned the boat toward the shore, where the waves were breaking, I realized with a start that we were in lively water and that this wouldn't be the easiest landing. Soon, as I stepped out of the "cockpit", which was rising and falling with the waves, I managed to catch my second foot on the canoe cover. I nearly face-planted, catching myself on the submerged rocks with my gloved hands and other knee, and then instantly jumped up to scramble out of the way in case the boat was about to plow me over (it wasn't). I was fine, but it was a funny way to discover that it doesn't take much in terms of waves for a loaded canoe to be exciting. Soon Larry said that we should camp here, even though it was only 2pm, because of the increasing waves. I didn't argue.

As it turned out, for the previous half hour, Larry had been in Decision Mode, carefully assessing the whole situation to determine at what point we needed to get off the water. He had been feeling the stress of making the right decision (couldn't camp just anywhere along the shore) while I was completely unaware that anything was going on! I realized how useless I was in terms of coastal decision making at this point, and made a note to tune in extra carefully to the tone behind his understated words. What a different role to be in, no doubt good for me to appreciate the helplessness novices sometimes experience.

Interestingly, both days when we were in the denser pack ice, the water was glassy. The correlation was so striking that I had to wonder if there was something going on. Maybe the ice was absorbing enough heat to chill the lowest layer of air, making it dense and heavy. Then maybe breezes, warmer lighter air, were riding up over the chilled layer on the water leaving the water so still. Ok, maybe a crackpot idea, but I suspect that there was something going on, maybe related to the melting ice affecting the water temp/density/salinity. Or, maybe it was just a freak coincidence that the only glassy water of the trip was during the hours we were surrounded by ice.

The fishing rod you see in the photos was just being carried there; we weren’t trolling. The plastic gas container we found on a beach.

I loved the ice (what it is about ice?). There was something surreal paddling through it in the silence on the smooth water. At one point we could see the floes moving in different directions due to variations in tidal currents, making navigation in the dense ice more interesting. Sometimes the ice moved fast and at one point when it was really dense we found ourselves paddling fast to get through a gap before it closed. It wasn't like we were going to get squashed like berg ice could do, but it was still a kick to have to paddle hard to shoot the gap.

A couple times isolated seals checked us out, poking their heads up and even rising up like orcas do, "spy-hopping" to get a better look. Given that they are probably hunted, we assumed that they only approached because we didn't have a motor. It was fun spinning our heads around trying to see where they'd pop up next. Sometimes they alerted us that we'd missed them with a big sassy splash. There were also more birds among the ice flows than out on the open water.

We paid through the nose to rent a satellite phone in case of an emergency (bear injury), but it turned out to be worth it for the freedom and options it provided. We went into the field with neither an end-date or location... when have I ever done that?! It was gloriously refreshing to have such freedom to explore and decide as we go along what we wanted to do and even how long we wanted to stay out (at least up to a certain date). Our main options were either go up the Kugaluk River, or go through the Eskimo Lakes, all the way to the road via some tiny marshy creek or get picked up at a lake near the road. Such beauty in options, being able to customize and respond to whatever inclination we had rather than having to commit so far in advance.

We were strong by the time we got to the Kugaluk so paddling upstream in that current was reasonable. We heard that there was a lot of wildlife and good fishing there, and the map showed miles of curvy canyon so it was an easy choice. We were disappointed by the paucity of animal sightings. The fish were burbot, a bottom feeder; it was a warm river lacking trout or grayling. Our broken fishing rod didn't help. We didn't see any large mammals for weeks, and only one (handsome!) bull moose just before we reached our pick-up lake (where I caught that Northern pike, my first fish!). The fishing on the Anderson and Carnwath wasn’t because it was so early in the season. We put it as soon as they could fly us in after ice break-up, when the water was still muddy. Breaking the fishing rod didn’t help either.

Unlike on the Carnwath where I did all the tracking (walking-ferrying boat upriver), I didn't do any on the Kugaluk. This far into the summer the rocks were snot-slick with algae and the Kugaluk had more current than the Carnwath. We also didn't know whether we'd have enough days left to deal with whatever mysteries the Kugaluk held (we had little info beyond the map) so it made sense to maximize our chances of getting to a lake at the top where we could get picked up rather than having to go all the way back down the river to the delta where we could also get picked up. Larry enjoyed the challenge of tracking in these conditions so found this section of the trip engaging enough despite the few animals. Sometimes in higher current the water was too shallow to paddle in and there wasn't a good bank bar for tracking. For these spots we devised a new technique "motorboating" in which Larry would jump out and push the boat while I stayed in the bow and continued paddling! It worked great.

We did have one class 1.5 rapids complex enough that we had to paddle through part of it. There was an exciting few seconds after paddling like hell to ferry across above the crux when he was telling me to "GRAB SOMETHING: GRASS, ANYTHING. GRAB SOMETHING NOW" so we wouldn't go down backwards. There wasn't much to grab, but I managed to claw enough mud and grass to arduously pull us in and eventually scramble out to pull the boat further up out of the rapids. Then we had to track the boat climbing through a willow thicket, passing the rope to each other to get it around the willows that we then climbed over... good fun.

We weren't in an official Wilderness Area, the concept of which is the product of our modern nature-distanced industrial lives. This landscape is well used by the local native peoples (several groups). We saw a number of subsistence cabins, "camps" accessed by boat or snowmobile. This is not the plane culture of Alaska (gringo culture). These camps ranged from a pile of ruins and junk, to a 3-family relatively well-maintained camp that has obviously been in use for a long time. The insides of the cabins show that the families even bring their little kids with them and stay awhile. Fishing, hunting, and trapping at these camps provides much of their protein for the year (In the week during which we waited to put in, I learned a lot about northern culture.)

I found it interesting that we really didn’t see any trash from recreationists (just a couple plastic bags where we found the Great Grate: see photos of stove dying then finding a fire grate that very night). In fact we barely saw any evidence at all of other boaters the whole trip. Instead we saw many fuel drums from subsistence-related snowmobiling, boating, (possibly ORV’s and maybe from aviation caches?). We also saw what are probably giant collars for pipelines. You can see one of the 18 orange plastic halves in Liverpool Bay in the photo of the bears at the coastal camp (the latter of two bear photos).
The native people have a different ethic regarding leaving trash, one that made me look at my own perspective with a different eye. How easy it might be to criticize them, yet what would I say when a native countered with a remark about all the shit we put into the air that's causing the far north to change more dramatically than the temperate areas? We benefit from all the hydrocarbons we burn with our affluent lifestyles while they pay the higher price (including serious heavy metal toxicity in marine meat), barely enjoying the benefits.

Also, there's the visible-local-innocuous versus invisible-global-toxic effect. Is it really worth the fossil fuel it would take to remove all the shotgun shells and coffee cans, the empty fuel drums and broken down snowmobiles? Not only the fuel use, but also the greenhouse gases emitted. This issue has come up in Antarctica regarding benign trash out on the plateau where it gets consumed by the ice. I appreciate clean landscapes, but at the price of destroying those same landscapes by global warming?* Not a simple situation. [One thing we try to do in Antarctica is to fill the plane with junk after they've dropped us off at one of these older camps, so the trash gets out without requiring special flights, but this is less feasible via boat or snowmobile.]

The two government related huts were better maintained, but it was the commercial hunting camp, run by and for gringos, that were the four star scenes... and accessed via planes. Definitely a lot more money available for guided hunting/fishing (and us), a contrast that I'm sure doesn't escape the native population. [The photo at the end with the satellite dish]. The #9 record-sized barren-ground grizzly was shot here a month before we arrived, by a client from Montana.

We also saw a number of cabin ruins from the old days of trapping, presumably the 1800's. We observed that the beaver and muskrat populations had recovered well. A book suggested one of the coastal cabins had been a whaling camp.

The culture within our little team of two caught my attention as well. I knew Larry pretty darn well going into this trip, but 46 days alone together, in his element, took it to a whole new level. The first weeks found us sharing more and more stories of our lives (and I kept talking about Outward Bound-NOLS courses as this extended trip reminded me). He doesn’t draw attention to himself and is super laid-back. Because he doesn't always talk about himself much it was great to get him going about his life, parts that I'd only known a bit about. I loved it.

More significant than our stories was how he worked with me. My background in working with others in parallel situations allowed me to step back and observe how he dealt with me out there. Even when it was inconvenient (and costly) for him, he gave me a lot of room to figure things out for myself. The biggest example is how concerned I was about grizzly bears during our planning months. Partly based on the opinion of a senior serious wilderness explorer I guide with, I was pretty into having a good shotgun (semi-automatic), a tarp (so no human-taco of a tent, unless weather a bigger hazard), a satellite phone, and bearproof food canisters for when we were off hiking. On all his prior trips he's taken none of this except a pump-shotgun and bear spray (which we also had), but he didn't give me ANY shit for being bearanoid. He even bought two of the bear canisters. He didn't want me to be nervous out there (which I wasn't) even if it was more hassle for him.

He let me see for myself that the bears are indeed "well-behaved". As soon as they smelled us, they always ran off just like his past experiences. Over time I became comfortable camping in places that weren't the absolute-least bear-exposed. Mid-trip I even suggested a particular camp but he pointed out that it was on a narrow travel corridor (meaning a bear might feel trapped when stumbling upon our camp)! Not that all bears will always run away, and we did go through protocols for different kinds of encounters, but it was nice to have the space to figure it out for myself, to find my own level of comfort with one of the more complex outdoor hazards.

The other thing was how he dealt with me regarding hunting. He trained me well before the trip and we practiced shooting again the first morning in the field. During the first couple weeks we talked a lot about hunting but nothing happened. I finally realized it wasn't happening yet because he was waiting for me to step up and take the initiative. He's pretty mellow about hunting or fishing, and wanted to be sure that I was mentally ready to deal with the reality of shooting a animal,
watching it die, and then gutting the little body to eat. He was smart to make sure the impetus was mine.

I shot the first of two ptarmigan in the Sherbert Hills. We always hiked with the gun for bears, but put 2 birdshots in so we could hunt but still, on the third shot, take down a bear if necessary. Larry refrained from taking photos for the first bird I shot, letting me go through the experience without having a camera in my face. From the start I was committed to only shooting a bird on the ground (no flight shots) and well within range. And male ptarmigan only (bird books say female can raise chicks alone). For both ptarmigan I aimed at the bird as he trotted away and asked Larry "Is he in range?" "Yes", as the bird continues to move. "Is he still in range?!" “Yes”. I realized I'd better stop asking and shoot or he'd be out of range. For the first one, I walked right past the female, still as death, incubating her eggs. A bit weird: she was safe as could be though I could have grabbed her I was so close, and yet I was about to kill her sweetie. Whew.

The sound of the gun was a bigger deal than the kickback, and I even shot the next bird a week later with earplugs! In fact this first time I didn’t even notice the kickback because my ears were exploding.

It took me awhile to "get it" about the "chicken thing". You know how chickens supposedly run around when beheaded? Larry assured me it's true, but didn't hassle me when, for each bird, I kept trying to hand-kill the already dead bird as it flopped around. Frantically, while audibly asking the bird to "please die!", I'd beat the neck with a rock, pinch the trachea, break the neck.... anything to stop the movement. Nothing made a difference: the birds were already dead. Larry just patiently watched until I finally accepted the chicken thing. And afterward, when I held the soft little body between my hands, feeling the weight and warmth, silently thanking the little being, he stood by quietly. He coached but let me do all the skinning, gutting, and cooking-prep, and didn't mind my delaying (despite the mosquitoes) while I examined the various organs (there really were rocks in the gizzard, just like there's supposed to be!).

We also got two geese. It took me weeks for me to get past the golf-course chemical concern with Canadian geese, and to figure out that the large flocks were likely pre-breeding birds: single (not married) and fewer years eating chemicals. A couple times I hatched plans to stalk geese. We came across a large molting flock. One might think they'd be easier to catch. WRONG! They are even more alert than ever and run or swim away unbelievably fast. I got pretty interested in getting a Canadian goose (something I've thought about for years actually).

Twice I asked Larry to wait while I tried to outsmart the birds by very patiently sneaking around from another direction... not a chance. Larry stood around waiting, remembering that I was never a ten-year-old with a .22, so I haven't been through that phase. One time I even devised a plan in which Larry would signal to me while I oh-so-slowly crawled up truly on my belly, mostly hidden by small shrubs. The plan seemed pretty foolproof, but every time he lifted an arm to signal a direction, the geese would perk up and cackle. Plus I forgot to figure out a signal for going backwards... it was actually a rather funny 45 minutes. I really took my time trying to get the Look-Out goose, even moving only when his friends weren't looking. I figured that maybe if he made the alarm call and they hadn't seen me themselves, they might not take him as seriously.

Didn't work. He intently watched me creep up, scooting intermittently on my belly. When I was still at least twice shooting-distance away, he flew to join his flock, who had been grazing-walking away faster than I had been advancing. Then I tried Larry's strategy of suddenly running up to close the distance, then shooting as they start to take off. Later Larry said he'd wanted to signal this via acting it out in place, but the geese were way too savvy. I had been lying down so long that when I stood up and tried to run on the lumpy tundra, it was like I was drunk. Plus I was carrying the gun in a position ready to shoot (awkward), and didn't have a pre-picked spot to stop at so I floundered across the tundra while the geese nonchalantly walked away and eventually took flight. I didn’t have a chance; what a scene. After this Larry told me that waterfowl hunters don't stalk their prey: they put out decoys and sit in a blind drinking beer till the birds arrive.

I got a shot at a snow goose. It was a surprise as we hadn't come with 200m of them, and then there was this one walking away from us on the beach. I checked in with my coach and this time I did the run up and shoot plan; I could feel my heart beating as I ran! After he died we found out what Larry had suspected: the bird wasn't right. His chest had two major open wounds, maybe from a fox? Couldn't fly and it probably hurt too much to swim, so it turned out to be a mercy killing, poor guy. We didn't eat him, don't know if he was sick from infection or what. I set him on some nest-like sticks, folded up his feet and wings, and then tucked his head under his wing like he was sleeping. A scavenger will be happy to find this meal.

The Canadian goose we got was even more a team effort than the other birds. We were paddling upstream late in the trip when we found ourselves close enough for a shot. I needed Larry to actually watch the bird to determine when it was about to fly because it was all I could do to keep "the bead" (aim) on the goose. The bird was running away and the boat was bobbing up and down as Larry kept paddling to close the distance. He gave the word and I pulled the trigger. The bird was on a muddy bank so that's where I cleaned him, getting dirt into the clear-colored fat under the skin despite my best efforts to keep him on his skin and wings. Larry was patient about the dirt and it turned out we couldn't taste/feel it anyway.

This bird we pressure-cooked which worked well in terms of reducing the chewy factor. But they all tasted good (I opted out of the commercial meat industry years ago NOT because I don't like meat), better than the fish, which I also enjoyed. A great break from bean, rice, and tortellini.

I must say my respect for these animals increased quite a bit and my overall relationship with them has deepened. Hunting is difficult, and represents a very different way of being on the landscape, a way of moving. It really is a powerful and primal experience (or it can be, I am well aware that it can be a lot different than that). Can hardly imagine the process of taking down and field-dressing a large mammal like a deer. Yeowza. Also increased respect esp for traditional native hunters.

The mosquitoes were a real psychological challenge. At the beginning, we had almost two glorious weeks with nearly no bugs. I appreciated it more because Larry pointed out that this would be our only perfect-conditions phase: not too buggy, hot, or windy. He sure was right. From the start I was determined to keep my head about me regarding bugs, to not let them get to me: a significant challenge. Never scratching a bite helped, but not as much as thinking of it as being "too hot" rather than "too buggy". In that photo where I'm lying on a chunk of sea ice I was desperate to cool off. Wearing our full bug suits makes it look like cool weather. Don't be fooled! It was full-on shorts and t-shirt heat, but that would've been a worse fate than drowning in sweat in the bug suit, esp when the air was still. Heinous. Thanks dearly to Mike for the bathroom bug net (see photo). Larry preferred using a stick to switch to bugs away during very quick squats... don't know how he did it. I even learned to slide a pee bottle down my pants so I could pee without exposing skin. Crazy.

Another way to deal was to think of caribou. Not only are they truly tortured by mosquitoes, but the book describes two horrifying parasitic flies that make summer absolute misery for caribou and also substantially weaken them (large wad of larvae in sinuses, hundreds of larvae under skin on back... every caribou). This was consistent with the tortured look on their faces and especially how they are always moving (burning calories they need for winter). They are so miserable it wasn't fun to see them except that one bull in the purple flowers (photo). If I ever find myself born as a caribou calf, I'm heading for the nearest wolf.

Larry and I wondered how the native people dealt with mosquitoes with traditional materials. Mind boggling. We had little to complain about. Late in the trip Larry told me that the bugs were worse this time than on his previous trips.

Fortunately just when we were about to lose it, a breeze would reduce the bugs. Paddling out on the water, esp. in the sea ice helped reduce bug density. If you look carefully, you can see bugs (sometimes as smudges) in many of the photos including the night paddle shots. In the bug-screen shelter we cheered for the bees that plucked mosquitoes off the screen, bit off wings and legs, then rolled up the carcass to take back to feed their larvae. We noticed that when the horseflies got thick on the Kugaluk River (killed 22 on my pants in 3-4 minutes), the mosquitoes subsided. Not sure if it was due to the horseflies being a direct threat or if it was a safe-airspace issue, but it was definitely a better deal.

Larry says that years ago he promised himself that he'd never be out again during blackfly season, assuring me that they're worse. Turned out that we left the day they began to hatch.

Back to the bit about Larry. My appreciation for him grew not only for how he dealt with me out there, but also seeing him in his element. I'm not exactly new to rivers or seeing animals, but he took all that to a whole different level, esp. reading river and the bays. It was amazing how easily and well he interpreted the water, the level of subtlety. (I realize (hope!) it's no more so than my reading of rock and alpine environments). Clearly he's an elite wilderness paddler and traveler. His years of canoe racing also help, esp for the upriver sections (and I got some great coaching on my technique!). What a unique position for me to be in, so much learning. Refreshing. I wrote a ton in my journal, about many things.

Most of all, he's really easy going and has a similar level of risk acceptance as I do. I knew those things from climbing and skiing with him, but with water I am not on the same level so need to rely on him and trust his judgment unlike I do in familiar terrain. I knew that he wouldn't let us get into a situation that we couldn't handle as a team, that he can read people as well as he reads water. This meant that it all flowed beautifully. Even the few times that my eyes got large (like that landing above), I knew we really weren't in a serious situation, that all I had to do was combine my judgment with his instructions and all's well.

Did you notice the photos in which he’s in the boat and I’m walking? I have teased him saying I’m going to tell everyone that he kicked me out and made me walk! Not the case. Sometimes I felt like I hadn’t walked enough lately or just wanted to take pictures. He, on the other hand, might have been glad to finally get some time away from me!

I'd never been out that long before, much less with just one other person and not seeing anyone else. We really got into a flow of working and being together, a lot of humor (except when the bugs, uh, I mean the HEAT, was at it's worst; then we were just quiet). Fun to find that it's really as great as I expected to be out for such a long time period, how one really settles into the flow of it even more than all the 30-day courses I've worked. We adapt in many subtle ways bodily as well as mentally, such as one's hair stops producing much oil so the itchy-head of the first weeks disappears. Our food was so good that we didn't have any cravings when we got back to town except of course fresh produce.

So there you have it, more details than you cared to know on my northern adventure. I hope you enjoyed the photos.
Since getting home I've been alpine-homesick, missing and appreciating being here and working here, but I'm finding I'm feeling it less having just re-lived much of our trip. Funny.

I hope you and your family are well and getting out more this summer. Thanks much for the updates about your lives, and photos… including your home remodeling, your kids, your dog, and anything that is of interest to you in your life. I so love staying in contact, however sporadically, with each of you receiving this.

Love and wild winds, Susan
* (yes, global warming has occurred before, but this rate is unnatural and now it's a hell of a lot harder for organisms to adapt).