30 August 2014
A Good Cleansing Holiday At Two Cold Lakes
Like many British Columbians I spend as much time as I can exploring the parts of the province the fucking loggers and motherfucking miners have not fucked up beyond recognition. Fuck the States, fuck the rest of Canada (especially Alberta), I like tramping around the only province left that has not completely left its hard won sing song Anarchist past behind.
For me, most of that exploring happens when the snow is gone. And what a fab summer this has been for exploring. George Harrison wrote that hippie song of his about the sun for summers like the one we have been having. Dope City is ok but if you have the smash to get the fuck out of it as often as you can and you do not, you, my friend, are an asshole.
Every summer it seems I find a new place that I hold dear all winter long as I sit sipping scotch behind the double pane windows that protect me from the country my ancestors thought dreams were made in. All I have to do is think of those places for a moment to find the strength to make it through the black days and do it all over again.
This summer Sonja, the Hammer and I returned to the unspoiled country around Two Cold Lakes as guests of our old friends Kyle and Stacy. Having been handed over his dad's undeveloped lakeside property Kyle and Stacy built a cottage there with the assistance of their family's generous labour.
"Holy fuck," I said as we approached the cottage along its steep stone drive, dogs bouncing off the walls of Kyle's pick-up's canopy like a hairy pong game. Was a day people in BC built small unassuming structures at their lakeside getaways. Not any more.
"We get that a lot," Kyle said. "It started out as Paul St. Pierre's cabin in the woods and ended up as the Taj Ma-fucking-hal."
As we were toured through the cabin's many rooms, and the Hammer and Kyle and Stacy's dog Rocket Man made sure it was spook free, we found it to be even more splendid than the cabin's shell.
"I'm guessing the legalization of grass in a couple states has not slowed business down any," Sonja thought out loud.
"Not yet," said Stacy.
"And if Obama won't even legalize pot (because he's too busy killing fucking crazies with his murdrones) it will be a long fucking time before the States goes all in on legalization," Sonja added.
"Speaking of drugs," Kyle continued as he pulled a small ziploc from a pocket, "we did not stop back there at the Indian's place to stock up on sweetgrass."
He spilled the contents of the bag onto a tray. Peyote buttons. Enough to get a football team loaded for a week.
"Tonight we'll clean them up," he said pulling four magnifying glasses from a drawer. "Tomorrow it is off to Neverneverland."
The next morning, after our blueberry pancakes and much coffee, we washed down our doses of Mexican magic and loaded all the gear necessary for a day's worth of dangerous as a bus tour for well heeled Chinese rubbernecking sightseers boating down to the dock and into the boat before the shit kicked in and we ended up sitting on the porch drinking beer all day.
Peyote, for those of you who have never taken its magic carpet ride, is the greatest high of them all if you are not drawn to the needle. It brings to life all about you. I especially like the way trees, the hundreds of thousands of trees that surround you in the Canadian wilderness, dance their communicative dance from their hillside dance floors. "Thanks for not cutting me down you wasted dumb ass logging motherfucker," they seem to say.
The fish too seemed happy to see us. "Thanks for leaving your fishing poles at home you crazy beer guzzling Canuck motherfuckers," they seemed to say when they jumped free as birds of their responsibilities below the surface of their home.
(For comparison's sake I wonder how happy the fish of now poisoned Quesnel Lake are. If any of the good people of Likely, Horsefly or the Beaver Valley have any peyote on hand (they surely do) I suggest they fuck scientific enquiry for a moment, get loaded on peyote and go see how happy the fish of the big lake are now Capitalist Greed has dumped the biggest of all possible shits on them.)
Such was our daily routine for well over a week. We came home refreshed, cleaned out. (Fuck all the other cleanses marketed to the wishful thinking. You want to clean yourself out properly? Get yourself some peyote. I am so clean Stephen Harper can see his reflection in my asshole.)