Chester's Welcome—A Lovely Reprieve

 

The first dog who Chester, my dog, encountered in Chester, Nova Scotia, was named… Chester. We had arrived minutes before and while I gathered bags to carry them to our lodging above a mercantile, a bulldog and its owner sashayed by. Chester met Chester in Chester. It’s silly to select one’s holiday destination by the name of one’s dog, but I knew nothing about any of the small towns sited up and down the outer shores of Nova Scotia, Canada. They were pinpricks on a map to me. Chester got his first whiff of the two Chesters and it set his butt a-wagging.

The town of Chester is a fishing village with an annual sailing regatta and a summer tourism season. Late September was the “tail-end” of its season. Some shopkeepers spoke of closing up in the coming week. My dog and I were there for the last wag. I was in need of it.

I had been traveling for a month. I crossed the North American continent with the first half of the trip in Canada and the second half in the United States. My travels would extend into late fall or early winter, so I prepared for a slew of worrisome conditions: ticks, rain, snow, and ice. I worried about encountering smoke from the fires in mid-Canada; I even bought a dog’s respirator mask for Chester. The evening skies in Chester were colored by the smoke from a fire in a nearby Nova Scotia forest, but the fire was almost contained and one couldn't smell smoke. 

But then that dust storm was still blowing across the United States, causing grief everywhere, lasting far too long. No state left untouched. Dust storm? You might be thinking how did you miss that news? So, here is the gig. 

In the Bahá’í religion it is said that when a person uses his words to harm another person, they put dust on the heart of the person whom they intend to hurt and likewise put dust on their own hearts. In the U.S., listening to broadcasts, podcasts, or casual conversations—any political side or persuasion, this “dust” gets scattered with abandon. Uncivil signage on bumper stickers, t-shirts, and flags flicks it intentionally at any passing targets. We seem to be a country of civilians suffering from self-induced heavy hearts—insulted, angry, and unhappy. We are a country under duress, capable sometimes of dealing with it with humor, but so often instead with offensive language. Although the portion of my travels through the United States had been delightful and I had been with interesting and gracious people, I was feeling the effects of the unavoidable incivility. I arrived in Chester hoping for a dustless respite. 

Chester in his doggy way had no expectations beyond all the dogs he might meet be good dogs. Neither of us quite expected the reception we experienced. 

First off, I rarely passed anyone who didn’t speak to me. If they were walking in my direction, the conversation would be an extended one. Gracious. Casual. Friendly. Only twice, unsolicited, was there first an expression of sympathy about our American plight and then untoward disparaging remarks. 

The Kiwi Cafe was the epicenter of my Chester visit. Its kiwi green walls and welcome to all who entered made me feel warm-hearted. After hearing I had a dog, one waitress hurried out to meet him when later she saw me walking Chester. Another, advised me to take the commuter ferry to the Tancook Islands. On said ferry, an older island resident, a fisherman, engaged me in a lovely conversation; something that potentially in my country might have led to comments putting someone down.  

My birthday gift to myself—lobster eggs Benedict at the Kiwi Cafe

Chester's welcome for Chester was the best. He was offered a treat at every counter, even at the post office where he got a handful of bites from the postal clerk, who then proceeded to call the other clerks from the back room to meet the new Chester! He developed a habit of heading for any counter in sight. Chester taught Chester the way of a civil world. Even he noticed a difference; his heart singing at every counter encounter. No disaster in Chester. No dust on his heart, nor mine.

Photo Journaling: Barrie, Canada, to Maine

 

Even with the distraction of a gull sitting atop the head of a Canadian WWI infantry man, one cannot ignore the soldier's mournful look. His downcast gaze seems to express regret. We ask too much of men during war. In our sorrow for their fate, we glorify them by turning a likeness of one military man of any particular war into stone, an act oddly reminiscent of the plots in grim-ending fairy tales. 

After I entered the United States at Niagara Falls, I wandered east along the Erie Canal through formerly prosperous industrial towns. Most towns hung banners with photos of their "Hometown Heroes" of all who who had fought in American wars from their communities. So many men. A few women. We Americans are good at war.

***

I admired centuries of glorious house styles across New York, traveling south down through the Hudson Valley, eventually across Massachusetts, and into coastal Maine. The ingenuity of man was everywhere. 

Women were less in evidence. A muted pink in a garden reminded me of a color known to be favored by the female sex. A "scarlet A"—in actuality a half of a barricade hanging on a wall at Buttermilk Falls Park—made me think of women accused in that earlier time of adultery and where were the men then?

Essence of pink at Cornell Botanical Gardens

A new New England's version of a "scarlet A"

Henry Thoreau's Walden Pond...  reinvented as a swimming hole. 

I walked around Walden pond. I watched swimmers crossing and tykes a playing. Apparently the pond has been a swimming hole for some time. I was told it was once closed due to too much pee in the water. Now a bathing house is under construction at one end. A sensible solution. Still, I was expecting a meditative space. If one walks to the far side of the pond, one can stand by the original location of Thoreau's cabin; it is marked by four upright stones. There, it is quiet.

Men—once prosperous—leave tailings of rust.

Rusted factories in Amsterdam at abandoned Erie Canal mills.

A print of President Garfield hangs in the hallway of a house at Schodack Landing in Hudson Valley. 

This Second Empire or Mansard style house was built by a man running an ice house at Schodack Landing.

The house was built in the year Garfield became President of the United States. Tom, the current owner and caretaker of the house, has thoughtfully filled it with period furniture and memorablia related to President Garfield and his Cabinet. Staying there was a wonderful historical journey. 

 

Isaac Dunham, the first lighthouse keeper at the Pemaquid Lighthouse, was a distant cousin of mine.

I wandered the lighthouse's neighborhood looking for the grave of Isaac's father, Captain Cornelius Dunham. He had sailed the world before dying while visiting his son at the lighthouse. I had sketchy directions to his burial site. Although the lighthouse docents weren't sure where it was, one of them sent me off where he thought it might be located. I was thrilled to find it and returned to let the staff know where the little cemetery could be found.

A painterly-like view from Pemaquid, Maine shoreline. Rosehips and seagulls.

I visited various friends on the Maine coast. Each enthused about living in Maine and took me a wandering or directed me to sights. I could leave my heart in Maine. It tempts one to become an artist.

Shells at Carolyn and Tim's house.

View of lobster boats at sundown from Andi and Parke's couch. 

Ladder descending fishing dock in Stonington.

A Stonington view that would make a good painting.

 

In Gouldsboro, Maine, this lobsterman once held a sardine can.

The Deer Isle-Stonington Historical Museum explained that when sardines had been over-fished on the Maine coast and tuna became popular, the sardine canneries closed and were replaced with lobster fisheries. Although only men worked as sardine fishermen, women worked in the canneries. The museum has a delightful film about how much the women loved their work and the friendships they found in the canneries. 

Another statue of a man:

Quarryman statue in Stonington, Maine. Quarries nearby provided stone for numerous famous buildings.

 There is still a working quarry on an island in the area. A beautiful, strong statue.

And finally a woman's "statue." A scarecrow in a community garden in Milbridge, Maine. It seems fitting it is a female. The garden gives vegetables away for the picking to anyone in need of fresh produce. When women have more sway in the world, nobody will go hungry. 

A beautiful scarecrow.

Canadian Travels

 

This is a Canadian morning: sunny-side-up, dressing of mist, and a lake which is not optional. Crossing Canada west to east, I camped by water most nights. Even the Alberta prairies had cow ponds. On one of the two long days it took to cross those prairies, I moved in tandem with a thundercloud running ahead of me as if it were the gingerbread man calling out, “Catch me if you can.” The vastness of the land under an uncatchable cloud made me meditate on larger things—of men unrestrained by wilderness, of women following, and the courage of both. I camped that night on an island in a lake with the sun dropping red through smoke from fires further north. 

When I prepared for this Pacific coast to Atlantic coast trip, I considered a plethora of hazards and emergencies. I packed foul-weather gear, bought two brands of tick and mosquito repellants, and even purchased a smoke-repellant mask for my dog. But I was most worried about the hazard of not “seeing” the country I was to cross. Of fussing about the miles clicking by on the odometer and of arriving each evening weary and late at a reserved campground. I waylaid this worry by advance study. The Lethbridge train trestle (highest and longest train trestle of its kind in the world) is an example. 

I camped that night on the edge of Lethbridge in a most unremarkable campsite, but with a host, who when I mentioned my interest in the bridge, enthused about the it and how to access it. I might have been tempted to go to bed early and see nothing remarkable, but instead I headed out to find the trestle. 

The trestle’s construction reminded me of those antique Meccano child’s construction sets but upscaled to a giant’s play. The train trestle fit the range of the land and welded with my pondering the willingness of humans to go into difficult terrain and make things happened.  

The endeavor to connect eastern to western Canada with train tracks and a highway were engineering feats. Later in the trip, as I passed rock walls with their evidence of blasting, I wondered how much dynamite built these corridors. And how many lakes they avoided. And how many trees were felled.

Although most of the trip was seen at a large scale, I also looked at the eye and macro level. The wider vistas needed something to ground them. Some days I stopped to hike with Chester and some evenings, I wandered campgrounds and took photo shots. I especially loved the curls of white birch bark. And the bird in the bark.

Short hikes brought me other views. Whispy grasses on the edge of a lake.

Chester’s view of Canada was mostly by smell. His nose led him to a Newfoundland, who was also named Chester. Their connection brought me to a most wonderful Canadian. Hearing him speak of playing hockey, of his cabin near a lake, and his devotion to his now deceased wife—who had endured a long illness, tallied with my image of Canadians—of their tenacity and grace under difficulties.

I am sure this leg of my journey will remain in my mind fondly.

Light in an Ill World

 

I am setting off to traverse North America at a time when America’s contributions to advances in governance, education and science or to raising people out of poverty and eliminating prejudice is being truncated. It is a time when America’s promise to lead humanity into a more enlightened world-embracing perspective is being severed by snippets. Its light is dim in a world lit more by the illumination of weapons of war and flinty words than of the light of souls and of exchanges guided by respectful and loving qualities.  

As I travel, I expect to find America a topic of concern both within and without its borders. We know we are all connected on this earth. What harms one part of its body resonates within another. There is a sadness to having our current illness.

Some years ago, when I was grieving the passing of my husband, I would turn lights on in rooms I knew I would enter later. The inviting light made me feel less alone as if someone was already there waiting for me. In this current world of darkness, I hope to find many spaces during my travels where regardless of political persuasion or world view, they are lit with the understanding of our common humanity and love for each other as individuals.

It is only in this celebration of our commonalities, can we reignite the promise of America or the hopes for the wellbeing of the world’s body of humanity.

Half-Light, Mitchell Point Tunnel

 

Near sundown, angled rays of light scraped the underside of clouds to the west as I entered the newly reopened Mitchell Point Tunnel. Constructed in 1915 as part of the Columbia River Highway, the engineer, Samuel Lancaster, modeled the windowed tunnel after a Swiss version he had seen while touring Europe. Until 1953 car traffic enjoyed views looking out of the tunnel’s row of huge, elegant windows  towards Washington State across the river. When Highway I-80 was built as a two-lane road around the base of Mitchell Point, it necessitated the closing of the tunnel above. The windows were cemented closed and the tunnel filled with gravel. In the 1960s, the widening of the highway below into becoming the four-lane I-84 highway required blasting away the tunnel’s windows, emptying it of gravel, and leaving its former roadway as a shelf to catch falling rocks from the point above.   

Some time ago, I saw a postcard showing a Model T lit by the large windows as the car passed through the Mitchell Point Tunnel. I was enchanted. Not familiar with the tunnel’s history or its exact whereabouts, I would look for the windows as I drove the Gorge. I was never successful at spotting them until a day in 2023 when I was returning from Portland and looking up was startled to see windows appearing like an apparition of black-drawn holes in the gray basalt rock face. The state of Oregon had garnered funding to reconstruct the tunnel to become a stretch of the Columbia River biking and walking path. 

I texted my friend Bryan who was in the midst of a cancer regime (Waiting for the Results of a Biopsy), sent him a link about the tunnel’s coming reopening, and suggested that when he finished treatment, we’d make a trip to walk it. He passed away five months later, never having left the confines of Seattle. (After Death, The Wake) When the tunnel opened in April of 2025, I visited and took a rock of Bryan’s, one he had gathered from the tiny Canadian island he had owned. The smooth black rock—Puget Sound tumbled—was hand-sized; Bryan's spirit held in its pleasing heft. 

Chosing a day of partial sun and partial clouds, I envisioned taking photos out of the tunnel’s grand openings. None of the photos I eventually took and kept looked out the windows. The haunting light and the mostly inky black walls held my attention. Although the tunnel windows are monstrous, the northern light enters them gently. Each opening—rough cast with imprecise edges—lets in a half-light.

When you first enter the black maw of the western entrance, you walk in darkness a few moments before a curve in the tunnel reveals the first light. As you stroll through the tunnel, the echo of children entering behind you—the shouts of their initial trepidation followed by their laughter—announce their delight. I walked the tunnel back and forth a number of times and returned the next morning. Something about that sound of the children nagged at me until I remembered the name of a chapter titled “The Generation of the Half-Light” in When We Grow Up by Bahíyyih Nakhjavání. It was a Bahá’í-inspired book that influenced me as I raised my daughter.

Half-light. That was it. The shape of the light in one of my photos resembled a cartoon’s conversational bubble. If I had to fit the meaning (as it is defined in the book) of “half-light”  into the bubble’s confines, I suppose I would describe it as: “Half-light is the dawning illumination of a spiritual dispensation.”  The generation of children growing up in that light have one foot on earth and one stepping towards the realm of the beckoning enlightenment. Betwixt and between. As one walks the tunnel you pass through a repetition of darkness and light, darkness and light. The experience is like wandering into and between the worlds’ spiritual dispensations. Each dispensation, each prophet a light followed by darkness.

Stepping from the gloom into the light of each window, I— like the children—was delighted. The darkness a necessity to appreciate the light. We are walking through a dark time in the world right now. One in which a portion of humanity is bound as if blindfolded to their own capacity to become a beacon of love and kindness, to step out of a darkness of their own making. They spread chaos while stumbling blind. Exiting the Mitchell Point Tunnel, the fullness of the light seemed almost too much. And yet, I left with an exhilaration. Bryan’s rock in my hand, conscious of his good spirit in its weight. Buoyed by the illumination of the “half-lights.” 

 

"Salmon Weather"

 

March/April

It is “salmon weather” in the canyon. Cold nights, an occasional snow or sleet—the breath of winter lasting longer. A slight annoyance to those of us done with winter. During a brief warming period in early March, when we thought spring was here, the river was running high. It was tempting to begin planning what to put in my planting barrels. The river soon dropped enough to reveal new gravel beds where salmon might spawn in the coming summer. But for now, the return of wintry precipitation is making the water rise once again, sending its chilling effect towards deeper waters pooling downstream. The salmon will be happy with this infusion of cold water. They will need to traverse those pools during their upriver summer trek. Hot water kills salmon. 

                                   

This year one of my measures of “salmon weather” was a spigot of water arching off a rock wall in a wooded area down from my cabin. On some mornings, the spigot’s flow has been edged with ice, but dangling in its funnel were green filaments and the carapace of a caterpillar, evidence of last summer’s largesse and this summer’s bounty to come. I was puzzled at how water could spout from solid rock, but the mystery was solved a few days later when a sheet of moss peeled off the wall and the spigot disappeared. Water coursing down the rock face had been hitting a protrusion of moss. Now the bare rock glints with water.

Just down from where the spigot was located is a little waterfall flowing out from under a skirting of tree roots. Both the water flowing down the rock face and the waterfall's width were a barometer of the erratic weather.

Underfoot by the waterfall's splashing, the earth is spongy. And under that, beyond what I can see and feel, more water seeps through dirt and around stones—water which will eventually carry its “salmon weather” chill into the nearby river in time for those fall upriver salmon runs. In the meantime, the wet weather is brightening the moss all around the canyon, itself a habitat for snails, red mites, and at least one purple caterpillar riding on the back of a snail.

When I feel disgruntled at the return of cold weather, I remind myself once again of the spigot, the mite, the moss, and the salmon. I can set aside my petty human annoyance.

Maelstrom: situation in which there is great confusion, violence, and destruction

 

When I step into a stream to look for icicles, I come prepared with my insulated Salmon Sisters boots and a walking stick. My favorite stream tumbles down a narrow canyon across from my cabin. I tie my dog Chester to a tree and step into the near freezing water. Although I’ve come for the icicles, the maelstrom of bubbles at the foot of each small fall inevitably distracts me.

The bubbles rise and fall with a fury at the foot of each small rock shelf and sometimes construct creatures whose existence will be fleeting. I won’t see that exact same formation again. 

The water follows the rules of physics. It flows downward, accumulating more water from the sloping Blue Mountain hillsides until it empties into Mill Creek, the Columbia River, and then flows onward to the Pacific Ocean. Flotillas of bubbles appear below each drop-off in the stream. In the heat of late summer, the flow will be reduced to a trickle and the pools of chaos dissipate. I visit in the winter when over a few days the temperature has dropped below freezing and icicles will form along the stream’s edges. Some icicles appear very ordinary and others fantastical.

This winter the apparition of a screaming soul briefly appeared in the water’s movement and I caught it with my cellphone camera. 

It’s visage reminded me of how humans across the world are engulfed in maelstroms—whirling pools of hate and destruction, causing welters of pain, grief, and displacement. One might wish or even actively put a foot into these whirls like a boot in the stream and try to turn the tide into something more worthy of humanity. When I step into the stream with my Salmon Sister boots, I am looking for beauty in the ice and in the bubbles, but I know my presence is fleeting to the stream. I can’t change its molecules or its destiny. Likewise, even with the best of my intentions and heart, it is unlikely that I can deter almost any of the destruction fomented in the world today, but my Faith asks of me to do something different, something hopeful, something indubitably wise. 

The Bahá’í Faith is the world’s newest world religion. It is a young one-hundred and eighty-years-old prophecy. It is also the world’s second most widespread religion, accomplished without paid clergy. I mention this fact because each individual Bahá’í is responsible for their own spiritual development. We are guided by the writings of the twin prophets, the Bab and Bahá'u'lláh, and an administrative order that includes The Universal House of Justice, but we each are responsible to endeavor to see that the laws of spiritual destiny follow their course.  

Today’s world havoc was predicted—is predictable.  As the old-world order crumbles, as old-world perceptions no longer function, chaos ensues. Consider one shift. Through science, we now know that all the people of the world are one people, related to each other in varying degrees of distance. We know that skin color has to do with a human’s adaption to the sun, to levels of melatonin in the skin, and has nothing to do with their intelligence, capacity, or spirit. If you were stuck in the old-world paradigm, you might be unable to see a person of color as your equal, as your brother, as your soulmate and therefore treat them accordingly.

Like ice facing ice and not recognizing its similarities.

The Bahai Faith, asks of me to observe the laws of the spiritual destiny of mankind. In my understanding (and this is only my interpretation of the Faith’s writings) it will only be in the transformation of man can there be an end to this world condition of dismay and discord. As a Bahá’í, I am asked to look for the beauty in every soul who crosses my path. To offend no one. Were each of us—worldwide—of every nation, race, occupation, political persuasion, wealth, social standing, or religion to find it within each of our fellow humans our common worth, the world would aright itself and begin abiding by the spiritual law of unity. It’s the joy, the delight, the intentional human connections that will eventually bring wide and lasting settled pools of peace.

Drop by drop, soul by soul it must happen.

Link to more information about the Bahá'í Faith: Bahá'í US