Judging a Book By Its Cover

I’m a fan of YouTube videos, especially those dealing with UFOs, ancient archaeology, conspiracy theories, the paranormal and other hard-to-explain phenomena. The Internet is crawling with them however there are clues to the value of such material even before clicking ‘play’. If the title includes any or all of the words: shocking, stunning, mind-blowing, insane or jaw-dropping, then I won’t watch it. Similarly, if the thumbnail depicts a grey alien or a traditional flying saucer then I am on guard.

All of the above are examples of ‘click bait’ and unless I have very good reason to watch (for example a solid recommendation) then I move on. I know from experience that the more enticing a video tries to appear, the less credible or reliable it is likely to be, and therefore less interesting or informative.

If I have chosen to sample a video and the introduction is a mess of thunderous drumbeats and quick-cut editing then I’m gone. Sadly today’s world is awash with such nonsense; a triumph of style over substance. Just occasionally one stumbles across a rich seam of worthwhile material. One such has been the output of private documentary filmmaker, Richard D Hall, a native of Tyneside who takes it upon himself to investigate many areas which are regarded as off-limits or taboo by the mainstream media.

I am half way through his seventy or eighty films under the Ufology category. It’s a revelation to see how many highly credible, intelligent and very high-ranking individuals have put their experiences into words or on paper. I recommend a visit to his site, Rich Planet where he puts all his material online for free.

I have already watched all his documentaries concerning the 2007 disappearance of Madeleine McCann in which he is highly suspicious of the parents, and produces a mass of evidence, direct and circumstantial, against them. There is plenty of food for thought.

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On a lighter note, self-serve checkouts! I can’t be the only one who talks back to them, surely? Some are acceptably direct, Atlantic Superstore for example. Others are quite calm and polite, like Sobeys. However the one which annoys the bejesus out of me is the shrill bitch at Wal-Mart. One millisecond after you scan your item she’s bleating, “Put the item in the bagging area” in an irritated, sassy voice. Give me a damn chance! I’m doing it! If she doesn’t detect the tell-tale feel of weight in the bagging area within an instant she comes on even stronger, waling at me as if this is my last godamn chance.

I snap back with liberal use of the F word. At the end of this distasteful experience she has the gall to enquire, “How did we do today?”

You did crap, I mutter as I grab my item and head for the door where, I might add, I am now met every time by a staff member who wants to check my receipt against the single bloody item in my hand. I simply glare and ignore the suggestion that I - “have a nice day!”

Brookvale Demonstration Woodlot Hike

After a morning of baking, crosswords and The British Formula 1 Grand Prix, we ate a lunch of toasted tuna sandwiches and drove out to Brookvale. In the woods opposite the ski slopes are numerous plantations of specific trees, hardwood and softwood, firs and deciduous. The areas are all labelled and give the planting date, many reaching back to the 1960s.

In January we had snowshoed from the road after climbing the snowbank but this time we could drive half a kilometre up a dirt road to the small and deserted, grassy parking lot.

A number of start and finish points are signed and, following a quick glance at the GPS and liberal squirts of insect repellent, we set off north into the trees.

On a 26c day we were immediately grateful for the shade. We looked left and right at the various woodlot signs (tree identification made easy) and kept an eye out for the gnarled exposed tree roots which had been under a couple of feet of snow and ice the last time we were here. A number of patches of wild mushrooms, blueberries and strawberries grew in areas of sunlight. Here and there we saw insect traps which, we read, are set in order to assess what beneficial insects are attracted, and also what threats.

After a shortish but rather hilly hike of under three kilometres we were back at the car in a little over an hour.

Winter River Hike

The Winter River Trails at Suffolk showed a very different side from when we snowshoed there five months ago. On Sunday it was 27c with very little wind and insect life was in full swing. The complete route is 6.4kms and the elevation change around one hundred feet, so plenty of uphill slogs and downhill slithers during our two hours and ten minutes of hiking. But that is to get ahead of myself.

In the gravel parking lot at the trailhead we paused to slather on sunscreen and insect repellant.

 

"Are you walking like that?" Susan asked, pointing to my face. I glanced in the car door mirror and saw I had unabsorbed sunscreen spread on my nose and cheeks and a good part of my glasses frames. A quick rub and a final primp in the mirror and I was good to go!

 

The Spring melt has uncovered exposed tree roots and fallen branches. Nonetheless the path was not difficult for us seasoned walkers! We saw very few people, and none when we reached there remote northern loop. That was where we had our nicest surprise of the day.

 

There was a mighty clattering in the high branches above us followed by the airy thumping of huge wings. To judge by the colour I first thought this was an osprey however when the bird soared out over the river we could see it was a juvenile bald eagle. We stood quietly on the river bank and watched and listened. A number of young eagles were squawking for food and we saw them chasing the parent birds looking for handouts on the wing.

 

In all we counted around twelve American Bald Eagles with at least seven perched together in the upper branches of a single tree. Watching them fish in the Winter River was a truly exciting spectacle as they swooped down and raced across the water, dipping in briefly to grab their prey.

 

After this personal demonstration we were pleased to find four large feathers, each at least a foot long, which the girls will be happy to add to their collections.

 

 

Strathgartney Provincial Park and Port-la-Joye

 

 

The last time we were here the trails were under a foot or two of snow and ice and our feet went numb snowshoeing. Today was a balmy spring day, dry underfoot and a cloudless sky above. We decided to follow the same route as in January to compare times. In snowshoes the 8.6kms had taken us two and a half hours whereas today we hiked it in two hours ten minutes.

 

Very few people were about despite it being the first really decent weekend of the year. Several newly felled trees lay tossed in the undergrowth to keep the path clear. We saw lots of evidence of melt water run-off.

 

After crossing the four-lane Trans-Canada Highway, we walked on an access road which petered out into grass with a narrow, central paved strip. Double yellow lines gave the game away. This had been the former route of the Highway before several recent rounds of straightening and re-routing. The landmark radio mast at the top of the hill shows definite signs of a list to the north. At about five hundred feet tall it is held by numerous guy ropes and a fall seems unlikely

 

On returning to the car we sat and pondered activities for the rest of our day. It was too early to head for home so I suggested a drive to Rocky Point, a small peninsular on the western side of the entrance to Charlottetown Harbour.

 

Fifteen minutes later we parked and wandered into the tiny Fort Amherst Provincial Park at Port-la Joye. This was declared the seat of government for early settlers to PEI in the 1700s. A sensible decision at the time as its natural port location and elevated position made strategic sense for defending the harbour entrance. Nowadays the buildings’ former positions are only revealed by grassed-over earthworks and the city of Charlottetown, on the land side of the harbour, looks much better positioned, with no threat of invasion, for distribution, transport links and control of the island.

 

The Pink Floyd Experience - Harbourfront Theatre

The lights dim and the deep throbs of that long familiar heartbeat pound through the sound system. The snatches of voice, cash registers and ominously ticking clocks of ‘Speak to Me’ herald the start of the show. Susan leans into me and mouths, “Oh gosh I’ve got goose bumps!”

 

We are in Summerside at the Harbourfront Theatre for The Pink Floyd Experience, a respected tribute act from California. The opening track, the overture to 1973’s classic release, Dark Side of the Moon, reaches its howling crescendo and gives way to David Gilmour’s sublime slide guitar intro to ‘Breathe’. We are just two songs in and already it’s clear the band is as close to the real thing as anyone is likely to get; musicianship of the very highest standard with guitar tones, keyboards and vocals perfectly faithful to the original.

 

I spy the soft glow of a phone screen and mere seconds later the ‘camera police’ come marching down the aisle to advise the shooter he must desist. A tad harsh, I think. (It doesn't deter me from taking pics myself later.) After the cacophony of chimes explodes at the start of ‘Time’, those huge power chords slam in. The music is loud yet clear. Gilmour’s layered guitar parts are fully covered by two guitarists and that famous searing solo is note-perfect.

 

‘The Great Gig in the Sky’, starting with a quiet progression of chords over which we hear the immortal words, “I am not frightened of dying, any time will do”, sees the female backing singer step forward to deliver a breathtaking rendition of this expression of death, capturing the raw emotion, the terrifying intensity and harrowing sadness.

The album builds to its thunderous climax and every detail is rendered exquisitely, from the rich breathy tones of tenor saxophone to the studio sound effects.

Bowing graciously as the closing heartbeat pounds out, the rhythm guitarist announces a short intermission. The house lights go up and we pause for breath and take stock of our surroundings. The hall is just over half full and I note that the average age is, as to be expected, on the high side. There are faded, vintage tour t-shirts, more than a few bald heads and one rat-like thin, braided ponytail! Our position just seven rows back and slightly right of centre is perfect. Susan to my right has no one sitting in front of her and has an unobstructed view. I have an asshole on my left who chooses to shout at a friend mere inches from my ear and leaves his seat to squeeze past me three separate times during the performance. Needless to say, I gave him the stink eye!

Part two is a selection of greatest hits from the Echoes compilation, all performed with style and devotion by a band deeply steeped in the Pink Floyd back catalogue. ‘Wish You Were Here’ brings out a few swaying cigarette lighters but these are swiftly extinguished by the ‘lighter police’ who swoop on offenders without mercy.

Gus Beaudoin, close to seventy, strides around the stage in a long black trench coat and launches into the hammering bass solo in ‘One of These Days’ drawing rapturous applause. We are all on our feet for the show closer, ‘Another Brick in the Wall’, and the band links arms and bows to a tumult of applause.

Set list:
The Dark Side of the Moon (cover to cover)
- Speak to Me
- Breathe
- On the Run
- Time
- The Great Gig in the Sky
- Money
- Us and Them
- Any Colour You Like
- Brain Damage
- Eclipse

*Intermission*

Shine on You Crazy Diamond
Learning to Fly
Echoes
Have a Cigar
Wish You Were Here
One of These Days
Comfortably Numb
Run Like Hell
Another Brick in the Wall

We scurry out into the cold and jump into my car, smartly stationed in advance by the exit to the parking lot while we had eaten our Subway dinner an hour before the concert. Finally, we have a sweet fifty minute drive home during which we recall the highlights of a fantastic evening. I’m thrilled Susan was able to enjoy her first rock concert in some twenty years!



 

Bonshaw Hills Snowshoeing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After an early lunch of grilled cheese sandwiches (ridiculously early if you subtract the time change) we drove to Bonshaw Hills Provincial Park. Susan’s snowshoes have developed a tear where the bindings rub so she was on library shoes whereas I was trying out a pair newly bought from Sportchek.

 

The sporting gods smiled on Susan and gave her wonderful passage on all types of terrain whereas they frowned on me. Within minutes I knew these shoes weren’t up to the task. On the gentlest of inclines I had little grip and when the ground rose I was sliding.

 

We had selected a long route and were insistent on accomplishing it so we forged ahead regardless. Was it a smart idea to take a side trail called the Witches Way? No, it turned out to be truly evil. Ropes were strung between tree trunks to give the unsteady climber a fighting chance. Despite them I slithered and stumbled, cursing my way up a steep slope. Susan waited at the top having scampered up like a nimble young gazelle.

 

At three kilometres and seventy-five minutes in we took stock. I had been breaking trail on virgin snow for several minutes and I was getting tired, not to mention frustrated with slithering so we chose to turn around and trudge back. My feet had long since turned numb with the cold yet I could feel squishiness in my socks. I realized I had been relying on my three year old Gore-Tex boots for too long.

 

By the time we were back at the parking lot I was more than ready to jump into a warm car and head for home. Tomorrow will be returns day at Sportchek.