even if you couldn't see it--
consider the drama...
on the longest darkest night
the moon is full
then its light too gives out
creating a dull red opaque face
looking back at you and all the ancestors
since this last happened in 1638
imagine Jan Ver Meer, age seven, in Delft.
painting his first picture.
eye on the detail,
pupil in the moon
camera obscura in the sky
those who came before
were not so much frightened
of the spectacle
as they were respectful--
that is what we've lost
in how far we've gone
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Thursday, December 16, 2010
ridin' the rails
so i asked forrest
what was the best part about taking
the Via rail from Sudbury to the Cdn. Rockies?
he sd.--the jam session in the dome car!--
with brushes on a tissue box, harps & guitars.
syncopated with the rhythm
& the engineer's whistle wailing in F
there is hope for Canada, for youth & the rest
it didn't end with the festival express
music still happens on a train goin' west.
what was the best part about taking
the Via rail from Sudbury to the Cdn. Rockies?
he sd.--the jam session in the dome car!--
with brushes on a tissue box, harps & guitars.
syncopated with the rhythm
& the engineer's whistle wailing in F
there is hope for Canada, for youth & the rest
it didn't end with the festival express
music still happens on a train goin' west.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
blogging the bog cranberries
harvesting the wild today
as november 9th weather co-operates,
two stones throw from lake superior.
red berries in standing water,
probably enough vitamin C in this bog
to nourish the entire hemisphere
as november 9th weather co-operates,
two stones throw from lake superior.
red berries in standing water,
probably enough vitamin C in this bog
to nourish the entire hemisphere
Saturday, November 6, 2010
grey jay by any other name
Grey colour predominates
as tamarack needles
paint the earth gold and fade.
November turns the sun away from this hemisphere.
The further north, the greater that denial is.
If I ever entertain doubts about having relocated
to the north country, thoughts vanish with the return of
Wisakedejak, the whisky jack
Canada Jay, the camp robber,
Perisoreus canadensis, the grey jay
As the sun dips, jays leave their green forest boreal home.
Wisakedejak and her lifelong mate cache food each day
in the clips of spruce bark. Skillful and smart, ghostly and gifted,
they sweep out from the treetops,
to engage humans like no other species.
Landing on your hand,
taking the bread from a hatbrim,
or pausing to look you deep in the eye,
there can be little doubt of why you chose this place,
or why it chooses you.
jeffrey riordan hinich, copyright 2010
as tamarack needles
paint the earth gold and fade.
November turns the sun away from this hemisphere.
The further north, the greater that denial is.
If I ever entertain doubts about having relocated
to the north country, thoughts vanish with the return of
Wisakedejak, the whisky jack
Canada Jay, the camp robber,
Perisoreus canadensis, the grey jay
As the sun dips, jays leave their green forest boreal home.
Wisakedejak and her lifelong mate cache food each day
in the clips of spruce bark. Skillful and smart, ghostly and gifted,
they sweep out from the treetops,
to engage humans like no other species.
Landing on your hand,
taking the bread from a hatbrim,
or pausing to look you deep in the eye,
there can be little doubt of why you chose this place,
or why it chooses you.
jeffrey riordan hinich, copyright 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Agawa Falls
or as it was called in 1903 by Stewart Edward White, “Big Falls”.
I could borrow his para-phrasing when he wrote, 'I'm not going to tell you how far...or exactly where it is'. Suffice to say that the round trip hike exceeds five hours with only a quarter-hour allowed in full view of the mighty eighty-five foot drop. Still, no words can fully scribe it, no film will show its deep mystery. Only an artist's sketch and a reel or two might reveal what lies beneath the veil.
In SEW's “The Forest”, speculation centred on what lay above the cataract, whether the pools were placid, or the trout prodigious. Nearly in sight of the falls, White and Towab's fishing party of a hundred plus years ago veered off towards Howling Wolf & Black Beaver Lakes. Breaching the upper canyon, they descended to “Big Falls” from its northern reaches, thus completing a great ellipse of the territory.
Today, I solo into that steep valley after a night of intense rain. The Towab trail is soaked through, each rock and root has the capacity to hurl the hiker. On one occasion, it did just that as I crossed above a smaller falls, recovering after a few lost steps. If I can't find my way, it will be days before I'm discovered. Perish the thought. The thunder blood pounds before the view as I clamber from the Towab, out onto a precipice where doubtless others have stood before.
The lore of the Agawa says that in 1916 members of the Prairie Club made this trek all the way from the mouth of the river. I see the ladies in their parasols and long dresses, the men with bowlers and their smokes.
Today's result is the same.
Upon arrival it takes your breath away,
then doubles back,
flooding in with emotional drama.
Spray lifts up in chorus.
Healing ions permeate.
There is this now only...
and Agawa spills away~
Jeffrey Riordan Hinich
copyright 2010
I could borrow his para-phrasing when he wrote, 'I'm not going to tell you how far...or exactly where it is'. Suffice to say that the round trip hike exceeds five hours with only a quarter-hour allowed in full view of the mighty eighty-five foot drop. Still, no words can fully scribe it, no film will show its deep mystery. Only an artist's sketch and a reel or two might reveal what lies beneath the veil.
In SEW's “The Forest”, speculation centred on what lay above the cataract, whether the pools were placid, or the trout prodigious. Nearly in sight of the falls, White and Towab's fishing party of a hundred plus years ago veered off towards Howling Wolf & Black Beaver Lakes. Breaching the upper canyon, they descended to “Big Falls” from its northern reaches, thus completing a great ellipse of the territory.
Today, I solo into that steep valley after a night of intense rain. The Towab trail is soaked through, each rock and root has the capacity to hurl the hiker. On one occasion, it did just that as I crossed above a smaller falls, recovering after a few lost steps. If I can't find my way, it will be days before I'm discovered. Perish the thought. The thunder blood pounds before the view as I clamber from the Towab, out onto a precipice where doubtless others have stood before.
The lore of the Agawa says that in 1916 members of the Prairie Club made this trek all the way from the mouth of the river. I see the ladies in their parasols and long dresses, the men with bowlers and their smokes.
Today's result is the same.
Upon arrival it takes your breath away,
then doubles back,
flooding in with emotional drama.
Spray lifts up in chorus.
Healing ions permeate.
There is this now only...
and Agawa spills away~
Jeffrey Riordan Hinich
copyright 2010
Sunday, September 5, 2010
Portage to Twab Lake
Summer, 2010
The portage trail between Wolfe and Twab Lakes has been used continuously for
dozens of generations. Today, Rick and I grapple with the canoe, while we are ever vigilant for any sign or sensation that may point us towards the great man himself, John Tawab, the spirit keeper of a speckled trout lake that today bears his name.
We have both made the effort on this beautiful day, sharing an abiding connection with Tawabinisay, the Man-Who-Walks-By-Moonlight. Celebrated in the books of Stewart Edward White and Charles B. Reed and in the lore of a hundred previous years, Tawab's legend has always been here, linked to the waters near Lake Superior and to his people. Rick has also written and recorded a song that reminds us that Tawab “gave thanks to his Manitou”. We do the same at the foot of this historic portage.
This is my third attempt to reach the lake this spring, having fallen short on
previous tries from the eastern approach. Today, we follow a road in from the Lake Superior side, before launching our canoe on a sandy reach of Wolfe Lake. This large water body is blessed with islands of all sizes and descriptions. Short see-through passages nearly touch Twab and Hawk Lake on its northern flanks.
In 1978, my friend Joe and I portaged and paddled from Achigan Lake through the Mantyla trails to sleep out among the stars on one of Wolfe's many islands. En route we passed August's tilt, his dove-tail trapper's cabin built around 1930, covered in mossy cedar shakes . We never reached Twab on that trip, resolving to soon return. Some thirty years later that promise is finally kept.
In the intervening time, I've learned that the cultural history of this land
is inextricably linked with this elder and spirit guide who continues to shape my life.
Born around 1865, Tawbinisay was a member of the Agawa band living near the mouth of the river. A famine swept the village in 1879. As it was recorded at the Hudson's Bay Post, “the grave site increased in size that winter”. Tawab witnessed that tragedy as a young man, perhaps resolving to place his faith in the land and waters that sustained him rather that in the supplies that might or might not reach the post.
He does not seem to have become embittered by the cross-cultural impacts of that period. In Stewart White's 1903 book The Forest, he writes, “Tawabinisay has a delightful grin...he tries to teach you, to show you things, but he never offers to do any part of your work” Later, White pays him the highest compliment, saying “he is the most gloriously natural man I have ever met”.
I have taken to the trail in earnest these past years, to Burnt Rock Pool, to his namesake lakes and portages, to visit the band elders, and to the sweat lodge itself in an effort to connect, learn and give thanks. Today, Rick and I watch for the blazes on the old cedars and the yellow birch. I touch the flecks of wood revealed by the axe so many years before. Launching the canoe on Twab Lake, the offshore wind soon blows us along the western shore. The lake is dark, running deep under our canoe, spooling from its spring fed source. Rick takes a few casts, while I scan the shore for white birch or anything that might signal the site of Tawab's camp, if indeed he really lived here.
In 1900, Tawab's traditional grounds were on the Agawa, where he led early explorers and fishermen to Black Beaver and Kawagama Lakes in search of prodigious speckled trout. In later years, he settled near Batchewana Bay. The lake we paddle today is a mere ten miles inland from Superior. According to the elders I have spoken with, such a distance would present no obstacle to the Ojibwa travelers of that time. At a cabin on Achigan Lake, another ten miles to the east of Twab, I have seen his picture, taken with moose hunters in 1930. Perhaps he even shared his knowledge of the trails and cedar boat building skills with August, whose Hawk Lake site is only a few shouts away. The generations between us have faded, but the path remains certain, though you may have to crawl on the earth to read it.
The portage trail between Wolfe and Twab Lakes has been used continuously for
dozens of generations. Today, Rick and I grapple with the canoe, while we are ever vigilant for any sign or sensation that may point us towards the great man himself, John Tawab, the spirit keeper of a speckled trout lake that today bears his name.
We have both made the effort on this beautiful day, sharing an abiding connection with Tawabinisay, the Man-Who-Walks-By-Moonlight. Celebrated in the books of Stewart Edward White and Charles B. Reed and in the lore of a hundred previous years, Tawab's legend has always been here, linked to the waters near Lake Superior and to his people. Rick has also written and recorded a song that reminds us that Tawab “gave thanks to his Manitou”. We do the same at the foot of this historic portage.
This is my third attempt to reach the lake this spring, having fallen short on
previous tries from the eastern approach. Today, we follow a road in from the Lake Superior side, before launching our canoe on a sandy reach of Wolfe Lake. This large water body is blessed with islands of all sizes and descriptions. Short see-through passages nearly touch Twab and Hawk Lake on its northern flanks.
In 1978, my friend Joe and I portaged and paddled from Achigan Lake through the Mantyla trails to sleep out among the stars on one of Wolfe's many islands. En route we passed August's tilt, his dove-tail trapper's cabin built around 1930, covered in mossy cedar shakes . We never reached Twab on that trip, resolving to soon return. Some thirty years later that promise is finally kept.
In the intervening time, I've learned that the cultural history of this land
is inextricably linked with this elder and spirit guide who continues to shape my life.
Born around 1865, Tawbinisay was a member of the Agawa band living near the mouth of the river. A famine swept the village in 1879. As it was recorded at the Hudson's Bay Post, “the grave site increased in size that winter”. Tawab witnessed that tragedy as a young man, perhaps resolving to place his faith in the land and waters that sustained him rather that in the supplies that might or might not reach the post.
He does not seem to have become embittered by the cross-cultural impacts of that period. In Stewart White's 1903 book The Forest, he writes, “Tawabinisay has a delightful grin...he tries to teach you, to show you things, but he never offers to do any part of your work” Later, White pays him the highest compliment, saying “he is the most gloriously natural man I have ever met”.
I have taken to the trail in earnest these past years, to Burnt Rock Pool, to his namesake lakes and portages, to visit the band elders, and to the sweat lodge itself in an effort to connect, learn and give thanks. Today, Rick and I watch for the blazes on the old cedars and the yellow birch. I touch the flecks of wood revealed by the axe so many years before. Launching the canoe on Twab Lake, the offshore wind soon blows us along the western shore. The lake is dark, running deep under our canoe, spooling from its spring fed source. Rick takes a few casts, while I scan the shore for white birch or anything that might signal the site of Tawab's camp, if indeed he really lived here.
In 1900, Tawab's traditional grounds were on the Agawa, where he led early explorers and fishermen to Black Beaver and Kawagama Lakes in search of prodigious speckled trout. In later years, he settled near Batchewana Bay. The lake we paddle today is a mere ten miles inland from Superior. According to the elders I have spoken with, such a distance would present no obstacle to the Ojibwa travelers of that time. At a cabin on Achigan Lake, another ten miles to the east of Twab, I have seen his picture, taken with moose hunters in 1930. Perhaps he even shared his knowledge of the trails and cedar boat building skills with August, whose Hawk Lake site is only a few shouts away. The generations between us have faded, but the path remains certain, though you may have to crawl on the earth to read it.
Monday, June 7, 2010
31 degrees Fahrenheit
frost warnings go out tonight
across the north country--
dark of the moon
covers new potatoes
with ice shadows
sky clear
with distant stars
from a planetarium of light--
not much heat gets here
lost in transition
across the north country--
dark of the moon
covers new potatoes
with ice shadows
sky clear
with distant stars
from a planetarium of light--
not much heat gets here
lost in transition
Monday, May 31, 2010
wind in our sails
May 29, 2010
one hand on the tiller
another on the deck
we catch wind
winding us through the north channel
blue waters among green islands
tacking back and forth
new stories scatter in the breeze
later on at the song circle
guitar & drum
banjo & voice
lift up to a rising moon
tribal medicinal songs
one hand on the tiller
another on the deck
we catch wind
winding us through the north channel
blue waters among green islands
tacking back and forth
new stories scatter in the breeze
later on at the song circle
guitar & drum
banjo & voice
lift up to a rising moon
tribal medicinal songs
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