Not my pigeon

We have an extraordinary, trajicomic situation on our hands tonight involving three Iraqi-Canadian gentlemen and three birds. 

A lost pigeon adopted us mid-April when it found birdseed in our garden. I have been feeding it ever since, and it has not left, making itself at home, often reminding me to serve it food and water, but not letting anyone come close enough to catch it. The other day in hot weather it distinctly asked me for a bath and, when I provided this, it sat in it with great pleasure for five minutes before fluffing up its feathers to preen and getting out again, wildly flapping its wings to get rid of the wetness, rather like a dog shaking itself after a swim in the river.

It was months before I could lure the pigeon close enough (it had started eating sunflower seeds from my hand before backing off) to decipher the ID tag on its leg, which turned out to be a phone number and the name Samir Ma[+ three more letters]. After a few guesses and some online detective work by Chris, we got through to the person whose name and number this was; he does keep pigeons and lives seven hours drive away, too far a distance for such a bird to have travelled unaided; we then discovered that it had been sold for $50 along with a large number of other fancy pigeons to a man who lives in Barrhaven on the edge of Ottawa. 

Because none of the men in this story (except for Chris) speaks English as his first language, communications have been another challenge. 

I asked Samir for the phone number of the Barrhaven gentleman and called him this morning, woke him from a deep sleep, I fear; he was fairly incoherent and apologised later. He eventually sent me a text message asking for a photo of our resident bird. When I sent it he replied with the classic (British English) phrase: ''That is not my pigeon!'' And in any case he did not want any more pigeons because a doctor had advised his wife to avoid them.

Reporting back to Samir, I expected to hear no more, but this evening a third gentleman, who lives in a more accessible part of Ottawa, contacted me to say he was coming over straight away to catch our bird for his friend. He arrived with net and cage after a difficult drive in the rush hour, twice calling us to ask the way to our house, but failed to do any catching. As I'd predicted, our pigeon approached the seeds we put out for it but as soon as it detected a twitch of the net it flew up onto the roof, of course. And so on, multiple times. This creature is not stupid and appreciates his freedom (after four months we finally have confirmation that he's male). 

The third pigeon fancier then proposed he should drive back home to fetch two tame pigeons that he promised would lure ours down to join them. Our feathered friend did notice his would-be companions, the ''Indian'' one fluffling out her tail most seductively, but he would not play at this game. 

After a long wait in the dark, in the drizzle, with a cup of strong coffee I had made for him, the poor bird-catcher has now left me with the net and cage, taking his two other birds home. They hopped onto his arm as good as gold and he held them both in one hand as he left. Apparently they will sit still in the car, no problem. Our male pigeon is back on our bedroom window ledge completely out of reach, sheltering from the rain and settling in for the night.

Now what? We have to set off on a week's trip away in a couple of days, leaving any birds and other animals there may be on our property (a mouse has just scavenged for the remaining seeds on the patio) to their own devices, and the pigeon may not survive our absence.

To be continued.

From tumbling water to still water

On Saturday, following a complicated route to avoid Highway 17 for the sake of a change of scene, we overshot the entrance to the Eau Claire Gorge conservation area near Mattawa. We'd been driving up and downhill along unsurfaced or heavily sanded country roads through farmland following Google directions. Turned the car around to try again from the other direction and found it near a small church. Strictly speaking, the conservation area was closed for this early spring season but the entrance gates weren't shut, so we went in anyway, manoeuvring the car carefully around the fallen trees that lay half across the road. Another car was in the parking lot at the start of the trail and its owners were having a snack at the picnic table there.

"The water's really moving today," the man warned us. "Take care!" As we set off into the forest to follow the White Trail the woman hurried after us to warn us where the dangerous sections lay. Keep away from the edge of the cliff, was the gist, in case we were to slip on the pine needles. She also advised us to watch our step over the roots and rocks on the trail, rightly so, as that uneven surface continued for two kilometres. The walk began with an obstacle to climb over or under or pick our way around, a freshly fallen tree. Much of the ground off the trail was soft and muddy from recently melted snow. A beautiful forest though. We could hear the river ahead, at the top of the gorge.

The water made waves as it came rushing by. Falling into the river, we wouldn't have stood a chance of survival. We followed its bank and the path rose onto the rocky sides of the gorge. A big yellow sign said DANGER and the steps for the descent were sealed off. Once we worked out where the alternative path led, we could step down the slope to the right. A sturdy stick I'd found steadied me; I move along very slowly on this kind of hike so Chris has to keep stopping to wait for me to catch up. 

At the bottom end of the gorge the river spread itself out into rapids that gave the illusion of being higher than we were, and on the shady side was an accumulation of remaining snow, most of which had compacted itself into a veritable icefield, across which cedars had fallen. We picked our way over this to the far side then started climbing a fairly steep slope back into the woods to walk under tall maples, cedars, hemlocks, spruce, birch and pines. The smell of the sap and the pine needles was lovely.

We passed a hut with moss growing on its roof, the reconstruction of a loggers' cabin. You can go inside when the summer hiking season officially starts.

The rest of the day brought us views of calmer water, as we skirted a series of blue lakes on the drive back to Mattawa. In the evening, we observed from various park benches how the surface of the two rivers seemed to capture and retain the light that was slowly vanishing from the sky, having left the golden mountainsides in deep purple shadow.

This morning (Sunday) we left Mattawa to return to our aeroplane parked at North Bay, so as to fly home; before we reached the airport I insisted that we stop a moment on the shore Lake Nipissing, where there wasn't any wind, so that the water was utterly smooth, and here I saw my second loon of the weekend, diving. It isn't visible in this photo:

At Mattawa

In the Ojibwa language Mattawa means “Meeting of the Waters” --- specifically these are the waters of the Mattawa River and the Ottawa (aka Kitchissippi) River.

For the first time in ages (two years plus?) today we  travelled to somewhere we hadn't seen before. Admittedly our flight to North Bay was familiar enough, over the Pembroke area and the Algonquin Park, with a crosswind landing at the destination competently done by Chris. But then the FBO man handed us the key to the FBO's Volvo (promising us a cheaper rate than the airport car rental companies), and we drove it east along the 17 to Mattawa where we are spending two nights on a whim. It is peaceful here, just what we need, and we're taking advantage of perfect spring weather.

We can imagine the 17th century explorers and 18th / 19th century voyageurs camping on this point, lighting a fire and watching the sun set with their Algonquin companions who had known the way here for millenia. Etienne Brulé and Radisson were the French pioneers who came here.

We aren't sleeping out of doors but at Le Voyageur Inn that has a very friendly low-key atmosphere, clean, tidy and well run by a family from Asia who serve Thai food in their large restaurant, clearly a favourite place for the locals to dine. Everyone seems to know one another here. In its heyday at the start of the 20th century Le Voyageur must have been the place to meet, as it's one of the largest buildings in town, with a big balcony and dormer windows.

I can also imagine our late Ottawa-Vanier MP Mauril Bélanger growing up here as a boy ("our" MP because we used to vote for him). A river bridge across the Mattawa proudly bears his name. The town must have a sizeable French-Catholic population to judge by the large, strikingly modern church with two schools for the children of the parish adjoining it, plus a Garderie for the little ones called Rayons de Soleil.

A railway crosses the Ottawa River here, just beyond our hotel room windows in fact, and this afternoon we heard and saw a goods train rattling by.

There's one more thing worth mentioning before I fall asleep and that is the giant Joe Muffraw (only the francophone raftsmen could pronounce his real name properly: Joe Montferrand) carved out of a large piece of lumber, who stands by the waterfront park, a man of legendary strength and ferocity, especially in the 1820s when he frequented these parts of Canada. There's a story of him canoeing from Mattawa to Ottawa in one day, surely an exaggeration? and of him knocking 100 men down at once who had been waiting to ambush him on the Portage Bridge in Ottawa. That story reminds me of Cryrano de Bergerac:

Cent hommes! Quel courage!

Still cold

It's March now, and the windchill is still in the minus-20s, although the ice-clearing operations on the Rideau River allow us to see clear water from the park by our street. Chris' operation hasn't yet taken place despite the fact he is on the Emergency List. Yesterday he waited for the pre-op consultation in a room full of people wearing casts and slings on their limbs. It is that time of year.

Today I have three meetings to attend: the German conversation that I'm hosting, a preparatory meeting with the next guest speaker on our Environment Action program, and a meeting with University Women Helping Afghan Women at which we are meeting Marie-France Lalonde, the Parliamentary Secretary to the Minister of Immigration, Refugees and Citizenship Canada.

Fast forward

Hard to believe it is still February, so much has happened. Since the dramatic end to the truckers' protest there has been no lull in the drama of one thing following another, all very troubling except for a relaxing little trip for the two of us with a night in Kingston, to be described in a separate post. On the drive home from Kingston, tuning into CBC radio, we heard the Federal Government's response to the invasion of Ukraine by Putin's military forces, the deputy PM Chrystia Freeland giving an impressive, slowly enunciated speech in three languages, English, French and Ukranian. Though born in Alberta, her mother came from Ukraine, it seems, and Freeland herself, Minister of Everything, as the Globe and Mail very recently described her, has a Master's degree in Slavonic studies from Oxford University. Her page on the government website also says this about her:

After launching her career in journalism as a Ukraine-based freelance correspondent for the Financial Times, The Washington Post, and The Economist, Ms. Freeland went on to various roles at the Financial Times of London. She then served as deputy editor of the Toronto-based Globe and Mail between 1999 and 2001, before returning to the Financial Times as deputy editor and then as United States managing editor.

The news from Ukraine, reminiscent of the news from Afghanistan, is so upsetting I'm having a hard time forcing myself to follow it. I feel for our pacifist daughter Emma who speaks Russian and once lived for three months on the outskirts of Moscow; she has fairly close friends / colleagues both in Russia and in Ukraine. And I know someone from Kiev, that we must now call Kyiv.

Ice has coated the whole of eastern Ontario to the extent that, if you're a skater, as some are, you can skate the length of the runway at Rockcliffe airport, as well as the taxiways.

Then on Friday Chris broke his arm and wrist while clearing snow off the steps by our front door. There was thick, uneven ice under the snow there, that we hadn't done anything about since our return from Kingston. He broke the ulna and radius plus several of the little wrist bones. At the Montfort Hospital he was efficiently and kindly dealt with by the Emergency staff who made two attempts to realign the wrist bones by force, under a local anaesthetic, with no success until the second attempt; then they put the whole of his lower arm in a cast and sent him home for a very belated supper. 

At some point next week he is going to be called back for surgery under full anaesthetic; we have no further details about that yet. Since Friday night he's been suffering a lot of discomfort and some sharp pain which we're dealing with by means of Tylenol and various distractions. He's sleeping reasonably well so far, but a normal night's rest isn't possible. We'll have to get used to this as it will take at least seven weeks for the injury to heal. Although it's the left hand that's out of action (he's right-handed, thank heavens) I now have to help him with many things we usually take for granted he can do by himself, and he can no longer help me with housework and such. 

It's all rather time-consuming, but not so bad for me as for Chris who keeps suffering from instant replays of his fall on the steps which make him shout with dismay. Apparently the downtown residents who were tortured by the honking of truckers' horns day and night are also suffering from something of this sort: phantom honking, like a very unpleasant kind of "Ohrwurm" (as the Germans call it, a song you can't get out of your head). This is Post Traumatic Stress.

On Facebook, about 100 people have sent Chris get-well-soon wishes and wise advice to me, friends have come round to help in various ways (Carol, our go-to person in times of stress, has been particularly supportive, driving back and forth to the hospital in treacherous driving conditions when I didn't seem up to it) and our family members overseas keep on calling us by phone and video to say comforting things. We had four friends round to supper on Friday.

At the second attempt today, we did manage to fit Chris' sling on top of a winter jacket without too much agony resulting, so we went for a very short walk round the block between snow squalls.

My brother-in-law and sister have been put through the mill as well, he having just got through open-heart surgery to install (wrong word?) a missing heart valve with a valve from a cow's heart. He was in hospital for nearly a week this month.

The Rideau River ice clearing operations continue. They have started to dynamite the ice.

Getting rid of the protest

Police are undertaking a massive clearance operation today, arresting the ringleaders of the Trucker Convoy protest and beginning to get the problem vehicles out the way. I'm following the live report from the CBC. Their photographers are having some trouble with their camera batteries because of the cold, and have to climb over mounds of snow to get their shots.

It is Day 22 of the Ottawa crisis. This morning the police calmly moved into Rideau Street and other streets near the parliament area in squadrons from various parts of the country, and then the Mounties joined in also:

The protesters are standing around just watching the police operations at the intersection of Rideau Street and Sussex Drive, identifiable by their lack of masks. Some of them are wrapped in flags which may or may not be keeping them warm. There's still a windchill in the minus-20s.

The Sûreté du Québec police have donned their gas masks, which makes one wonder what may come next. There seems to be a cautious approach because they are aware of our international audience.

The courts have to process all of the arrests today, which is going to make it a long day; so far 70 people have been arrested, says the police chief (at 3:30 p.m.). The police seem to be making serious efforts to avoid too much use of force although they are carrying guns. At one point the CBC filmed a family group among the protesters, with children (crying) gently being led out of the way. Apparently two family groups with seven children per family(!), are staying in their hotel today. There are pets down there too, although they had been warned that the pets could be confiscated.

All of the downtown core is closed down today, shops, public transport, everything.

Tow trucks are lining up on Nicholas Street, some of them disguised as police vehicles to protect the drivers from future harassment from protest supporters. Their usual logos are covered over. The stubborn truckers who have now been parked on Wellington Street for three weeks. They are building barricades out of snow after the big snowfall last night, ostensibly to keep the police out. "A bit of a symbolic barrier," says the reporter, because it obviously won't be as effective as a concrete barrier. Their slogan for the last few days is "Hold the line!" Some truckers have decided to leave voluntarily now. Others are still there, hoping the rumours that the police will come over to their side at the end, are true. I don't think that's likely.

The protesters are still using their stage for amateur concerts. According to one reporter, it's still a "festive atmosphere!" 

The carrying out of their deliberate and methodical plan will take time, says the police chief.

The Protest

Just now, in Ottawa, the truckers' convoy protest looks more like a party than a serious protest. They have been partying with their thousands of supporters for 17 days now, in the heart of town, on Parliament Hill. If it weren't for the minus 25 wind chills on some of those days (current conditions minus 21, feels like minus 28) you'd think it was a premature celebration of Canada Day. And perhaps that's the point. The people in this demonstration were lonely, restless, frustrated in multiple ways, probably desperate to let off steam and experience some togetherness because "the government"--- by which I fear they mean everyone who isn't on their side --- has neglected them. But they particularly loathe Mr. Trudeau, condemning him in four-letter words or the Quebec-French equivalent (Tabarnak! Calisse!).

I have been struggling to find valid reasons for behaviour that shocks me and most of my friends. The rebels are like disruptive teenagers in a school classroom. They have brought the business district to a standstill. How is it possible to forgive these people for the fumes of their idling trucks and the noise pollution from their honking horns? One night they were particularly loud and non-stop, deliberately honking outside the Bruyère Hospital because a few health-care workers have been sacked for their refusal to be vaccinated against Covid before coming to work. That night an old lady died at this hospital with her daughter alongside her, who said that noise was "brutal." Did anyone apologise? I don't think so. I also know an Afghan woman traumatised by the violence in her country who has recently moved to Ottawa and given birth to a little girl. The noise keeping her baby awake caused her great distress. I heard of another downtown resident who has moved out of town for the duration. 

As my brother-in-law often says, the veneer of civilisation is very thin. The gentleman at the fruit and vegetable shop I frequent at the market has locked the door. He calls the intruders "barbarians" and only lets me in to shop there because he recognises me and knows I'll wear a mask.

A hot tub is being used by the more flamboyant members of the demo. They have also brought in whole drum sets and a stage for impromptu concerts. Barbecues on Wellington Street. Some demonstrators are spending the night in their trucks; others can afford to sleep at the Chateau Laurier, it seems. Numerous children and flags everywhere (Canadian, Quebec flags, flags from the USA). The excuse for the noisy party is that this is a "Freedom Convoy" which means that the participants cannot endure mandates. Initially they disapproved of the new regulation that wouldn't let them drive across the border into the USA unless they had proof of vaccination. That has changed into a rebellion against "all mandates." 

A few in favour of the protest have been arguing with me; here are some (paraphrased) comments they made: 

• If you had come from an eastern European country and lived through the communist régime, you wouldn't approve of mandates and restrictions. Canada has turned into a "police state."
• To me personally --- "At your age your future is limited. You must understand that progress must happen and you are not part of it." (I rose to the bait and replied that I would continue to be "part of it" until I dropped dead. We disagree on what "it" is, of course.)
• The protests are not only warranted, but absolutely necessary, because all levels of government are failing to uphold people's rights.
• Having to wear a mask or queue for a vaccine brings on panic attacks in people suffering from mental disturbances such as PTSD, so they shouldn't be obliged to do this.

A kind-hearted, long-time friend of ours has been bringing the Parliament Hill demonstrators homemade muffins every day. She says: 

thousands of Canadians have been fired because they didn't want a forced medical procedure or [their] businesses had to close because of the lockdowns so they've lost their homes, can't pay the rent and worry how to feed their children [...] It is so distressing to see these decent hard-working salt-of-the-earth [vaccine refusers] be demonized and bullied by a bunch of salaried, comfortable stuffed shirts.

I asked her why anyone would refuse to be vaccinated, with that much to lose, and in reply I received lengthy descriptions, with reference links, of why Covid vaccines don't really work and how medical intervention, encouraged by Big Pharma, messes up one's immune system. One's body has the ability to recover from Covid unaided, is the implication. She adds: 

Previously highly respected and eminent doctors, scientists, epidemiologists, virologists are censured, belittled and discredited as quacks spewing misinformation when they express concern or raise questions or offer alternatives. The physicians’ governance body demands strict obedience to a new ruling where doctors can no longer use their own discretion in dealing with individual patients but must impose the arbitrary Covid protocol. They are no longer allowed to give any exemptions for philosophical, religious or medical reasons.

For the sake of our friendship, we had a civilized phone chat and then agreed to stop pointlessly arguing about it. 

The other one who disagreed with me simply said, "Get off my wall!" So I did.

A more objective comment from a friend who grew up on the Prairies was that people from out west like to make their own decisions without being told what to do, because in the past, they have had to.

Anyway, Ottawa citizens against the protest are starting to make their position clearer as well. A counter-demonstration this weekend successfully blocked a line of trucks when they stood in the road holding up placards that said, TRUCK OFF!