Sooke

Sooke Potholes Provincial Park lies just north of Victoria BC.  When driving into the park one definitely has the feeling of entering a wilder area.  The morning we visited the park was rather drab and when we climbed out of the car it began raining and it didn't stop until we left. Mother Nature was trying to tell us something perhaps.  As we stood watching the water rush through the gorge we decided the little detour was worth the trip.  The biggest challenge of this particular day was keeping the camera dry.

The beautiful arbutus trees are only found within a few miles of the west coast.  They are beautiful and the rain makes the bark even more distinctive. 

Unto this wood I came
As to a nest;
Dreaming that sylvan peace
Offered the harrowed ease--
Nature a soft release
From men's unrest.
          Thomas Hardy

Coastal trees

Hiking on Vancouver Island can be sensory overload.  Not only does one see all the amazing vistas along the ocean, but the wind is wild against your skin, and the smell of the salt spray lingers in the air; the taste of it on the skin.  It's easy to become mesmerized and want to photograph the waves, the pounding surf, and the ships on the horizon.  But I find myself overcome by the details all around me, especially the work of the wind.  No matter where I am on earth, I am always amazed at how the wind can change a landscape, and in turn, how the landscape adapts to it.

  

"The pessimist complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails."   (William Arthur Ward)

By the sea 3

I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

from Sea Fever (v.1)

by John Masefield

By the sea 2

I must go down to the seas again,
     for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call
     that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day
     with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

from Sea Fever (v.2)

by John Masefield