Chapter 18: A Flight to Port Hardy

Chapter 18: A Flight to Port Hardy, an excerpt from Robert’s international historical thriller “The Guardians of Stavka: The Deadly Hunt for the Romanov Gold.” This excerpt is set on Canada’s wild and beautiful west coast. Enjoy!

"Roger! We have clearance!"
The Lake Buccaneer suddenly surged forward, its 200 horsepower engine pushing bravely behind the bulbous fuselage. A slight chop in the harbour smacked viciously at the flying boat's hull giving the impression of bouncing across a giant, old fashioned washboard. Just as suddenly, the vibrations stopped and the seaplane climbed quickly into the pale blue sky with its cool, November sunshine. Vancouver fell away quickly as the plane banked and headed north.
"Port Hardy," cried the pilot with a confidential nod to his two passengers. "With luck, it's three hours up the coast." The heavily weathered face regarded Harry Travis. "Samson sure wasn't your daddy. Are you any good at pushing?"
"Pushing what?"
"This crate."
"You're kidding," muttered Travis, sensing the pilot ` might be speaking the truth.
Anna leaned forward from the rear seat. "Listen, the last time Birddog did a job for Uncle Peter, we sat on the Pacific, eighty kilometers from anywhere, in the worst fog I've ever seen."
"An expensive trip!" Birddog snorted. "It cost me thirty bucks at poker. The lady's a fast operator."
They laughed. In spite of the pilot's criticism of CSIS budgetary cutbacks which resulted in fewer maintenance checks, the amphibian flew evenly and well, and Harry Travis was afforded a slowly changing panorama of the rugged but spectacular west coast of Canada and the Strait of Georgia, the island-dotted sea lane separating Vancouver Island and the mainland of North America. The coastline was a labyrinth of channels and inlets, set with small, picturesque fishing communities, Indian villages, some deserted, beaches laced with huge sun-bleached drift logs, battered and scarred by winter storms of years gone by, and everywhere Travis looked, there were trees, millions of them.
They grew down to the sealine and extended like a thick, heavy green and brown carpet across every hill, valley and mountain as far as the eye could see. To the east, the huge Coast Range mountains, massive, humpy and heavy, like sleeping giants under a forest blanket, seemed to gain stature as they flew north. Already, the coming winter had dusted many mountain peaks with snow. Suddenly, to the west, the blue sky was dotted with white specks. Thousands of them.
"Snow geese," cried Birddog. "We're on the migratory flyway. They spend the summer nesting and raising their young in Siberia. They come south for the winter. If it's mild, they'll stay around British Columbia and Washington State, if not, they'll head for California."
Birddog Miller was a born flyer. Aviation was in his blood. Both his mother and father had been stunt flyers in touring air shows and circuses of the l920s. After being shot down twice in Korea, he flew construction planes during the building of the DEW Line -- the northern radar chain -- and later, while operating a charter outfit for hunters and sports fishermen, he crashed and walked two hundred miles through bush country.
Friends and clients called him "Walkabout" Miller because of his erratic, hair-brained flying techniques which resulted in several nasty upsets. Finally, broke and boycotted by customers and feeling the urge to see action, Miller flew Avengers and fought forest fires. One day, the Forest Service was desperate for a pilot to fly Birddog, the plane that carries the specialist forester over the scene of the blaze to direct the attacking aircraft. Miller's enthusiasm was overwhelming and he frequently returned with a fire-scorched plane. It was said forestry officers flying with Birddog, actually aged ten years in a week.
"Birddog's matured a lot since then," Anna said with a grin. "He's fun."
Harry enjoyed watching Anna talk, the lovely, well modelled face, the delicate, but animated expressions, the way she occasionally watched him, her face serious and held slightly to one side. Then she would smile. Oh, God! Why did it happen? Why couldn't he have tried a little harder, been more considerate of her needs, and less responsive to the bloody Corporation, the CSIS, Mainwaring's army. Reluctantly, Anna had gone overseas with him on what Henson had blithely called a "domestic" cover. All along, Anna wanted to work in Canada -- on the west coast -- and after scores of bitter arguments, several embarrassing scenes in front of friends, and an ugly divorce, she had achieved her wish and accomplished her objective.
"Oh, Christ!" Travis stared at the never-ending forests. "Anna's still the same,” he muttered to himself. “And I still love her!"
It happened when the Lake Buccaneer was over an hour out of Vancouver and north of Powell River with its huge, rambling pulp and logging operations, and the islands in the Strait were spread out and signs of habitation were rare.
"We've got company, folks," said Birddog.
"Where?" Anna responded instantly.
"A hundred-and-eighty degrees. Right behind us."
Anna and Harry twisted their bodies but were unable to see anything. Birddog veered the amphibian to the right and they spotted it, a black and white Cessna.
"A Skywagon. A Cessna quipped with floats. Yankee registration," cried Birddog.
"How long have we been followed?" asked Harry, suddenly disturbed. This was no time for encounters with Komadze and his KGB thugs.
"Since Vancouver. Frankly, it didn't bother me. Charters frequently fly near each other for company."
"Try changing courses," suggested Travis.
"I did. That's when I confirmed we have company."
The leathery face under a mop of bleached auburn hair, stared quizzically at Travis. "Would Uncle Peter want me to lose this I fellah?"
"Damn right!" Harry immediately regretted his words. The Buccaneer dropped like a rock towards the scattered islands below. Travis, his heart in his mouth, watched in dismay as Birddog, a hard grin spread across the leathery face, leaned on the controls with a terrifying nonchalance.
One thousand... nine-hundred...eight-hundred...the little flying boat smashed through growing levels of turbulence that shook the fuselage and violently buffeted the wings so much, the two passengers were convinced they would be torn off. Travis glanced round to check on the black and white aircraft, but all he saw was Anna's pale face and her white, blood-drained hands clutching tightly the safety harness.
"Hell! The bastard's following," snarled Birddog. "Get off my bloody tail."
The Buccaneer,.its relatively short wings flapping and protesting the sudden abuse, flattened out ten meters above the green water and swept quickly between the islands. Birddog manipulated the controls like a master. The amphibian hurtled first sideways, climbed over a small ridge of tall pines, then dipped quickly into a narrow waterway, twenty meters wide.
Travis, teeth clenched, watched in awe as the trees, broken by rocky cliffs, slipped by at a terrifying speed. Suddenly, the Buccaneer banked sharply, its right wing almost slicing the sea. Travis felt his stomach shaking. Birddog was grinning. He’s enjoying this, he thought. This was utter stupidity! There was no need for this unhealthy existence. Instantly, Travis realized the plane had turned about and was now heading south towards the black and white Cessna.
"See! There's the bastard!" Birddog's heavy eyes gleamed in triumph. "He's still coming."
Both Anna and Travis stared in horror as Birddog clipped the crowns of six firs and launched the little amphibian on a direct collision course with the black and white plane. "Hey, Miller!" cried Anna, tapping the pilot's shoulder. "You'll kill us, you crazy bastard. This isn't Korea!"
The Cessna Skywagon screamed past. Immediately it soared up and banked, slipped back to tree level and resumed the chase. Travis leaned back towards Anna. "It's Komadze! He wants to kill us."
"Damn! If only I had a Vickers," snarled Birddog, beads of sweat glistening on his angry face. Expertly, he raised the Buccaneer over a ridge of trees at the end of a bay, and immediately swept across the water with less than a meter to spare. "Okay, smart arse," he snarled. "Follow Birddog Miller -- if you've got theguts."
Miller shot the little flying boat through a jungle of heavily forested islands and thick vegetation. Wings almost sliced bushes and overhanging branches. The Buccaneer hurtled along perilously narrow waterways. Both Anna and Travis stared in helpless horror.
"There's an abandoned sawmill round the bend," cried the pilot. "A forest fire almost wiped out the entire place a few years back. The water bombers saved it though. Sunday pilots complained bitterly afterwards..."
"What about?" Travis was suddenly curious.
Miller said nothing at first, but sharply banked the amphibian to take a bend in the narrow waterway. Directly ahead were the remains of the sawmill, its buildings blackened and gutted. An old beehive burner had collapsed.
"This!" The pilot eased the plan up a fraction. "It's a rope lift. The mill crews lived on the other island."
The sun-bleached line swept underneath. Miller immediately dropped the aircraft, swerved up and banked. They were just in time to see the black and white Cessna collide with the rope lift. The weight of the machine snapped the rope, but the plane was doomed. A float spun away. A massive section of wing flipped into the sky while the main fuselage plunged heavily into the water, sending waves surging off in all directions. Travis and Anna stared in complete astonishment. "Port Hardy!" cried Birddog with a satisfied grin.
"Look, that's immoral. We can't just leave them there," cried Anna in disgust. "They may be hurt."
"They tried to kill us," snarled Miller. Reluctantly, he agreed to turn and a few seconds later, the plane was down and taxing towards the floating debris. Producing a well-worn paddle, Miller deftly manoeuvred the seaplane through the floating pieces towards the almost sunken main fuselage. It was empty.
"Hey! Over here!" On the shore, some thirty meters away, a man was seated on a pile of old cedar logs, hand-wringing his socks, with an olive green jacket spread on some bushes to dry in the weak sunshine.
"You bastards nearly killed me. Where's the Canadian hospitality, huh?"
Birddog paddled the Buccaneer to the shore and everybody got out. "You asked for it," snapped Miller, looking for an argument. "We got severe allergies when uninvited Yankee fliers sit on our tail. It's the Pearl Harbour syndrome in reverse. Understand?"
The soaking pilot was about forty. His short, wiry body seemed full of energy. A heavily tanned skin, a near crew-cut stubble reflected the traditional American of almost two decades before. Two small scars laced his right cheek. The man nodded sourly as the others approached.
"Look, don't get mad. My objective was to catch up to Mr. Travis," he said, suddenly standing and thrusting an open hand at Harry.
"Travis! You old cotton-pickin' son-of-a-sawn-off shotgun! It's great to see yah, baby!"
Harry immediately recognized the man. "Anna. Remember J.J. Curran? We were at Lahr, West Germany. He wanted you to teach him how to skate."
"Sure! At midnight!" Anna smiled as Curran gallantly kissed her outstretched hand. "We settled for another drink and taught each other obscenities in different languages -- Greek, Arabic, Hindu and Russian. It was fun!" Her eyes danced with pleasure. "Do you still work for...for the Pentagon?"
Curran nodded. "Langley. The Company," he said, referring to the Central Intelligence Agency. Moving back onto the logs, he continued wringing water from his socks. Suddenly, he regarded Travis with sharp, intense black eyes. "Harry, mind if I tag along? Washington is very interested in the Romanov gold."
The unexpected question, the unanticipated declaration dropped like a steam hammer on Travis' mind. No one, particularly Mainwaring, had mentioned U.S. involvement or cooperation on the hunt for the missing property of the Imperial Russian family.
"Sure! It's your ball game, big boy," added Curran, sensing a possible hostile reaction. But the problem is that the old ship, the S.S. Gaspar could easily have gone down in U.S. territorial waters -- that's Seattle down to San Francisco, or better still, within the Alaska territorial limits. That's a lot of coastline compared to Canada's 800 kilometers, huh?"
Travis was forced to agree that the possibility of the Gaspar sinking in American waters was much greater than sinking in Canadian waters. Still, there were indicators, positive indicators. It was a foregone conclusion that the big Indian, John-Paul was Canadian. It was a foregone conclusion that the "good people" to whom old Mrs. Kirke had thoughtfully referred, were Canadian -- Canadian Indians. Of course, thought Travis, Indians are notorious for ignoring boundaries or "white rules" as they call them, and customs and immigration officers have long given up attempting to discover if Indians passing through border crossings are American or Canadian.
Based on that argument, Travis told himself, the Romanov gold, the wreck of the S.S. Gaspar, may well be inside U.S. waters and Indians could well transport tsarist jewellery into Canada as a decoy for treasure hunters. Somehow, the theory failed to make sense. Hopefully, Anna's friends, Patty and Garnet Reed with their close affinity to the rugged, inhospitable coastline, would be able to offer more realistic theories.
J.J. Curran still uncomfortably damp sat next to Anna in the rear seat and the Buccaneer took off again heading for Port Hardy. Vancouver Island is some 450 kilometers in length and it parallels and protects the mainland from many wild and vicious Pacific storms. Northern communities, scattered and small, rely on mining, logging, fishing and recreation for their livelihoods. Port Hardy is one such community. For mariners heading north into the Queen Charlotte sound, the open Pacific or Alaska, it is the last port of call.

Copyright: Robert Egby – 2011

Now read the complete international historical thriller – “The Guardians of Stavka” by Robert Egby either in print or Kindle. The Guardians of Stavka Enjoy!

Chapter 56: The Other Side of Politics

Read an excerpt from Robert’s thriller of the 1960s and 1970s “Cataclysm ’79: The Day the River Stopped.” Historic fiction. Enjoy!

The Director of Public Relations, Douglas Babel, had been ordered by the Premier to devise a plan that would discredit Highways and Public Works Minister, Harlan Foxxe. He found the opportunity in two unwitting pawns: Civil Defence Coordinator Bernie Shapiro and Earth Sciences Professor Angus Drummond.
"There's something wrong in the Fraser Canyon," said Deputy Premier Fowler over the telephone. “Colonel Shapiro and Professor Drummond are seated in the outer officer wishing to speak with the Premier. The Civil Defence chappie claims we may well have a disaster tomorrow with thousands killed and injured. That TV geologist chappie Drummond, endorses the disaster theory."
"That's contrary to all reports we've received," said Babel cautiously.
"Exactly!"
"Shapiro," said Babel. "He's a bit of a hothead. Makes wild statements, disregards protocol. I'd be careful if I were you, sir."
"Of course. It's just that they're making a lot of sense."
"What are you suggesting?"
"The Premier should be involved. It's bad politics to ignore something potentially catastrophic," said the Deputy Premier quickly. "Shapiro's report completely contradicts those submitted by Foxxe’s people. In a phrase, how reliable is Foxxe?"
In that instant the Public Relations man spotted his opportunity, the chance to discredit the Minister. If it worked, if a positive plan could be developed, he would promptly benefit by taking credit and raise himself to an even higher plateau in government.
For a long time Babel had pushed himself in the corridors of power and lobbied with the influential for him to attend Thursday Cabinet meetings as a regular observer. It would be unique, satisfying and exceptionally prestigious.
If the plan backfires? What could go wrong? Babel shook his head vigorously. There were no such things as problems, only opportunities.
"As this involves the P.R. aspect of government," said Babel, "I'll arrange for the Premier to see Shapiro and Drummond."
"Good fellow," said Fowler. "Pity I can’t make it, I have a previous engagement."
Babel replaced the telephone. "Gutless bastard!"
Twenty minutes later in the polished wood paneled Cabinet Room behind closed double doors Premier Jason Canning accompanied by several close and trusted Ministers peered intently over an array of diagrams, maps, charts and photographs spread across the massive oak table. The atmosphere was tense. Most people were nervous and edgy, obviously reluctant to hear any more bad news but bound to give their complete and undivided attention simply because of the staggering enormity of the situation.
Both Shapiro and Drummond felt acutely uneasy as if walking on hallowed ground, as if a great spirit, some invisible, indefinable god was watching ready to challenge their every word.
"Colonel Shapiro, I understand the difference between a properly designed dam such as the Mica, the Daniel Johnson, the Aswan and the thing we have in the Fraser Canyon," said the Premier. "This is a natural rockfall dam lacking all the necessary investigations in hydrology, topography, subsurface geology. Surely, the sheer mass of rocks -- 180 million cubic metres, you said -- surely that defies possibilities such as piping. I mean, there's a lot of rock jammed into the Canyon."
"On the surface, you're right," said Shapiro. "We don't know what's inside the cavities, the imperviousness of the core, the general stability. It's an unknown substance."
"The whole thing is unknown," said Drummond heavily, "totally unknown."
"The spillway will add stability," put in Environment Minister Brock.
"The spillway adds nothing to stability," commented Drummond without looking at the speaker. "It simply guides the flow of excess water over the dam and prevents unnecessary and perhaps uncontrollable breakup."
The Premier cleared his throat and peered at the others gathered round the table. "Our reports," he said with hesitation in his voice, “confirm that if the spillway is built in time to convey excess water there will be no possibility of dam failure."
"No possibility?" Shapiro was surprised.
"Absolutely none!"
"You have been misinformed, sir."
"That's a serious statement, Colonel Shapiro."
"It's not meant in any other way."
"You realize you're challenging a Minister's report?" The Premier's voice was soft. The words were spoken just loud enough to carry to everyone present.
Drummond leaned forward both hands on the table. "Shapiro would challenge Moses if he honestly thought the great Law Giver of the Israelites was wrong," he said, his Australian voice thick with accent. "If your reports claim no possibility of dam failure you've not only been misinformed you've been led out the outback. It's a gross untruth and extraordinarily dangerous."
The Premier winced. For some time he stared at the two men, his hands feeling the maps, the charts and the diagrams as if trying to determine the message they might contain. Silently, he walked to the corner coffee table and poured himself a half cup of coffee. A glance at the little paunch below made him drop the cube of sugar back into the porcelain pot.
"Colonel Shapiro....."
Shapiro frowned. He hated the old system of military ranks carried into civilian life.
"Colonel Shapiro," said the Premier returning to the table, "when does this natural dam become dangerous?"
"Become?" Shapiro shook his head in amazement. "It became dangerous the moment the dust settled last Saturday morning and the river started backing up,"
"No, I mean really dangerous."
"What? If it fails today or tomorrow?"
"Yes. Total failure. What are we looking at?"
"Catastrophic damage. Widespread destruction," said Shapiro slowly. "Thousands dead. Perhaps 100,000 homeless."
"That's if you’re lucky and can get half the population to evacuate in time," said Drummond. "When four billion cubic metres of water come out of that Canyon there'll be a wall well over 100 meters high. When it hits South Vancouver it’ll still be 10 meters, maybe more. Most homes cannot stand a force of that magnitude. The Greeks have a word for it – kataklysmos -- a deluge! Cataclysm!"
Canning sensed the tension growing in the room among his friends and trusted executives."
"Come, come," he said with a condescending grin. "You're not on television now, you know."
"Screw it!" Shapiro had anticipated a cynical reaction, but not so bluntly. Slamming his clenched fists on the table, he blasted the words. Everyone was visibly startled at the sudden reaction. All eyes were on this unorthodox Shapiro but the unorthodox little man who dared to swear before the Premier did not care. He stared angrily at the group, the blood of Russia and old Israel pulsing through his veins, his small body attempting to maintain control of the anger boiling inside.
"What's wrong with you people," he cried hoarsely. "Can't you see disaster staring you in the bloody face? When the dust settled last Saturday morning that was just the beginning -- the birth of a disaster, the spawning of a cataclysm."
"Shapiro. It hasn't happened," said Babel interrupting. "Aren't you being a little dramatic? Overdoing it?"
Shapiro nodded at the P.R. Director, then pausing to wipe the moisture from his face, he walked away from the table and stood by the windows watching the holiday visitors wandering through the Legislature Building gardens, children chasing each other, people parading with ice creams, taking pictures, enjoying the scenery. Suddenly he turned on the quiet room.
"When that unplanned reservoir is full tomorrow it will hold close to four and a half billion cubic metres of water," he said in a soft voice free of emotional strain. "The only thing holding it back from wiping out a quarter of a million people and making a similar number homeless is a pile of rock. A pile of unplanned, unorganized rock which may be extremely unstable inside. It's an unknown quanitity and will remain so until our geotechnical engineers survey make tests, introduce reinforcement techniques, inject grouting and anchors. But that will take months."
Shapiro sighed, walked back to the table and started to roll up his maps and charts. "Mr. Premier, you suggested I am a military man. That's true. I'm uneducated in social analysis, but I wonder what sort of crime the historical analysts will pin on the politicians who sat back twiddling their thumbs and navel gazing refusing to acknowledge a disaster exists with the possibility of killing thousands of innocent men, women and children. It is a crime you know."
"Colonel, we're not the inhumane people you suggest," said the Premier sipping his coffee. "You must admit there were some pretty ambiguous statements made recently."
"Ambiguous? I don't understand."
"A national disaster. You told a meeting in Amber. You were quoted then forced to deny it," said Canning.
"Yes, but...."
"Credibility, Colonel. Statements like that impair one's credibility. The public will always think twice when they hear from you again, because...well, you blew it."
"No, sir. One of your ministers found it politically or personally expedient to deny it," snapped Shapiro who realized at this point there was nothing more to be lost so he might as well maintain the truth.
Jason Canning held up his hand with the same dignity and authority of a Roman Emperor tired of the games. It was a signal to stop the talk and get down to business. "What do you suggest. Colonel?"
Shapiro paused, his pale brown eyes regarding the half dozen men round the table. "Evacuation," he said finally.
"Evacuation?" It was a whispered chorus.
"Activate the Civil Defence Committees in all major communities including Vancouver," said Shapiro calmly.
"That's ridiculous!" P.R. Director Babel threw up his hands. The Party's image would suffer. Shapiro ignored the comment. "Evacuate everyone living within 15 meters of the flood plain at Vancouver. One hundred meters in communities directly below the Fraser Canyon." He leaned forward and swept his hand across shaded areas of the map of southern British Columbia.
"My God! You're talking about half a million people," muttered Environment Minister Brock. "It can't be done."
The Premier ignored his Minister.
"When, Colonel?"
"The population should be cleared of the floodpath for 48 hours, then if the dam holds return home on a one-hour alert basis," he replied. "That can be relaxed as engineers determine stability factors at the dam."
"The evacuation?" said Canning without blinking an eyelid. "When do you want to start?"
"Tomorrow. We'll start at first light. You can order a State of Emergency right now and call Ottawa for immediate assistance from the armed forces.”
The Premier shook his head and played nervously with his gold fountain pen. "They'll be problems -- people who panic and get hurt."
"We'll use the radio stations to achieve maximum organization," replied. Shapiro efficiently.
"Moving critical patients from hospitals. There may be lawsuits."
"All high ground facilities will be utilized. Hospitals, clinics, empty buildings such as schools will become temporary housing camps, kitchens, feeding places. People with relatives in the safety zones should ask to stay with them," said Shapiro. "We have a plan."
"There'll be claims of hardship from economic losses," said someone next to Brock."
“And it may never happen. We'll look foolish," said Executive Assistant Adams. "Do we have a choice?" asked someone else.
The Civil Defence Coordinator regarded the select group carefully with an almost detached far away expression. "Sure, you have a choice. The easiest alternative is to ignore the possibility of a cataclysm. Then if it does happen, initiate post-disaster emergency response and recovery. That’s the normal way. No one will blame you." "No one?" Brock was puzzled.
"No one, unless it was proved you were aware of the instability factors at the dam prior to the disaster," replied Shapiro. "Withholding a public warning of disaster could subject your Government to some very nasty charges including the willingness to trade lives for dollars and votes."
The meeting broke up with Premier Canning calling for an emergency Cabinet Meeting for noon to enact sections of the Provincial Emergency Programme giving wide powers to Environment Minister Brock and Civil Defence Coordinator Shapiro and designating the entire Fraser Valley and most of metropolitan Vancouver disaster areas. Communities of North and West Vancouver along with the elevated central Vancouver regions were designated reception areas. After hurried consultations with Shapiro and Drummond, Minister Brock called Ottawa to initiate Federal Government support programmes.
Meanwhile Shapiro and Drummond left in a Government jet aircraft for Abbotsford to prepare official announcements, brief municipal leaders and Civil Defence Committees, and implement an evacuation plan which had been on the shelf for as long as Shapiro could remember, but because of budget and obvious physical and political restrictions had never been tested.
Douglas Babel had watched the little Civil Defence man and his tall long haired geologist friend leave the Government Buildings, and found the pain in his stomach had eased. Allowing himself the luxury of a smile he walked into Adams' office. The Premier was there bent over several documents.
"Are you satisfied, sir?"
Adams and Canning looked up and stared at the P.R. man.
"Satisfied?" snapped the Premier. "I don’t understand."
"Well sir you said you wanted to discredit...a certain person," said Babel, suddenly wary and very uneasy.
"Discredit who?"
"This morning....in the car," cried Babel, his face flushing, his body running hot and cold.
"You said...."
The Premier appeared surprised, then he smiled innocently first at Adams, then at the P.R. man. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Babel. You must be dreaming. Are you feeling unwell?"

OOOOO

(c) Copyright: Robert Egby

Author's Note: For American-English readers the book was written entirely with English/Canadian spelling and most measurements are in metric.

Read Robert Egby's historical adventure thriller
CATACLYSM '79: The Day the River Stopped
at both Amazon and Kindle.

LET LIVING NOW SURPRISE YOU

When I was a kid which was a long time ago, my Dad used to entertain me by saying “Would you like to see something you have never seen before and will never see again?”

Being an Aquarian and always curious I asked him to show me. Making out as if he were a magician he took a walnut, cracked its shell to reveal the wrinkled two-lobed seed inside. “It’s the first time you have seen this,” he said holding it up for a few seconds. He then popped it into his mouth and said “You will never see that walnut again.”

I was probably six or seven years old and in those days it was father trying to entertain me, which he often did. It was not until many years later that I realized the significance, the deep root, the lesson he was sharing.

Understand and appreciate the Here and Now, the Present.

This morning I observed the blanket of snow which came in yesterday’s storm. The sun is shining today and the forest is a winter wonderland. We have a caged bird feeder – with suet, I think – and the birds fly in, take a few pecks, and fly off again to go about their daily business. I took time to sit and watch the sun coming into my day. It illuminated in a wonderful golden light the tops of the leafless branches of trees standing against a cloudless blue sky and I observed how the light gradually moved down the trees until it shone across the garden snow throwing long elegant shadows.

The sun, the flame of the Creator is having a great time entertaining me today. It was a passing thought.

Now someone with a busy life, rushing here and there may well say “We’ll, I’ve seen sunrises many times before. What’s so great about this sunrise?”

So I would remember the words of my father and say “I am seeing something I have never seen before and I am feeling thrilled and enjoying it because I will never see this morning’s sunrise again. It is history. Gone. A memory.”

Then someone may say: “Well, come back tomorrow and you’ll see it again.”

“Perhaps,” I say. “But it will never be exactly the same. It may be close and it might be entirely different. But you see while I enjoyed this morning’s sunrise, I do not remember it to compare or judge past or future sunrises I simply enjoyed being in the Here and Now on the morning of Sunday, February 10th 2013.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Treat every moment of every day as if you have never experienced it before,” I said. “Whatever happens in your life, allow yourself to be surprised. Realize the moment as it happens. It is now. When you are eating your morning breakfast, driving to an event, meeting someone, see it as the first time you have done it and it will take on a different dimension.” Judging and making comparisons can be one’s downfall.

For instance you experience a very emotional rendezvous with a lover. It’s a once in a lifetime event. “The Earth moved,” Hemingway wrote in “For Whom the Bell Tolled.” If you spend your life trying to find a lover and repeat that earth-moving experience, chances are you will fail and be dismayed. That’s the problem with judging and comparison. Allow each day and event in your life to be special.

Memory is essential in our lives but resist allowing it to destroy or influence the enjoyment of experiencing the Here and Now. Be aware of habitual judging and observe without comment, opinion and yes, judging and you will find you can enjoy life as it happens right NOW, this very moment. An old Yogi in Vancouver once asked me: “If you are not enjoying yourself right now, when are you going to enjoy yourself?”

Waiting to be happy is as misleading and disappointing as a promise to be happy. You cannot promise anyone including yourself that something in the future will provide happiness. Allow yourself to BE right now. In spite of living in a very busy and repetitive world there is nothing so original as being fully conscious and enjoying the Here and Now. Gurdjieff used to claim that most people are asleep and completely unaware of life around them. Practice being in the Now even for a few seconds or perhaps a minute and you will discover what I mean. Perform Now consciousness as if it were a brand new phenomenon. It is like cracking the shell of a nut to reveal something you have never seen before and when you eat it, will never see it again.

Right now, look from you window and greet the world as if it is new, which it is. It is Now.

Blessings. Robert

NOTE: This form of Higher Consciousness has been taught by various writers. They include the Mystical Sufis, George Gurdjieff & Peter Ouspensky, Vernon Howard, Jean Klein, Alan Watts and Eckhart Tolle. You may also wish to read my book “Cracking the Glass Darkly” which contains easy and practical methods for attaining a living consciousness in the Here and Now and Loving Yourself Unconditionally.

Treat yourself to a copy of Cracking the Glass Darkly and drop me a line afterwards. We always enjoy hearing from readers.

AMERICA: ARE WE BECOMING A NATION OF GUN-SLINGERS?

A freshman Republican congressman is in the news arguing that the 2nd Amendment could be interpreted broadly enough to allow ordinary citizens access to the same equipment that the military uses. Rep. Ted Yoho (R-FL), who turfed out longtime Rep. Cliff Stearns last November thanks mainly to Tea Party support, chatted on the Florida political blog The Shark Tank a day or so ago to discuss gun violence. Well, isn’t that just hilarious?

Allow ordinary citizens to access the same equipment that the military uses?

This way of thinking could produce some powerful results. For instance you might spot guys and gals rolling down to the local fleamarket in their M1 Abrams tanks, while the local preacher proudly shows parishioners of his latest acquisition: A silo complete with a primed long range ballistic missile in Idaho.

Or perhaps the guy next door who has a neat little weapon the crack 82nd Airbourne Division uses, the M-4 Assault Carbine which can also be fitted with an M-203 40mm grenade launcher. When asked, the guy is somewhat embarrassed and backtracks a little and says the M-203 is only a lightweight, compact, breech loading, pump action, single shot launcher. He fails to reveal that it has accessories such as night vision devices, laser point optics, telescopic sights, plus it has a a capacity of firing 700 rounds a minute. The gun-slinger may claim that all this in a nuclear age is peanuts.

Of course, the 2nd Amendment could cover fighter jets and drones too. Some people might think a nice white drone would look great standing on the front lawn surrounded by daffodils. It would certainly deter people such as bill collectors, freeloaders, the mail lady and the fellow reading the gas meter.

Those moguls with hefty bank balances who could and no doubt do afford triggering a few little wars in some remote third world countries to promote pharmaceutical or weapons sales to the injured and dying, could wear mink-lined T-shirts proclaiming “American War Lord. Try me.” He might be followed by a string of maidens carrying baskets of hand-grenades painted in loving pink with tags on the pins saying “Pull me.”

If only Thorne Smith were alive today he could do a much better and informed job of writing this blog than me.

Getting down to the reality everyone must realize that America has been trained consciously and sub-consciously by Hollywood to be a Nation of Gunslingers. This raises the question how do Americans travel with guns? Gun-slinging Americans would be more likely to drive the highways than fly because Homeland Security is not that blind that it fails to recognize an M-4 Carbine sticking out of your carry-on.

Another point. How do gun-slinging (my laptop keeps wanting to write gin-slinging) Americans get on overseas? Don’t they feel naked without their boom-booms? Or their “gats” as Jimmy Cagney used to say. One fellow told me the other day: “I need a gun wherever I go.”

If you are barred from taking guns with you on board a trans-Atlantic flight because of Security, the American gun-slinger tourist is naturally going to feel helpless in Paris, London or Rome wherever he goes. Now this has advantages for the cash-strapped European economy. Italian, French and British entrepreneurs could start up RAG shops – that’s short for “Rent-a-Gun” shops. But these enterprising merchants have to look after their own skins. They would demand signed provisos that you not “take out” the dealer. In addition the RAG shops would also require your finger prints (I’m surprised Facebook doesn’t do this already) or optical recognition (which my laptop does already) just in case you kill a few innocent people that you thought were brigands and pirates and the local gendarmes have an urgent desire to rendezvous with you.

Incidentally, automatic rifles, gun slingers and a weapon-based culture really takes the glamor out of death and killing. Guns are boring. Bang, you’re dead! No drama! Heck, if you don’t see a Hollywood movie with heroes chasing villains and car dueling on the freeway plus some hot gun-play, one is inclined to switch channels. So whatever happened to the good old days of dramatic daggers, garrottes, bows and arrows, Gurkha Kukris, machetes, bayonets and that historic Bowie Knife so named after that 19th Century American hero, Jim Bowie of The Alamo fame? Can you imagine Bowie carrying an automatic rifle?

That recent James Bond flick had a great idea for American law makers. Guns with finger-print recognition! A gun that could only be used by the owner whose finger prints are embedded inside the gun mechanism. (Great idea, JB.)

The American obsession with guns would be hilarious if it didn’t mean people living with the inability to trust their neighbors and the people they meet in the course of their days. The good old days of giving your neighbor a ride or picking up roadside strangers and giving them a lift into town has long gone. What happened to community block parties? Problem is guns create a lack of trust. For instance, the guy next door who collects military hardware might have an arsenal that includes a flame-thrower or even a napalm bomb. Heavy stuff for a community barbecue but not for community trust.

The lack of trust among neighbors chalks up positive marks for the folk who text. Texting is safer. You don’t have to meet the other person says someone in the wings. Well, that is until someone invents a texting unit that triggers a guided missile to take out your texting partner, wherever he or she may be.

They say that one person gets killed by gun violence in the United States every 17 minutes. No other country can match this record. Wow! Get your teeth on that bullet. So the point is, are we proud to be Americans that are fast becoming known as Gun Slingers of the World?

You must remember the old adage that goes: He who lives by the gun usually dies by the gun? So you might want to ask your financial advisor about investing your bucks in the funeral parlor industry.

A GLIMPSE OF SUMMERLAND ALSO KNOWN AS THE SPIRIT WORLD

(This is an excerpt from my 2009 book The Quest of the Radical Spiritualist. Enjoy!)

The Spirit World has been called all sorts of quaint names. The Bible names it as “my Father’s House,” Emily Dickinson called it “God’s Residence,” Isaac Watts named it “Mansions in the Sky,” Cardinal Newman “The bosom of our rest,” William Shakespeare entitled it “The Treasury of Everlasting Joy,” and Longfellow called it “The Great World of Light, that lies behind all human destinies.” The Yogi teachers named it “The Astral States,” or the “Astral Plains.” Andrew Jackson Davis one of the early promoters of Modern Spiritualism called it “Summerland.”

GOING TO SUMMERLAND

When the spirit leaves the body it is encased in an energy cocoon called the “astral body,” and it stays, generally invisible until the spirit has arrived at one of the reception centers or spheres. When the spirit no longer requires it, the astral body, like an old overcoat, slips back down through the vibrations and dissipates. Occasionally you may see one if you wander near a cemetery in the early morning light. It manifests as a shimmering wisp of energy. There is no consciousness, no life and so a discarded astral body is totally harmless. It normally dissipates after a day or so.

Meanwhile the incoming spirit is greeted by loved ones and friends, and soon after, upon the advice of spirit counselors, is placed in a resting center for what is called a soul slumber. It is here that the incoming spirit enters a contemplative meditation where life is reviewed and the ego is, to all intents and purposes dissolved.

There is no outside interference, no judging, simply a self-review of life and a discovery of points to be learned. Then the spirit sinks into deep meditation or as the Yogis say a “soul slumber” and the newly arrived spirit may stay that way for hours, days even weeks of our Earth time. It is a total recuperation period.

Occasionally the arrival process is disrupted by an incoming spirit who does not believe he or she is bodily dead and is no longer on Earth. So a mental struggle with counselors and teachers begins. The “staff” as Iro once referred to them, always win, and soon the spirit sinks into the review state and deep meditation.

NO DAYS OR NIGHTS IN SPIRIT

When the incoming spirit surfaces from a soul slumber, they are taken on a grand tour of the different spheres. Two things that impact new arrivals: the bright celestial sun is continuous. The curious thing is that one cannot see its origin. There are no day or night cycles because they are Earth phenomena. The other thing is the size. It boggles the mind. The Spirit World is an infinite Plain of Being.

Spirits in essence are light beings, elegant shafts of light, sometimes as orbs, sometimes as short streaks of pulsing light. Sometimes they manifest as reflections of their last incarnation.

During a short astral projected trip to the Spirit World, I had trouble recognizing my father as a 24-year-old when I had last seen him he was in his seventies. His brother, my uncle, appeared even younger, a teenager. My mother appeared as a sophisticated teenager. This is not a unique situation, many spirits reflect an image of who they were in the prime of the Earth life. It is nothing to do with ego, but simply a reflection of the prime time of their life on Earth. It’s like a living photograph, but it is alive. But like many things in our lives, it is also an illusion.

During his prime years on Earth, Dad was an electronics design engineer at Miles Aviation, Woodley, Berkshire, U.K. and worked on the team designing fireproof audio recorders for World War II test pilots. It ultimately became known as the Black Box. In the Astral States Dad had given up electronics research. He was now acting as a spirit guide for an Earthly researcher sifting through stuff in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings. Dad always loved pyramids, their origins, ancient civilizations and everything they stood for.

There are villages, towns and cities scattered across the landscape of the Spirit World. Big and small homes with gardens, trees, lawns in the rural areas, and tall skyscrapers, blocks of condomiums, shops and bistros in the cities.

That old bogey called Time does not exist in the Spirit World which accounts for the fact that many spirits making contact with loved ones through mediums, have no idea how long they have been gone from Earth, so they make wild guesses.

Buy a copy of The Quest of the Radical Spiritualist

CLIPPING THE EINSTEIN LOOK

Springing nimbly from my nightly rest, I stared at the image coming back at me. “You’re starting to look like Einstein,” I muttered quietly. “If it gets any longer you’ll be able to trade in some locks to the wigmakers.”

That was it. So after a poppyseed bagel and cheese breakfast (they say that bagels block hair growth – of course that’s pure nonsense) I hustled off to Frank’s place for a sharp remedy to my crop of graying bushy hair.

“What do you need,” said Frank.

“A clean-up. It’s far too long and getting out of control,” I said perching in his large easy chair. It was at that point that it dawned upon my dulled bagel-heavy conscious mind that I may have coined the wrong words.

You could tell that Frank was a skilled clipper. He not only looked as if he was a permanent fixture in the town, I had the feeling he must have been here to give the first settlers a clean cut. He may have been an Apache in a past life, but anyway I trusted him. When a guy flicks a cut-throat razor around with the skill of a juggler, there is only one word you can muster: Trust.

What a contrast to Lori the hairdresser Betty Lou and I go to in Watertown, upstate New York. Herb tea sweetened with honey as soon as you enter the door, a comfortable easy chair, happy-go-lucky conversation and a few choice clips of the scissors. In fact you can walk into Lori’s place looking like an out-of-work Einstein and come out looking like an Einstein ready for the White House. Lori’s a good looking operator too. She does Reiki in another room and that means a lot to most of her clients.

But this was the heart of New Jersey: Soprano-land, the birthplace of greats such as Bruce Springsteen, Meryl Streep, Jack Nicholson and Frank Sinatra. Frank the hairdresser is a smooth operator. Fast too. I was going to tell him about my kid out in British Columbia who has been a great ladies hairdresser for longer than I care to remember, but the possibility of a snowstorm heading our way stemmed the opportunity for relaxing conversation. My head suddenly felt cold.

I stared at the image in the wall-sized mirror and stifled a gasp. I felt as if a gale had blown off my wig, or someone had inducted me into the Marines. It was short. My baseball cap, a souvenir from New Mexico and the book I wrote “Holy Dirt, Sacred Earth” actually fitted on my head. It didn’t slide off as it did frequently with the Einstein mop.

“Thanks, Frank,” I said as I headed for the cold. “Nice work. Happy Christmas!” Well, you have to be nice when scissors and cut-throat razors are around.

When I reached home after wandering through the throngs cluttering up the aisles in Wal-Mart, and refusing to do more than the speed limit on Route 38 while everyone else was practicing for the Indy 500, Betty Lou commented: “It looks great. You look younger.”

Wow! I hadn’t thought about the age aspect. “It’s Frank’s version of a medium cut.”

“That’s a medium?” Betty Lou then wanted to know what a clean cut would be like.

“Maybe Frank was an Apache in a past life,” I thought. “A scalper?” No he was too nice a fellow. As I departed I let him know I’d be back in the late spring – once my hair gets that Einstein look again. It’s all relative, you know.

Holy Dirt, Sacred Earth: A dowser’s journey in New Mexico

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The Wonders of Creating a Special Place in Your Mind

There are two forms of meditation, passive and active. For many people, particularly those embarking on higher consciousness, being quiet, listening to the peace of the Cosmos or the Heart can be daunting. While passive is always a good goal to achieve in spiritual development, practicing passive meditation can be an oasis on the path, a place where one can reap the benefits of a relaxed mind and body, but also have some interesting activities.

An easy method for relaxation: Sit in a straight but comfortable chair, feet side by side, hands resting loosely on your lap. Focus on your breathing. Mentally watch your body breathing in and breathing out. Don’t try to change anything. Your inner mind will do it for you. After a minute or so, you will find your whole being slowing down.

When you are comfortable, create in your mind a Special Place, perhaps a beautiful garden, a meadow, a place in the forest or a mountain plateau. Spend time creating this and make it real. Make it unique. Know that this is your special place where you can always relax, so have a bench, a recliner, a hammock or a soft grassy bank on which to rest.

It is here you can give yourself positive suggestions such as “Every day in every way I feel better and better.” Keep on repeating your suggestions like mantras. You may wish to acquire a copy of Shad Helmstetter’s “What to Say When You Talk to Yourself.” It’s loaded.

For more creative activities in your Special Place, let your imagination, the amazing inner self create something for you. Know that whatever you do will reap benefits for your mind and body – even if you do nothing but simply relax.

For instance, if you are into sports you may wish to visualize yourself running. Create in your mind running tracks winding through meadows and country lanes. If you wish to improve your swimming, create an Olympic size pool and see yourself swimming. Feel your body as it plows through the water, or you complete a perfect dive from the 30 meter board.

When I was learning downhill skiing at Whistler-Blackcombe I would spend my weekday meditations imaging perfect skiing, turning, braking and stopping and always feeling the thrill of being on skis.

If you find yourself getting frustrated with your tennis game, see yourself adopting a better style with more energy and determination and less stress. It’s the same with golf. Many of the “greats” in golf image their games ahead of time. Your Special Place can also offer special benefits if you need healing or you wish to revitalize your energy after an illness.

One great and effective technique for energy recuperation is to image a beautiful rainbow arcing down into your Special Place with all the colors of the spectrum – red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. See yourself standing under the rainbow light and allow it to shower you. Stay in this light for several minutes, then step out and continue your meditation activities.

The Universe is full of healing energy and it is yours for the asking. In your Special Place imagine a great tree with its branches and leaves towering up into the blue sky. Now, see yourself walking to the tree and imagine you can place the palms of your hands on the bark. Now look up and see the thousands of tiny leaves and visualize them collecting healing energy. Watch as the energy runs down through the branches and the trunk and enters your hands and arms. It fills your body with wonderful healing energy and then flows off into the earth. Keep the energy flowing for several minutes and feel it warming and healing your body.

The secret to the effectiveness of all this imagery is the ability to focus and the desire to achieve. It also is important that all imagery be done in color. If you cannot visualize colors, sit or kneel on a lawn until you can mentally see the green with your eyes closed. Do the same thing with various colored objects until you have all the colors of the spectrum installed in your mind.

I once had a client who was told he had a form of cancer in his stomach and needed an operation. He created a Special Place on a volcanic island surrounded by stormy seas. He visualized the flowing fiery lava as cancer being extinguished by the powerful waves. He did this twice a day for two months and when his doctors checked they discovered there was no trace of cancer. This technique has no guarantees. When two other people tried it, the technique had no effect. It does demand an ability to focus and image in color.

Another healing aspect that you might enjoy if you believe in angels and spirit guides and that is to ask the Creator or whoever you pray to, to send a beneficial entity to assist in your healing. If shortly after you hear a voice asking if they can come into your Special Place ask who they are and do they come with Love and Light. If the visitor provides a positive response invite them into your Special Place and allow them to administer healing. You may also have just met a spirit that may be your friend and helper for a lifetime.

In all these healing cases, always make a mental note to thank the Universe. You’ll be glad you did. So enjoy your Special Place.

Note: Robert Egby is the author of the award winning book: “INSIGHTS: The Healing Path of the Radical Spiritualist. More articles on relaxation and wellbeing can be found at Robert's Home Web