By LeRae Haynes
Special to Tribune/Advisor
This fire season, with evacuations and heavy smoke, has definitely had an impact on my morning walks.
I walk, with a great deal more enthusiasm than grace, seven to 10 kilometres every single day, thundering down the road with a suspenseful audio book in my headphones, and my walking sticks flailing.
There were days when the air quality was dreadful, and exercising in it sounds ludicrous.
I read that the head of respiratory medicine at St. Paul’s Hospital in Vancouver advised against wearing surgical masks.
They don’t really block what needs to be blocked, and you breathe heavier in them anyway, pulling in more harmful particles.
He suggested that people who are going to be working long hours outdoors wear an N95 mask – a far more serious and effective apparatus that can block out 99 per cent of harmful particles.
So, I opt for a soaking wet bandana tied over my face. My son saw a picture of me garbed for the smoke, brandishing my sticks, and said, “Mom, you look like you’re going to start a riot.”
Contending with smoke is only one of the challenges I’ve faced during my morning treks. I’ve been chased down the road by a five-point buck, and have had my fair share of dog encounters.
I had the living daylights scared out of me one morning, pounding down the road with Lisa Scottoline telling stories in my headphones.
I caught motion out of the corner of my eye, and turned to see two big dogs racing down a driveway at me full-tilt.
Heads lowered, tails down, hair raised and growling, they tore out onto the road behind me.
My heart thunked up between my tonsils and my eyebrows shot to the back of my head. The pit bull reached me first, crouching and snarling. Then the boxer arrived, barking and actually flinging saliva.
I raised my ridiculous aluminum walking sticks and clanged them together. “Ting ping,” they squeaked, about as menacing as a tea cozy.
Convinced I was about to become pulled pork pate, I put on my mean face, and shouted, “Go home! Please!”
I continued to clang my tea cozies together, praying for a passing vehicle, or a bolt of lightning.
And then a guardian angel Ford F150 drove slowly up behind me.
I’d rather be a hood ornament than a human smoothie, so I staggered back into the middle of the road.
The driver stopped, no doubt wondering how the crazy shaking lady got out on a weekend pass, and the dogs trotted back up their driveway and disappeared.
During this fire season, it’s been magical and heartening to see the connections between people during a crisis.
It lifts the spirits, breathes hope into despair and reminds us all about what truly matters.
Thundering down the road one morning, face wrapped in a bandana, I passed a biker-looking dude, shirtless under a leather vest and wearing a matching head cover and remarkable boots, watering his front lawn with a hose. He peered at me through tinted goggles, and we exchanged nods.
“Good idea to cover your face with a wet cloth,” he noted.
“Good idea to protect your eyes from the smoke,” I replied, gesturing at his goggles.
“Looks like your face cloth is drying out,” he said with concern, and raised the garden hose hopefully. “Want me to re-wet it for you?”
I laughed. “You know it’s a neighbourly day in the Cariboo when a nice man offers to spray you in the face with a garden hose,” I said, and headed off.
“Any time!” he called after me. “Glad to help.”