I’m driving in town, and I think to myself, I’ve just got too much money lately. I’m drowning in it. If only there was a quick and surefire way to rid myself of this materialistic burden.

So I scraped my car against an expensive-looking SUV. That should do the trick.

It was a truly stupid move. I wasn’t paying attention and turned too tight into a small parking stall, dragging my door a bit against their back bumper. The damage doesn’t look bad, just a bit of a paint scratch, but these things always end up being more expensive than originally imagined. They’ll probably have to repaint the entire car, with my luck.

The worst bit was that I was listening to my stereo quite loudly and didn’t even notice I did it. It wasn’t blasting, but it was loud enough to muffle the noise of the scrape. I reversed out carefully and readjusted my position after seeing how close I was to the vehicle, but it didn’t occur to me that I had hit it, even when the guy sitting in his parked truck a few stalls down gave me a dirty look as I walked into the store. He must have thought I was a complete tool, walking away like nothing happened.

After I dropped some pants off to get tailored, I drove down the street to grab a coffee. It was only then, when I walked around my car and noticed the mark on the door, that I realized what had happened. How’s that for a Paris Hilton moment? I’m like one of those senior citizens that run over a pedestrian and drag them 20 kilometers before noticing anything.

I drove back, and the SUV was still there, so I left them a note. I’ve been in touch with them since and will find out tomorrow how much I owe.

Sadly, this is the second parked car I’ve hit in my driving career. I swear they come out of nowhere. To be fair, though, the last collision involved a locust storm and the devil taking control of my steering.

I had planned to spend a lot of time writing this week, but here I am sitting in the Vancouver airport, waiting for my 5:00 flight to Victoria, and I haven’t written a single word since my last post.

Last time I was in Kamloops, most of my friends were gone and I was there strictly for leisure, so I had a lot of downtime. With friends in town, and half the week dedicated to work, time flew by this trip, and I’m actually a little sorry to leave. I had a good time.

The weather was great in Kamloops, which was a pleasant surprise after walking through rain and looking up to grey skies all winter. I never realized how much my mood is affected by weather. I wouldn’t say I was depressed this winter, but I was just generally disinterested in everything around me. Now that we’re having the occasionally sunny day, I find myself going back to my hobbies and wanting to pick up new ones. It might have something to do with spending the winter in wet darkness rather than snow.

At least this trip home had a little excitement in it. When I first arrived at the airport, I walked into the washroom and someone was being yelled at for smoking. He ran out, and they just let him go. I wish I had known you’d only get a stern scolding in this situation back when I smoked. I might have chanced it.

After that, I sat down in a seat facing the tarmac. An aircraft taxied passed, and the air from its jet engines blew a big, metal carry-on luggage cart about fifteen feet into the air, smashing it against the window in front of me. Thankfully, the pane was laminated glass or something and the cart just bounced off of it. If it hadn’t, I may not have had all the proper body parts remaining to type out this post. It was cool in that life-flashing-before-your-eyes sort of way.

It was a refreshing trip away, at least. Maybe I’ll feel a little more energized now.

I went for a hike last Sunday with a friend of mine, Cary. I hadn’t been hiking for a few years, so it was great to get out there and climb around a bit. We were at Goldstream Provincial Park, just outside of Victoria. A light drizzle of rain started just as we arrived, but we decided it wouldn’t bother us under the forest canopy.

We had an old map of the park and marked off a few areas we wanted to see. Cary’s really into photography, so the main focus of the trip was to get some good shots. We started with a waterfall they call Niagara Falls. Not as spectacular as the real thing, but still impressive. We then hiked over the waterfall and onwards up the mountain until we reached a railroad tressel. The walk up was maybe 150 to 200 metres, but it was quite steep, and I was a wobbly-kneed, sweaty mess by the time we reached the top. With the rain coming down, and the heat of the day, it felt like we were lost in a sauna. A gentle fog had rolled in and settled on the tips of the surrounding trees, and even with my clothing sticking to me like cling wrap, the view was worth the climb.

Hiking always makes me feel like a kid again. As soon as I’m pushing through overgrown brush on a narrow path, away from the sounds of the city, my mind seems to jump backwards a couple decades. Suddenly I’m a silent explorer discovering an exotic rain forest and tracking a legendary treasure, a young kung-fu apprentice on a journey to find his inner power, a lost boy learning to fend for himself after being left behind on an expedition. I’m once again an eight year old boy, walking through the forest with his father, letting his imagination stretch and grow.

The tressel was the highlight of the hike for me. Cary has a thing with heights, so he stayed off it. I decided the heights didn’t bother me too much and set out to stroll across the bridge. The gaps between each wet board were just enough to poke a foot through, so each step had to be placed with care. The longer you stare down through those gaps, the less substantial that bridge seems to be. When I finally made it to the mid-point, it was like walking on cardboard. With Stand By Me running through my mind, I brought my camera out to take a photo and found my hands trembling. After snapping a rushed shot, I calmly walked back to solid ground while having a minor internal panic attack. I guess heights do bother me a bit.

We then carried on deeper into the forest to find an abandoned mine shaft, which wasn’t as impressive as I thought it would be. The walk to get there was nice, however. It was getting fairly late by the time we found the shaft, so we made our way back to civilization. On the way back down I only managed to fall on my ass twice. I will be investing in a pair of hiking boots very soon.

The humidity seemed to murder my cheap camera. and all of my photos were corrupt. The tressel photo above is one of Cary’s.

I hear a caw and turn to see three crows sitting on a branch just outside my window, staring in with their cold, blank eyes. A pigeon, just out of sight, coos loudly. Overhead a seagull swoops past at an alarming speed.

There was a time when I wasn’t bothered by birds. It feels like a lifetime ago, but I’ll even go as far to say I quite liked them. A little piece of nature within the confines of downtown. The closest most city-dwellers will get to spotting something wild. I remember seeing a pigeon on my balcony when I first moved into this apartment. I remember thinking how great it was, nature on my doorstep. What a fool I was.

These birds, these winged demons, have become the bane of my existence. They invade my home. They ruin my car’s gleam. They haunt my fleeting steps as I leave the apartment. I lay in bed at night, rocking back and forth in the fetal position, listening to their taunts until exhaustion takes hold and dreams overcome me. Even in the dreams, I cannot escape them.

It all started with a pigeon.

A single pigeon on the balcony, what harm could it do? Sure, it was a little noisy occasionally, but it wasn’t too bothersome. I left it there and was out of town for two weeks. Stepping onto my balcony after I returned, I knew I had been terribly wrong. It was as if the balcony had been abandoned for years. Six pigeons were now calling it their home. They were also calling it their toilet. The wall and floor were covered in droppings, and the herbs in my planter box had been stepped on and crushed. The noise was overwhelming. My balcony had become a cruising zone for wanton pigeons. They cooed and they cooed, looking for their next casual encounter.

The following morning, I was the victim of a senseless attack. Unbeknownst to me, I had a silent stalker in pursuit as I made my way to the car. Just before reaching the door, a crow dropkicked me in the back of the head. It then flew up to a telephone line and proceeded to laugh at me, each caw cutting into my very being.

Each day the agony continues. I’ve chicken wired the balcony. Does the wire keep them out or keep me in? It no longer matters. As I leave my apartment and walk down the dark street, I see a man pushing pigeons away from his ground-floor balcony with a broom. Our eyes meet, and I nod my head to him. He knows instantly that we suffer from the same pain. This pain, it changes men. We move inconspicuously through the crowds, our torment hidden from the populace, but this change is unmistakable to those who know, those who have faced the birds.

It’s a losing battle we fight, but fight we must.