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Up Tungsten Creek Road, Shutout thrifting
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Blog
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Tuesday off, a few errands, thrift shops, then head out - the 11:30 Ferry to the East Shore, meeting up with Chris to do some prospecting.
I eat a big breakfast. I've taken this intermittent fasting to an extreme, 5 days of work I eat nothing, I'm the starving waiter, but on days off I'm ravenous, eat everything I can get my hands on. And as I'm not made of money I eat before we head out.
This is not the ideal, I like cooking for myself but I'm craving oysters, steak tartare, carpaccio, steamed mussels and clams, spicy papaya salads, beets, everything I don't get to eat...
Still, economy prevails.
First off we're looking for Brad's garnets. And I have the place now, the exact place, and we show up, it's less a beach than a shoreline, I find an exposure that might be what Brad was speaking of, not sure. But his description - the abundance of them, the size of them, it's at odds with what we're finding. Maybe the water's too high and they're down lower, maybe?
We try a few other beaches on the way south towards Creston.
One, a driveway down to a pier, we're accosted as we park buy a Kootenay Karen, she tells us it's all private property, not allowed, and then stays in her truck to see us off. Pulls off on the side of the road to ensure we're heading out.
Now - they're everywhere, we're getting overrun with these entitled bitches who think they own the beaches, the air, the right of way, talking to a friend she says "Probably an Albertan...".
We head on down to the smoky quartz digs, then, on a sudden whim I pull off on Tungsten Creek FSR, a few spurs and 12 KM later and we're at the top.
A little more eventful than that - the jeep, getting warm, decides (as it's prerogative) to not start, we're stuck halfway up for half an hour while it makes up it's mind...
To the top. And here there's giant quartz seam, given way by a few boulders on the overburden, we get out, dig, and - exactly the same material as we found at the Crystal Mountain, big, blocky decaying quartz, and dig a little, dig a lot, and finally we're rewarded with a couple of small crystals.
It's strange this, given the material I'd expect to bust into a great big pocket, find dozens, hundreds, clusters, but no. Just a couple of small points.
But there's a lot of digging to be done up here, and we're high enough up there's boulder fields to be walked over, looked at, and there's a dozen other undriven spurs to be explored, I'll be back...
(Boulder with pockets of citrine crystals)
From here to Wyndel, I've a lottomax ticket to buy. I have given up on winning, personally, anyone could win it, take the jackpot, I'm resenting the ongoing playing of "My chosen numbers", I'm beginning to suspect Uncles Flim and Flam of swindling me...
Wyndel gas, a farmers sausage, coffee, soft drink, a large ice cream that begins immediately melting, pouring down my arm, sleeve, into my lap as I'm driving towards Creston, sticky on the wheel, suspicious on my jeans, damn, but sooooo tasty...
From Creston up the pass, stop at the Mica place where I banged out the beryl, dig some more, looking for more.
It's boring work, this digging, and Chris conceals his boredom poorly. I've spoiled him with the finding, and I'm resenting that I have to compromise and pack it in early.
Tuesday's prospecting is done.
****
Wednesday, up and at-em, off thrifting. Castlegar, Rossland, Salmo - a complete shutout, not a nickel spent. Nada of interest. Back to Nelson, check the thrift shops here - nothing as well, but I note the angry huntsman is back at ... - a longstanding employee, always gave off the impression that he was trying to be "efficient", only he comes off as angry, he dresses - well, formerly like a huntsman - hard to describe, a D&D character, leather vest, gloves, there's a "style" going on there but now he seems to have changed his look to more of an angry Wizard...
Evening, take Stormy for Ice Cream down at lakeside park, chat, catch up, then home to sleep - it's back to work Thursday and there's easily another 10 weeks before I can eat or relax...
The Englishman
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: People
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Monday, he comes into the restaurant. Oversized ears, nose bristling with hair, and a surreal wrap-around smile that reminds me of the Mad Hatter. Older, 70's, and in an English accent asks for a cup of coffee. Crystal bright blue eyes.
He's a lunatic, deranged, you can tell, good natured enough, but his eyes, appearance, there's no one home, no one at all. He sits with a big grin on his face and asks about little pastries and cakes and I refer him to the bakery across the way.
He's jolly. He drinks his coffee, unblinking, livid blue eyes, a madman, his smile is perpetual, stuck on as if he's looking into the void, I'm amazed - to all superficial appearances, normal, but - no, he's barking mad. He tells me he's paid for his coffee, and I pooh-pooh it, "On the house" I tell him, it was an older pot, thank you for coming in and all that, and he leaves, for such an unremarkable visit he's made an impression...
Uncles Flim and (Flam)
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
- Category: Dreams
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After a night of unsettled dreams, the last and only one that I remembered...
I've just graduated. I don't know from what, or for what, but I put out a call for cash in lieu of gifts...
Who should show but good old uncles Flim and (Flam?). Both bespectacled, comfortable middle aged men, perfectly bland, you've seen a thousand like 'em. You'd never recognize them on the street. I didn't. But they're reaching through the windows of a classic luxury car, Rolls-Royce or some-such, and handing me big manila envelopes filled with cash, dense, like bricks, and I know there's millions in each, and they're like "take them, congratulations..." and I know I've made it...
...the uncles, they don't exist, and I first interpreted Uncle Flim as being a dream-anagram of Uncle Film...but Uncle Flam then joined him in the names, a natural they'd say...
Today, off prospecting, bought my ticket in Wyndel, site of the logging accident a couple of years ago that nearly killed me, but it had "Wyn" in the name, and I like "Dell", I have an aunt by the same name turning 100, so...
The Assholery Begins
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- Written by: Rod Boyle
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Today, mundane, Christopher reading the reviews. One complains the food was shit and the waiter was creepy. Chris describes the order and I know who he's talking about, my table, a bland narcissistic couple from the city, vacuous blonde, impotent overly groomed man - which city? Don't know. I can't be bothered to search their Instagram or "Only Fans' page. Guess Alberta. But BC has it's share as well.
Online anonymity gives every entitled asshole a place to vent their worthless opinions.
A man, 2 kids, makes a reservation, sits outside at a patio table, beautiful view, but he'd prefer to sit next to a wall so he and his kids can charge their cellphones. A shit table, less of a view, but - it has a plug. Camping with your kids in the 21st Century.
He complains to me that we "need a no-hillbillies policy". The table next to him is loud, drunk-ass BC kids on vacation. I agree, but it's our bread and butter, and I'm in the awkward position of choosing between my values and the owners needs. I explain to him - "They're our bread and butter.".
Tonight - after yesterday, relatively slow. A few late tables, a drunk fat toad of a blonde waiting for guests, can't look up from her phone to order her double Caesar. Her friends, clueless as to how to work a mask, clutching napkins over their faces, show up late. 10 minutes to close. They don't like their table, want to sit on the beach.
I tell them no, the beach is closed. We're closing in 10 minutes.
She doesn't like this, immediately goes in search of another opinion, finds the owners' son, gets the same answer. I watch it all. I haven't primed him. Here - here, if you were managing and competent, here is where you chuck them out. Assholes. Bitches. Drunk-ass whores. Know trouble when you see it and get rid of them. Not kindly. Fuck off. Fuck right off.
One last chance. Toady blonde, prompted for order before the kitchen closes. "But your website says you close at 10:00". It has never said that ever.
But they complain to him about me, I'm - wait for it - "Anthony Bourdain" - and that's enough, they repeat it again and again as if it's he's the Satan of the restaurant world. I can't take it, "just take the table" I tell him, I can't put up with this shit, haven't the patience for it.
It's time for the old "Hills have eyes", work with your gut, start cleaning up the planet of all the excess shit of humanity that it's created. Really. Humanity, we've been breeding assholes for too long, rewarding them, promoting them, to President even, (or Premier of Alberta) - time, time to just burn them all down. They're fooling no one. The liberal ideology - it allows everyone to be whatever they want to be, but the asshole ideology - "if you're not what we want or expect we're going to complain on our Instagram/Only Fans" is gaining too much ground. Time to end it. Not kindly.
I've had enough, and the lotto, fuck, it's gotta be won, I've appointed my Dukes and Earls and Counts all already, just let me fucking win goddamnit!!!!!
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