It’s a glorious spring day today, and I’m writing this post while sunning myself on a park bench alongside Lost Lagoon. Just because I can. (The novelty of being a full-time freelancer still has yet to wear off. I mean, can there be a better gig than one that lets you write and share stories and bask in the sun at will? I ask you.)
I am, however, a little unnerved by the approaching trio of raccoons. Hmm – make that a foursome. Raccoons in Stanley Park are far too fearless, if you ask me. They don’t even bother asking for handouts anymore. If they want a Dorito or seven, they take. Without even a thank you. They’ve also given up the traditional nocturnal lifestyle, having figured out that people generous with their Doritos are usually out in daylight.
I’ve lived near the Park for the past few years, and worked in it too – leading nature education programs and fundraising for the admirable Stanley Park Ecology Society. Paul has done his time in the Park as well – photographing wildlife for an extensive project that gave rise to great shots like this one.
So the Park has become our backyard. It’s also one of the strangest places we know of.
Of course, it’s beautiful. The coastline, the beaches, the towering cedars – all postcard-stunning. And it does contain wildlife that truly act wild, like the barred owls that attack runners in the fall, and the lone coyote who jumped a yorkie last year. But many of the animals are so humanized and overfed that it’s hard to think of them as wild.
Then there’s the people who frequent the Park. The Running Room posses trotting on the heels of their pace leaders like chain-gang prisoners. The families with entire loaves of bread, which they press into the hands of innocent toddlers, instructing them to feed the salivating raccoons. There’s the drum-circle kids. The downtown office-workers running from their cubicles on lunch-break. That woman who’s named all the swans. The man who clubs the geese with his cane. Ivy pullers. Kids with pond-dip nets. An untold number of people who sleep under cedar boughs every night. And those misguided individuals who release unwanted chickens and bury their dead cats in the undergrowth.
I could go on.
It’s a funny place, our backyard. But it’s home. A dysfunctional home, yes, but on a sunny spring day, nothing beats it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some salivating raccoons to outrun.
