Buckhorn Lake

Proof! That the sun doth shine, and breezes doth tease the aspen leaves in Prince George …

Our campsite is surrounded by these beautiful trees. I’ve always loved the way the wind makes their leaves ‘shiver’ as though they’re talking to each other … perhaps they are.

Today was our first official ‘Pootling Day’. We’ve pootled to a few places since we’ve been here, but those little adventures were in conjunction with other tasks, and all of them in to Prince George. Today we headed away from town … Note to self: Find out if the locals refer to Prince George as a ‘town’, or a ‘city’. (or something unprintable) … to a little puddle called Buckhorn Lake … about 30 kilometers south-east-ish of Prince George.

The drive there, almost entirely on a sealed road, quickly passed through the swampy lowlands, that are reminiscent of our campground, hence the plague of mozzies that greet us every morning the moment we stick our noses out the door without having engaged our whizz-bang ‘mozzie-shield’. (which, although expensive, actually does work, on mozzies … a good thing because the little bastards love me, and I’m allergic to them)

We saw mostly horses out there, lots of stables and fields of horses, (although a few cow-herds were visible in the background) which told us that that particular area was probably a bit pricey for our humble means.

Once we got into the foothills of the Mountain range that surrounds Prince George, the Cariboo Mountains, the properties and houses became more modest, more our kinda thing really, and the mozzies were few and far between. (unfortunately replaced by tiny black flies, who, I’m sure would’ve enjoyed dining upon my person if I’d let them)

Then the lake hove into sight, and we stopped to take in the view …

 

It seems that we’re destined to have a lot more cloudy days (at the moment) than non-cloudy ones, but the reflections in the water were quite wonderous …

 

And some very, very, very, tall cottonwoods …

 

Mrs Widds recalled the name of this flower, and the tree it’s blooming on, as a broom tree.

A rose by any other name

A rose by any other name

Whether ‘tis or no, it is now and forever after known as a Broom Tree.

The Naturalist ponders

The Naturalist ponders

We breathed in the lovely lake-side air, but the clouds began their afternoon loom and raindrops were spit-spotting upon our heads. We about-pootled and returned to our ‘home, only to catch a fleeting glimpse of ‘The Vandal’, perhaps wondering where we’d been and why we hadn’t left out any suitable oblations …