Streamside: A Freestone Mystery

”Yet, this type of ‘weirdness’ is the nature of such mystery.” story ©2010 Les Booth; painting, Streamside, ©2010 Diane Michelin

Freestone Palette Colors trace wild run Essence of time freely flows Life intensifies Freestone Mystery Penticton Herald, ePenticton Herald News Josh Mavenhome Penticton Herald / Saturday Edition 10/24/09
 

Many unsolved mysteries exist around the world, but the 1998 unexplained disappearance of a Victoria, BC woman still has people down in Keremos shaking their heads.

This clip, from the article, written by my uncle Thomas Mavenhome, about the 1998 cold case, fills in some background for those unfamiliar with the 11 year old mystery.

'Four weeks ago, Provincial Conservation Officer, Sarah Tumewatter, and BC Fisheries Biologist, Jon McCormick, stumbled upon a mystery on Bumblechoock Creek, north of Keremos, BC. The events of 23 September, 1998, still remain no closer to being resolved than they did on that fall Sunday afternoon, 4 weeks ago.

"We have no clues, other than the personal items and still alive brook trout, found, yesterday, on the banks of Bumblechook Creek. We are quite baffled. We simply have no idea where Jane Manson is today.", said officer Tumewatter in an interview on Friday; 23 October, 1998.

Jan Manson, well known Victoria resident, is an attractive 32 year old, red-haired, athlete, fly-fishing aficionado, respected outdoor artist and conservation advocate. Ms. Manson, single, went missing Sunday 23 September. The answers to her whereabouts are still a complete mystery.

Tumewatter and McCormick were conducting a 10-year stream assessment of Bumblechook Creek, along a remote stretch of water in the upper reaches of the rough country, north of Keremos, BC, when they came upon a very strange scene.

Tumewatter and McCormick rounded a bend on the creek to find, neatly laid out on the rocks beside the stream, a fly-rod and reel, a landing net and a very much alive, brook trout.

Officer Tumwatter said both she and McCormick spent over 2 hours combing the area, after placing a call to report the strange findings to the Penticton BCCO office. Within an hour after the phone call - they were joined by other BCCO personnel. BCCO carried on the search, around-the-clock, for the next 14 days.

By the time the official search was canceled, nothing had turned up. No prints. No clothing. No personal items. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

There were no shoe prints anywhere. None. No prints of any kind. Not along the creek; into the creek bed; nor back up into the woods. McCormick said it was as if Manson was,"... just transported away. Gone. Without a trace". '

Ms. Manson's 1998 2-dr GMC Jimmy, bearing the custom trademark of a - Screaming Brook Trout - located on both lower door panels and rear tailgate, was nowhere to be found in the vicinity. Despite extensive searches all across Canada, Alaska, the lower 48 United States and even into Mexico, no trace has been found.

Bumblchook Creek', is said to have more than the occasional black bear and a rare appearance of cougars. But neither animal is suspected to be involved in Manson's disappearance.

BC Conservation Officers identified the owner of the fly-rod, reel and landing net and therefore the missing person - as Ms. Manson - from the name, email address and drivers license number, marked on each item.

Many speculations have arisen over the years as to the whereabouts of Ms. Manson.

Some say Manson fell into Bumblechook Creek's icy waters, drowned and was swept downstream, over the 14 meter waterfall, downstream roughly 1/2 kilometer. But the water was thoroughly checked; above and below the falls. Nothing turned up. Most feel this was most unlikely.

Others say, she fell, suffered a concussion and amnesia then either staggered out of the area or was possibly lost and died of exposure. But that too, seems unlikely. The area was thoroughly searched; thousands of motorists and people in the area were canvased; nothing; not so much as a 'maybe', was uncovered.

One popular theory is that Manson, a very pretty 32 year old, was abducted and kidnapped by the fabled remnant of the Spanish conquistadors, said to be living in the wilderness around Bumblechook Creek. No one has officially documented the veracity of the claims as to whether these mythical residents really exist. But wild and fantastical stories abound. With many claiming to have had contact with them; and some even claiming to be descendants.

The list of speculations continue, and continue to grow. Many are fantastical enough to even make sense. But not seriously, unless you're under the influence of mind altering chemicals first.

Yet, this type of 'weirdness' is the nature of such mystery.

Maybe it's to be as Tumewatter said in an interview on the 5th anniversary of the unsolved missing person's file. "Some things just remain a mystery. Until something else shows up, that's how we'll have to look at this case."

Yes, maybe so.

For now we only have the image of the fly-rod, reel, landing net and a live brook trout to help us conjure up the actual events that have led to this mystery.

Ma Pek

The sun rose slowly on the horizon as the waves lightly lapped at the expanding shoreline. Like insects the small long-legged shore birds swarmed around the foam and surf searching for a morning meal. Each one skittering along the beach in a dueling dance with the waves. The early morning breeze – gone by midday in the steamy tropical environments – lightly lifted the palm fronds with each rhythmic pulse. Each lap of the waves upon the shore was another sultry, psychiatric summons to the senses. As I was inhaling this idyllic scene a movement up the beach caught my eye.

I watched as he made his way from the tree line to the waves, the morning sun – full promise of the heat to come – glistened off his richly pigmented skin. Years of exposure to the tropical sun had given his native brown the deepened tone of gold as it glistens in a setting sun. The deep furrows in his skin were not mere wrinkles, they were the mental storage tracks – not unlike those of a phonograph – recording the years of living and tales lived.

His eyes, though dark with age and tempered with wisdom, sparkled with the strength of youth. Though his hair bore the salt and pepper of age, it still flowed with the charm of a young man in his prime. I could tell he was different- he had been a leader. Even at this distance, he projected the quiet but powerful aura that moves the elements of life… for him and others.

As I moved among the villagers in the open-air markets I enquired of the man whom I’d seen earlier. Yes, they knew him. It only took the mention of where I’d seen him and a short description before I was told glowing stories and legendary tales of the man, Philippe del Pescador. The pronouncement of his name not only produced the smiles of admiration from the announcer, but from those within earshot as well. Then a chorus of commentaries, tales and praise would follow from every direction.

Around the village he was known as “nuestro padre de la pesca”. That is, in his native tongue, “our fishing father”. In the height of his day, Philippe was the most prolific fisherman on the Yucatan coastline. He was fearless and formidable. His passion for his work, life and the ocean were unmatched by any. Yet, for all his competitive spirit, Philippe was also a man of genuine compassion and heart. There was not a fishing boat launched from the Isle de Corazon that was not, in some way, made possible by Philippe. His days as the fisherman to match were now history, but his legacy lived on.

In his early days he made friends with both the locals and the foreigners who came to pursue the great game fish of the Gulf: marlin, tarpon, blues and shark. Philippe was the man to have at your helm to find the trophies – he was the man to bet on for success. He was also the man who would keep you from trouble with the sea and who make sure you come home to shore – alive and brimming with tales of adventure that you sought.

He had grown up as young boy fishing with his father and enjoying the life on the gulf. He wanted nothing more, nor asked for it. He was strong in character and deep in his convictions. He pursued fish for a living, but would do all in his power to educate his fellow fisherman and the foreign pescadores in how not to harm them or their habitat: fish were his life in every possible way. He had, on a number of times, lost business because he refused to compromise his principles or ‘his fish’ on the foolishness of monetary gain.

I had to talk with this man … to find out what made him who he was … and to meet such a wonderful example of humanity. So I made my way back down to the shoreline where I’d seen him earlier. But another stood there … a woman. She was dressed in the colorful dress of the locals and despite her age she was a beauty.

I slowly approached and addressed her, “Señora de la buena tarde.” She turned and graciously bowed and replied, “Señor de la buena tarde.” “Pero no soy una mujer casada, yo sigo siendo soltero.” A bit embarrassed I acknowledged with apology, “Perdondeme, la senorita!” She chuckled, quite pleased with the coupe and the fact that a woman of her age was obviously still in possession of what makes young girls … well, young girls! We talked until the sun began to sink below the horizon.

She knew well Philippe … possibly better than anyone in the village. For Philippe was the reason she was still a senorita: he captured her heart but would neither let it go or subdue it. She asked if I would like to join her for dinner. I then asked her, “ Senorita, we have talked for hours and I do not know your name, nor do you know mine.” She again giggled with the gentleness of an eight year old, and told me her name was Juanita Sanchez. I acknowledged her – told her my name and I graciously accepted … knowing there was much more to this story and that I would acquire the details only if I talked more with this lovely lady of mystery.

In her humble little home we partook of tasty corn tortillas, frijoles and fresh vegetables. She even produced cold bottles of the local beer: oh, how wonderful a cold drink is when you’ve been without it for a week! The meal was modest, but had been prepared and presented with the greatest of care and grace. After dinner we sat on the veranda, sipping strong coffee, as I listened to the story of Philippe del Pescador.

Philippe, as the stories told to me by the villages, was a great man in the community. He had learned well from his father. The senior del Pescador was a man of great strength and muy carismático … un hombre de la grandes fuerza y carácter. He was also a good and honest man. He had helped many of the fishermen of the area get their start and then worked to show them how to be successful … and how to maintain the fishery. Philippe was by his side daily, learning all this from his father.

One day during a fierce storm Philippe’s father was swept overboard, lost in the raging sea and his body never recovered. It was a terrible time for Philippe, his family and the entire village: they all had lost their leader.

Philippe and Juanita had grown up together and shared much in common: including their love for one another. They had planned to marry, but those plans were dashed with the death of Philippe’s father. Philippe knew he had to step-in an attempt to carry-on in his father’s place. He also knew he could never fill this father’s sandals … but he must carry on the legacy: that was his purpose in life. This level of commitment did not have room for a family. So, Philippe made the sea his family and the life within her were his children. Juanita was devastated at the loss of her love … but in time she grew accustomed to her role as “mistress to the Sea” … and she and Philippe again were inseparable.

Through the years of fishing and working Philippe had built a good business. But more importantly he’d built the honor and respect of his fellow citizens of Isle de Corazon. The years had been good for fishing and the villages’ livelihood, but Philippe had paid a high price for his success. Juanita and he were never able to broach the barrier between them and his duty to his father’s legacy. Though he and Juanita were never married he took care of her as if she were his wife. He built her the house in which she lived, supplied her with food and money. He did more for her than most men do for their ‘actual’ wives … and Juanita could not help but love him all the more for it. I was amazed … and in awe of the power of the love I was being introduced to. I knew this example would forever change my life … and how I would perceive love.

Their love for each other was immense. In many ways it was far more complete than most who had married and live together in that union all their lives. I began to see that they shared what many have lost sight of … true love of the person, not for the person. They were complete in knowing the other was satisfied in their role and that the greater good was being served: not by just one, but by both.

A great pair of companions: the ultimate mates.

The night grew on and it became quite late. I bid my farewells to Juanita, thanked her heartily for the wonderful evening and for sharing such intimacy with me a stranger. She graciously thanked me for the company and the opportunity to share the wonderful story of the love of her life. She then asked if I would meet her the next day at the boats where we had met that day. She said that tomorrow was a special day for she and Philippe and that she wanted me to be present. I thanked her for honoring me with such a request: I would most definitely be there. I said goodnight and walked into the balmy air of the Yucatan night.

The next morning dawned a bright red all along the horizon.‘Red at morning… sailors’ warning!”

The old salt rang in my ears as I arose to wash and prepare for the day. It will rain today — it will be day to be watched closely — on the sea: rough weather is ahead. I was very excited; looking forward to meeting again with Juanita and being introduced to Philippe.

My mind raced with questions to ask of Philiippe; of the days of fishing; the famous and infamous people whom he chartered; talking with him about his ethic of the sea – I was so much looking forward to meeting this remarkable man. So much so that I barely noticed the change in the weather.

I was just putting on my sandals when the wind began to pick up. It was light at first, but it was constantly building in force. By the time I reached the beach the palm fronds were no longer merely wafting in the breeze, it was more like they were be ripped from their petioles! I didn’t see how anyone would be able to have any type of ceremony on the beach in this weather … and then I saw him: Philippe. Dressed in his finest, looking to the beach and walking in a straight line, from the last line of palm trees, in that direction.

IT was when he was in full stride, midway from the trees-on his way to the beach- that I saw the group. How could I have not seen them before? There had to be the entire village – all dressed in their best clothes and all around the boat … the red boat … the one I’d seen Philippe standing by the day before. The boat with the name I did not understand … words I did not understand: Ma Pek.

I’d assumed yesterday that it was an oriental name; possibly named by someone who had spent some time in Southeast Asia. I was going to inquire about that name yesterday, but in all the events of the day I’d forgotten. Now that name began to haunt me: along with all these people. What was happening here? In the midst of this storm? I had the feeling that the answer to that question would be intriguing; how, I didn’t know, but I just felt it would. Then I noticed it; or better yet the lack of it.

The wind had stopped. Just as suddenly as it began it was over. The clouds opened and the sun came rushing through. I was just beginning to register all of these strange sensations, when I saw Juanita.

Wow!

Not only was she gorgeous — but, if I didn’t know better I’d say she was dressed in her wedding gown. And just as suddenly as I’d began thinking this … I knew I was right! I was at a wedding! But not just any wedding — it was Juanita and Philippe’s wedding! But why during a storm? I could understand the beach … but in a storm? Was there something special about the storm? Their lives – lived apart, without the ulfillment of a marriage they both desired – was nothing shy of a torrent of emotions. Was this why the storm? Or was there something else? Torrents of questions-searching for answers-flooded my senses. Then before any fulfillment to this could occur, the crowd began to collectively gather in a ceremonial sway.

The crowd that had gathered now formed a circle around Juanita and Philippe. From the land side of the circle came a mariachi troupe playing traditional Mexican wedding music and with each rise in the music more of the people began to sing. Soon the entire village was singing, the clouds were gone, the sun softly shown upon the beach and all was right with the world. A priest appeared and the ceremony began.

Suddenly there was an air of calm covering the entire beach. The people are calm and all are drawing in toward Juanita and Philippe. The air fills with the words of ceremony and the soft sounds of a coastal Caribbean sea shore: lapping waves in rhythm and the gentle breeze known so well to all. The priest finishes the ceremony and Juanita and Philippe look long into each other’s eyes. The look speaks volumes. Years of conversation are being relayed on the most sensual of paths possible: eye-to-eye and heart-to-heart.

Then they move to kiss. And quietly … in nearly the tone of a prayer Philippe looked deeply into the sparkling eyes of his new bride and says, “Mi amante mas querido, el amante de mi corazon. Mi corazor compitiendo con a usted.. pero digo a mi corazon — ma pek … ma pek.”
There! There were those words: ma pek. The name of the boat. What did it mean? It had to be powerful because tears were forming in Juanita’s eyes.

Then they kissed. A short but electrifying kiss. As soon as they parted the crowd began to sing; they cheered, and for minutes they applauded the event all had awaited for years to occur.

The crowd formed a line and the mariachis played as they swayed up the beach and headed out to the village streets. I stood there watching when Juanita … just a few feet away turned and looked in my direction. She smiled and then mouthed those words … ma pek … ma pek. She must have seen my confused look. She smiled then pointed to a spot on the beach where a shore bird was facing a rather large meal in a lively crab.

Obviously the bird was tackling a meal that was bit larger than normal. But this did not deter the bird. Juanita quietly said, “Mire allí… the bird is patient. It will not be impatient. It will wait quietly. It will be ma pek …it will be still. And when it is time …it will eat …and eat well. Learn from the bird … ma pek …be still and all will come your way.” She beamed and continued on with the procession.

I stood there; tears forming in my eyes and realizing I had just received a unearthly value in those words. I turned to watch the bird … it was eating: eating well. Have you ever seen a bird smile? I have.

A flood of emotions rushed in familiar torrents of questions through my mind, as I stood there at the grave site. My mind was laboriously filtering through the emotions experienced in the short time of passing events of the past few days. As I looked upon the faces of the two caskets in front of me I was embroiled in a sea of mixed emotions. Only days earlier I witnessed these two wonderful human beings as they were united in a life-long desire … a life they both had desired for years: the union of marriage. But today, I stood before their now lifeless physical containers encased in emotionless wooded containers: their last physical abodes.

I’ll not attempt to question or debate what lies beyond the physical life we so dearly strive to maintain and enjoy. But, I will affirm that these two lived a more complete life in the last days they had together than most live in a lifetime.

I was saddened to have lost access to their physical presence: so much was not explored by me. And yet I sense a value that will only deepen with time; the wonderfully blessed event I have been privileged to have been involved in; having a part in their wondrous lives at all.

I came away with a deeply learned and valued lesson from both … ma pek.

In all things … ma pek.
_________________
by Juaqin Cay Posted in ODG&J | Tagged Akilologos, boat, committment, Corazon, fishermen, Juanita, les booth, love, ma pek, OOAK Digital Gallery, pescador, Phillipe, red, Yucatan |

Cotton Humid

he air of thick humidity is like the air of impending doom.

Persistent, dreadful and overpowering. It makes your nerves scream for solace. Yet all you get is the sensation of a fresh line of sweat beginning to role, in a tortuously slow bead, down the middle of your back.

No mercy.

Humidity hangs like the clumps of Spanish-moss draped over and smothering the whole plot of live oak trees in the back yard.

Stringy, clingy, sticky, itchy... and thick. I can hear it, feel it, taste it, smell it... and by the sweat dripping from my armpit - hate it.

And to think it's not even daylight yet.

Oh, what a way to begin a day.

Well, that's how they've begun in the deep south for ... I guess since the dawn of time. It's not changing now, 'cause it's not changed in all those eons of time. It's just one more thing about this area you just learn to deal with.

Glorious.

One more reason to dislike living in the south.

Hmm, that sure sounds a might 'Yankee like', now don't it!

I gather fixings for coffee and listen to hear the clear voice of the mockingbird as it mimics through it's repertoire of songs. From one solitary bird, I hear the voice and chatter of every bird sound it has heard during it's short but melodious lifetime.

I don't need a couple of dozen birds flittering around the yard, I have them all in one: my mockingbird. With a half-dozen mockingbirds I'd be enjoying a whole forest of song birds and not have to deal with the sparrow crap that covers my car each morning: no matter where I park it.

I hate sparrows.

The incredulous fool who brought those filthy little waste buckets over here from England -'cause they missed their melodious little songs. Yeah right! I'd like to stake him over big 'ol fire ant mound; sure 'nuff!

What a stupid act of imbecilic short-sightedness that was.

On the same par as the 'too smart' conservation folks back up my way, in the mid-west, who promoted the planting of an Asian prickly bush called the multiflora rose all over the place. In the name of conservation, touted to be grand ground cover; for anti-wind erosion and extra places for the critters to live. Only problem, the stuff took over!

Seems the 'too smart folks' forgot to tell the birds not the fly around and shit the seeds all over the place. Where it grows - and that's just about anywhere - nothing else can grow or go! Now the 'too smart folks' have to pay other 'less smart folks' to dig it up and threaten to fine and jail 'other folks' if they dare plant it again!

The birds still eat the berries and shit the seeds, so the problem still exists. Why didn't they just plant the native blackberry bushes? Sure both plants are prickly as all get out. But at least with blackberries there'd have been berries both man and bird would have enjoyed!

Short-sighted for sure.

It seems no matter what we humans decide to bequeath this land we take for granted, we end up doing it more harm than good. The meddling mess-ups, we so nobly refer to as natural resource management, are painfully well documented.

It just doesn't seem anyone in charge ever bothers to read the results. Doesn't anyone see a connection? Well, don't they?

I guess not.

But of course why should those poor bastards start using their heads now? What could they possibly accomplish if their actions were actually accompanied by a dash of common sense? Not likely they'll begin to think to change their current patterns of failure. As it will not likely add one more stitch to the lining of their already over-stuffed, greedy pockets.

Not likely.

Breakfast is over and I just can't stall the inevitable of the day: cleaning out that cotton patch.

Backbreaking work. It's hot. It's dirty. And it's a bit dangerous in ways people not from the country, nor used to workin' cotton would think of.

The shade of the cotton plants offer the local rattlesnakes and cottonmouth, in those areas near the river bottom, a cool, shady place to wear off the afternoon heat. A reptilian encounter is not what I need today. I don't need it any day, but I really don't need it today. I'm in a mood. A mood where I'd likely kill something and I don't really like killing snakes.

Not that I mind killing something that needs or deserves a good killing, but snakes tend to do a lot more good for the land- and in turn me- than most folks given them credit. So, I'd just rather let them be and go on my way.

But blast-it! anyhow! Those fool-headed varmints won't just let me pass, regardless of my intentions. They coil up, ready to strike and just dare me to blast their little pea-size brains all over the cotton stems. And sometimes I accommodate them.

But I still don't like it.

Well it's almost time to hit the field. I'll give it a bit more time; no sense in being too, pushy with the time now.

I like that about the south.

Folks here move to a much slower clock than those who live north of the 'humidity line'. Oh, don't get me wrong, I grew up with humidity in the Midwest, so it's not like I'm unfamiliar with humidity - 'cause I am, familiar! But humidity in the south, well- now... we do it with a whole new vigor toward torture. I just don't like it... humidity that is.

I really don't!!!

I don't like being hot. I like even less being sticky and hot in a dusty, dirty place. 'Cause when you work in stuff like cotton, you end up feeling like half the junk from the field is stuck to you before you get home. That's what makes the humidity so bad. You just can't escape it. And you can't escape the dirt, either. Humidity sucks. No two ways about it. But cotton humidity? Well, that stuff's just plain nasty.

I've been covered in all kinds of hard work humidity, but cotton humidity is about the nastiest of all. 'Course I can't say that with complete authority. I never worked anywhere farther south than these cotton fields of the 31st parallel. As hard as it is to imagine, humidity in the real tropics has got to be worse than it is here.

It just plain hurts to imagine that much humidity.

But I reckon, in all fairness, I got to.

Looking out across the pasture I see those crazy cattle egrets are dowsing for 'hoppers, crickets and whatever bugs and critters they can gobble up as they sachet across the pasture.

Now, there's one funny critter: the cattle egret.

Down here, most folks call them and their taller relatives, the white egret, great blue heron and it's white-color phase, pond skoggins. I don't really know where that name came from, but it's not a term-of-endearment. Of that, I am very sure.

Those things make a wretched sound. Sorta like a feller chokin' on his own blood, as if he'd just had his gullet slit. Nasty! An awful sound. Scares the daylights out of most normal folk.

But... they do keep the 'hoppers, crickets and critters cleaned out of the fields. Odd, they don't seem to have a fancy for the boll weevil. Now that's a shame. Cotton could use a friend in that category.

I'd better get-to- gittin' on down into that field, 'cause on the horizon, just above that cotton patch, I see the build-up of a huge 'ol thunderhead. Looks like we might get some rain after all.

It's been a dry season; dryer than normal. Maybe this high humidity will be worth it's torture if we get a good rain.

Maybe. However, I'm not totally sold on that notion yet. Reckon I'll let it on the table.

Think on it.

Judge it later.

It's time now to go clean that cotton patch, sweat a river, dodge the snakes and watch those pond-scoggins chase the critters in the pasture.

I'd best not forget to watch out for that new electric fence line, neither.


Cotton Humid by Les Booth. eLithograph giclee print on archival 90# watercolor paper. Print run of 100 only. Short-story, printed on matching paper, accompanies prints 5-20. Available as extra item.
Available through the OOAK Gallery.
Thanks for visiting.

Short Story outlet

I just started with a Short Story group on Google + and while attempting to comment on a blog post of a story, I was forced to set up this blogspot blog.  I don't need another blog!

For the love of keyboards and watching TV, I have enough already.  But since I've been forced, I will make use of the Internet real estate property.

Thus, I will use this as my point of pushing Short Stories to the G+ #shortstory circle.

The image at the left is my current 'official' Akilologos avatar.  But that avatar will change as I offer up new posts, illustrations, publications and the like.  The Brooky Trout is a book I am currently working on, that is slated for a 2013 release.  So, I'm pushing this book and the image.  For now.

I posted my first entry: Ma Pek : from the original posting location at .  So I will copy it here and then do so with all my offerings in the future.

The games begin...


akilologos