Canada's Rainforest by Joan Donaldson-Yarmey

 

https://books2read.com/Sleuthing-the-Klondike 

Canada’s Rainforest

I am a Canadian and all my mystery, historical, romance, and young adult novels are set in Canada. Canada is the second largest country in the world and has almost twenty-five percent of the world’s temperate rainforest.

A rainforest is characterized by a dense, damp forest that receives up to 254cm (100inches) of moisture (rain, snow, drizzle, fog, or mist) each year. The trees are tall and form an overhead canopy.

There are two types of rainforest: temperate and tropical. A rainforest close to the equator is tropical; one between the Tropic of Cancer and the Arctic in the northern hemisphere or between the Tropic of Capricorn and the Antarctic Circle in the southern hemisphere is called temperate. Therefore, Canada’s rainforests are temperate.

New Zealand, Chile, and Norway also have temperate rainforests. These forests all have much the same characteristics but may have different plants and animals. While most of the temperate rainforests in other parts of the world are a mix of deciduous and coniferous trees, Canada’s rainforests are made up of coniferous trees such as pine, fir, and spruce.

Some of the similarities of rainforests are: trees that range from new saplings to tall, centuries-old growth; large logs lying on the forest floor; an abundance of bright green moss, ferns, and other vegetation hiding the forest floor; plants growing on other plants; and many layers of canopy overhead. Some of the dead logs will have seedlings to tall trees growing on them and are sometimes called a host or nurse log.

Canada’s rainforest ranges along the west coast of British Columbia and Vancouver Island. Their abundant rainfall comes from being close to the Pacific Ocean and coastal mountains. They are part of the Pacific Temperate Rainforest ecoregion which runs from Alaska to Northern California and is the world’s largest temperate rainforest.

Canada also has the world’s only temperate inland forest called the Interior Wet Belt. It runs from Fort George southeast to Revelstoke and further south to the United States border and owes its rain to weather systems that begin in the Pacific Ocean and flow west to rise over the Columbia Mountains.

The Great Bear Rainforest covers 32,000 square kilometres (12,000 sq miles.) along the central and northern coast of British Columbia. It is one of the largest remaining areas of unspoiled temperate rainforest in the world. Besides being home to grizzly bears, wolves, salmon, bald eagles and cougars, it is also home to the Kermode or Spirit Bear, which is a species of black bear. It is called the Spirit Bear because of its white-coloured coat caused by inheriting the genes of both parents. One in ten black bear cubs is born with this coat.

Rainforests cover less than ten percent of the world’s land surface but contribute to one-third of the world’s oxygen production.

Striving for Perfection by Victoria Chatham

 

COMING IN SEPTEMBER 2025

Yes, Winnie Hatherall has solved the crime in this, my first cosy mystery. 

However, while hammering my way through the last chapter, I began to slow down as I realised - shock, horror - that I had a major plot hole. Once I started filling that one in, I found another and then another. I don't know how many drafts of a new novel are too many, but I am now on the home stretch. I think.

Reading through my manuscript is more than checking that my I's are dotted and my T's crossed. Have I left red herrings dangling, or have I given them a logical conclusion? Have I created a worthy sleuth, and is my villain too obvious or not obvious enough? Are my characters sufficiently fleshed out to be believable?  Is the plot strong enough? Ah, the aim for perfection.

Perfection is akin to flawlessness, and how often do we achieve that? I once had a lengthy discussion with a well-known Harlequin editor regarding instances of errors in a particular book. Considering how many pairs of eyes would have reviewed it, I was surprised by the number. Her answer was a gentle reminder that we are all human. So, where do I see perfection? Always in nature and especially in a garden.

Of all the flowers I have grown, I have enjoyed roses the best. They weren't always the easiest to cultivate, but I had this lovely deep pink rose that grew prolifically in my garden at Ivy Cottage. Another rose that grew well there was a vivid yellow cabbage rose that rambled over my garage like a weed and frequently bloomed right up until Christmas. 

 

  

It doesn't matter where I go, gardens are a delight to wander through. This year, I again visited Victoria, on Vancouver Island, British Columbia, and although I had missed the cherry blossom, I was in time for the blaze of rhododendrons. These were so prolific in a range of colours from scarlet to various shades of pink, and this lovely shade of lilac. Originating from eastern Asia, particularly the Himalayan region, rhododendrons have thrived in other parts of the world.

One of my favourite gardens to visit is the Botanical Gardens, just south of Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. The garden spans over seventy-nine acres, comprising some manicured and precise flower beds, as well as winding trails through the jungle environment. It is also known for its orchid conservation and propagation, and this yellow orchid was only one of the many varieties on display. 

Leaving the scents, colours, and profusion of perfection behind me, I am now going to step back into the imperfect world of Winnie Hatherall, senior sleuth. Watch out for her in September!

Victoria Chatham

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NB: photographs shown here are from this author's collection.

There's nothing like on-site reseach

 Each of the Doug Fletcher mysteries is set in a different US National Park. I've enjoyed visiting the future settings of the Fletcher books, and last fall we spent a week in central Kentucky. The setting for "A Bourbon to Die For" is Lincoln's Birthplace National Historic site. I approached the volunteer in the visitor center, handed her on of my business cards, then asked, "Where would you dispose of a dead body?'

Without a moment of hesitation, she replied, "In a pig sty." Seeing my surprise at her quick response, she explained she had been the district attorney for that county and had often reflected on how to dispose of a dead body while prosecuting dozens, or perhaps hundreds, of hapless criminals who'd had the misfortune of having been caught, arrested, and prosecuted for their crimes.

After explaining to her that my crime scene needed to be inside the park, we had a longer discussion of the park, it's layout, and secluded spots suitable for a murder. In the end, we decided my victim should be found in a secluded area of the park beyond the overflow parking. Once off the main trails, very few visitors would stumble onto the crime scene.

The next part of the research was a terrible burden (insert dramatic sigh). With assorted family members, we HAD to visit several distilleries and a cooperage (Barrel making company). While suffering through samples of different bourbons, we were educated in the nuances of aging, and bourbon flavors. Armed with a TON of research material, I started writing. I passed a partial draft to my first proofreader, Deanna Wilson, who responded, "You really 'geeked out' on this one. Cut out about ninety percent of the chemistry and try to focus on THE PLOT!"

Getting that same advice from other beta readers, I deleted pages of information about corn genetics and gas chromatography, focusing on the death of a bourbon maker and who had motive, means, and opportunity. Who would kill a guy who was on the verge of introducing a bourbon he claimed would change the industry. I added a toothless church janitor who knew more about the victim and his distillery than the local police did, some local politics, a discussion of the local social strata, and voila! there's a mystery.

Check out "A Bourbon to Die For" at my publisher's website Bookswelove.net

Authors — BWL Publishing

A young adult ghost story, written with my granddaughter, by Diane Scott Lewis

                                           

NEW RELEASE To purchase this young adult novel, click here

 I wrote this story, released this month, with my granddaughter, Jorja, who is fifteen now; I'm so proud of it. I hope you enjoy the spooky tale. 

Here is the blurb:

Sage, at fourteen, grows up in turmoil in Nahant, Massachusetts. Her changing body, her parents’ rocky marriage. When her cousin Patrick visits for the summer, his parents’ divorce has given him a reckless anger. He insists they explore the creepy mansion in the woods. Nate, Sage’s younger brother, is reluctant to approach the manor where a beloved teacher was found hanged months earlier. The children’s great-great grandmother worked at Lakeluster House in a previous century and was under suspicion of shooting another servant.

Now an old lady and her butler have moved in and the kids bring a welcome cake. Invited inside, Sage encounters a strange little girl who shows her the manor’s dark secrets—sparking Sage’s curiosity. Will the butler—a man with his own mysteries—throw them out for snooping? Who is real and who is a ghost? Was her relative guilty? And what danger lingers in the attic? Sage must gather her courage, risking her life to find out.

My late husband chose the setting for the story: Nahant, Massachusetts, an almost island dangling off the coast.

The gazebo mentioned in the novel

Writing from a younger POV gave me new insights. I'd use words my granddaughter would puzzle over, so I had to change them. Or she'd say "I'd never say that!" I also had to figure out the current teenage slang. Like bougie for fancy. My critique partners said it was their new favorite word.

She is a recipient of literary awards, a girl after my own heart!

An excerpt:

Sage, the fourteen-year-old protagonist, is exploring the manor library, when a child comes up behind her.

“Do you live here?” Sage felt the room go colder, as if someone had opened a window. She rubbed her arms. “Is Miss Dora your aunt or…?”

“My room is upstairs, on the third floor.” Bella cocked her head. “I don’t come down often.”

She had a stilted cadence to her speech, as if she only recited lines written by somebody else. Or she’d repeated them many times before.

“Are you all right?” Sage wondered why she’d ask that. Was this child a prisoner, or a guest? Or just an odd family member? Then Sage remembered the dream she had of a child. A child who resembled this one. How could that be? Her heart twitched. “Do you… like it here?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Bella frowned. “It’s my home now. But the others never liked visitors.”

“The others?” Sage felt for a moment she was being pranked. She shook her head. “Um, okay. There’s a photo album here. Would you like to look at the pictures with me?” Sage turned to the desk and opened the album, at first filled with sepia pictures with posing, glum people: fusty and dusty. Maybe she could get the child to tell her more. A chill crept up the back of her neck and she looked behind her.

Bella was gone.

Sage scanned the room, and it was empty. A lion carving in the fireplace mantel had its eye on her, a live eye that blinked! Sage gasped. The eye returned to plain wood. Big yikes? She stepped over and tentatively touched it, cool and wooden as could be. Then she looked down and cringed.

Bella’s ribbon, still in a bow, lay on the fireplace grate.

To purchase my books, visit my publisher's author page:

https://bwlpublishing.ca/lewis-diane-scott/

Diane lives in Western Pennsylvania with one naughty dachshund.

Do you fancy cold water swimming?...by Sheila Claydon

 

I learn something new every day, and what a joy that is.

We have new nextdoor-but-one neighbours who recently moved to our small corner of North West England from Hampstead in London. As we're a friendly lot around here they have very quickly become part of the neighbourhood and, in the way of all new friendships, questions have been both asked and answered. And because of that I have learned all about Hampstead and Highgate Ponds.

A while ago a documentary was made about them (now on Netflix - The Ponds) and one of our new neighbours was featured. Naturally we were agog to see it and him, and we were so impressed. What did I learn?

Well the first thing I discovered was that just under 4 miles from central London there are many bodies of water, mostly man made reservoirs originally dug out in the 17th and 18th centuries to meet London's growing water demands. Nowadays they are mostly wonderful wetland habitats crowded with birds, insects, fish and wildfowl. In the midst of all this nature, however, are 3 famous swimming ponds. A large single sex pond for men and one for women, both open year round, plus a pond where men and women can swim together, which is open May to September. There is a lifeguard. No child under eight years of age may swim in any of the ponds, and no child between 8-15 without an adult accompanying them because the water is deep and only suitable for competent swimmers. Apart from that there are few rules.

Apparently access was free until 2004 when the City of London Corporation tried close the ponds, saying that they cost too much to maintain and were a health risk to swimmers. Those swimmers who had used them for many, many years challenged the decision in the High Court and won, although there is now a small charge to use them. 

There is more history too. Boudicca's Mound, near the men's bathing pond, is a tumulus where, according to local legend, but probably not true, Queen Boadicea was buried after she and her 10,000 Icini warriors were defeated at Battle Bridge.

What I found more fascinating than any this, however, is the fact that people swim in the ponds every day, all year, some even on Christmas Day. They dive into the depths when the water temperature can be as low as 1 degree, and when they have to take care not to cut themselves on the surface ice that has formed. And if the film is a good judge, they then all clamber out revitalised and sure that they are the better for it. I know couldn't do it, not just because I am a very indifferent swimmer but because I feel the cold too quickly. However, I greatly admire and envy the people who can. 

My new neighbour says the ponds are a great leveller. Shivering in bathing suits in the winter makes for a lot of joking and bonhomie.  Nobody cares who you are or what you do, it's whether you can withstand the temperature that is the test. 

We learned, too, how friendships forged at the ponds have helped people through bereavement, illness, job loss and depression. They even helped someone back from a near death experience. There were some real characters too. So interesting. Another thing became clear as well. However politically incorrect it might be to say it nowadays, those single sex ponds are both appreciated and necessary. Nearly all the swimmers enjoy visiting the mixed pond in the summer where they participate in various races and fun events, but for the rest of the year they appreciate those single-sex spaces where friendships and easy conversations bloom. In the film, female swimmers discussed breast cancer, family problems and ageing, while the men supported one another through illness, bereavement and job loss, but in very different ways. Sometimes we all just need our own special place.

To us the film was an eye opener to a whole different way of life. A place where people find peace and tranquility in the heart of a busy city. And our new neighbours? Well now they are too far away from London to use the ponds, they swim in the sea instead. Our beach is only a 10 minute walk away through field, woods and across sand dunes. It is idyllic. We love it. But we don't swim in the sea, not even in the height of summer - too many people then - and in the winter, when the beach is empty, it's far too cold. Not for our new neighbours though. If they can swim in the Hampstead and Highgate Ponds all year then I'm sure the will manage the choppy, grey Irish Sea whose waves break against our shoreline.