We’re in the midst of the endless summer it seems. No rain for weeks and none in the forecast. Vicky has kindly kept our spot reserved and I sat down grateful for the shady corner. When Camp walked in, I first didn’t recognize him I’ve never seen him in shorts. His pasty, spindly legs could use some exposure I thought but didn’t say anything. 

            ‘Over 900 wildfires burning in Canada,’ I said, ‘and over 350 of them in BC. Is this a state of emergency?’

            ‘It’s snafu,’ Camp said. ‘Situation normal, all fucked up.’

            ‘I read that the CAF are providing two CH-146 Griffon Helicopters and, if needed, a CC-130J Hercules from the Royal Canadian Air Force, to help with the logistics of fighting all these fires.’

‘So far, most of them are in the central and northern parts of the province but the continued hot weather does not bode well for the rest of the summer,’ Camp said, shaking his head of grey curls. 

            ‘There were always wildfires in the summer. I remember the summer of 1983. I was just a young lad, working a shutdown in the pulp-mill near Kimberly. I stayed in a condo up by the ski lift and the whole valley below was ablaze. It’s what Vietnam must have looked like we said at the time. It was otherworldly.’

            ‘On the upside, here in the Pacific Northwest we’re enjoying the perfect summer. Temps in the mid-twenties and so far, no smoke.’

‘This coming weekend the big fireworks – the Symphony of Fire’ as it is ironically called – will bring thousands of spectators down to English Bay. Not sure if I’m a big fan of fireworks anymore. I used to love them,’ I said.

‘They’re noise, light and air polluters,’ Camp said, ‘but then again the spectacle of a sky aflame in colourful explosions has fascinated people since the Chinese invented gunpowder, ostensibly used for fireworks before they invented the fire lance, the forerunner of the gun.’

‘And we all know where that led to,’ I said. 

We both concentrated on our cool refreshing drinks looking out at the sparkling waters of Howe Sound only to be annoyed by the hornet like jet-skis zipping back and forth.  Aimless and pointless we both agreed. 

‘I read something about 130 Fahrenheit heat dome in Phoenix. That’s about 55 degrees Celsius,’ I said. ‘It’s unfit for life.  For mammals, humans included.’

‘You can only exist in artificial environments. From car to office to car to home. Outside your blood would soon overheat and you’d be a walking hot-dog.’

‘I can’t even imagine. They’re also short of water and the pavement is melting and running into the ditches. I believe the airport runways are painted white or have some reflecting crystals in the bitumen, otherwise planes couldn’t land.’

‘Heat domes. It’s something that’s new in our weather vocabulary like atmospheric rivers.  Better get used to it. Of course, nobody wants to point to the elephant in the room. We’re heating up like a slow bubbling stew. I can’t think of a pretty outcome.’

‘What do you make of the heat?’ I asked Vicky when she brought around two ice cold beers in frosty glasses.

‘It is the height of summer gents. It’s too hot to work, too hot to think and too hot to do anything but drink.’

‘Is that an Irish proverb?’

‘Not that I know. It just popped into my mind.’

‘We’ll hoist a pint to that,’ we both laughed. It’s good to keep your sense of humour.