Embracing Life in the Slower Lane

As readers of this blog are well aware I grew up in a mountain town, a sporty town, an artsy town, a hippie town. While I related well to my hometown's mountain, artsy, and hippie aspects, I found the sporty one eluded me. Not that I wasn't fit, I really was. With the lifestyle my active family promoted I had no chance not to be fit. We were a hiking, huckleberry-picking-in-the-hot-sun, everyone-takes-swimming-lessons, walk everywhere family. My mother despised camping, preferring to spend a day out of doors then return to her own bathtub and bed. Thanks to my friend's mom who organized a week long camp through their church, I was able to attend summer camp two years in a row. We learned how to paddle a canoe, did nature themed art projects, played orienteering games with a map and compass, and sang riotous songs around the campfire each night, and I absolutely thrived. None of the activities intimidated me as school sports tended to. Oh, I could run and still do, but team sports? Anything requiring skilled eye/ball coordination and strategy? Nope. I was trained by the 1970's and 80's school system to revere sports and the people who were talented at them, always making me feel less than. I believed you were either good at sports or you weren't, and was confused that I could learn to steer a canoe but fail at volleyball. PE class, while not entirely humiliating - I could fake it 'till I sort of made it - felt like a waste of time. 

As I got older I began to align myself with the outdoorsy community. I spent a winter gaining my ski legs. I climbed some serious peaks in my area. I attended the Banff Film Festival and worked at a local outdoor sports store selling backpacks and canoes, offered the job by the owner because I was 'active'. I dated a ski instructor/mountain biker from a nearby mountain town. I read Outside Magazine when the store was quiet, reading about major feats in the outdoors by women much stronger than I. I found that my troubled back was not happy carrying heavy packs. I skied beyond my ability and ended up injuring my neck. I tried tree-planting and left after one day - it killed my achilles tendons. I felt unsatisfied by my outdoor athleticism. If I couldn't be like those women I read about or sold equipment to, what was the point of taking part in that world? I suffered from 'all or nothing' thinking. 

When I started falling in love with a super-jock I was unimpressed. Would I spend my life feeling inadequate because I couldn't do things at his level? He windsurfed and played beach volleyball and tennis, and was quite competitive. In winter he skied and played indoor volleyball in a Vancouver league. When he talked to me about all the wonderful, outdoorsy, sporty things we could do together, I looked him straight in the eye and said "What if I don't want to do all of those things? What will happen to us?" He paused and said, "but you love nature, don't you?" I replied, "yes, I really do, but I am not into conquering it, so if you want this to work you are going to have to lay off pushing me to do things I am uncomfortable doing." He still wanted to be with me (it must have been my sparkling personality and clever wit). He did not give up trying to get me to expand out of my comfort zone, though. I had to learn to trust him and we have had a rather wonderful life so far, filled with adventures that made me love the outdoors even more. My years of pushing myself to learn to ski, both cross-country and downhill, all the hiking I did as a child and teenager, and the canoeing at summer camp, prepared me for a life where I could, if not excel at any of those things, own enough skill to have fun doing them and become better at them as we exposed our children to the wonders of spending time in nature in all seasons. 

Today, our kids are grown and independent. I spend much time at the resort my husband manages. It comprises a ski hill, several beautiful lakes, and a vast network of cross-country ski and hiking trails. I walk, cross-country and downhill ski in winter. In summer I thoroughly enjoy a five kilometer run or hike around the main lake often followed by a swim.  I sit on our deck and enjoy the wildlife that visits our yard: deer, ground squirrels, grey jays, snowshoe hares, and the very occasional bear or lynx. On rare occasions my husband and I take a canoe out in the evening. Mostly we just go for evening walks or short hikes in the wildflower meadows when he is finished his work day. Nothing I do up here is major or epic. I simply enjoy the exercise in such a beautiful setting, and I am now at peace with that. Meanwhile, my husband is training to run a 60 km trail race. I will be proudly cheering him on from the sidelines. 

Making Time for Signs of Spring

"You find time the same place you find spare change: in the nooks and crannies." Austin Kleon

Since I landed a job in early February at a local cafe my life has become more full and I must make the most of the days I do not work, to make time for the things I enjoy, like walking and running, writing and reading, hanging out with my family, and volunteering. My weeks are framed and more structured now and I find I am enjoying life more. This winter has been a time of growth for me personally in many ways, some of them difficult, and I am happy that spring is just around the corner ready to welcome me with its floral fragrances, warm sunshine and birdsong.

We on the fondly named 'wet coast' were neither very wet, nor very stormy this winter. Our winter has been the complete opposite of the Eastern parts of the country which all but disappeared under umpteen layers of snowdrifts. The blooming began here in mid-February (when Halifax was being buried by yet another storm) and if I turn my head away from the computer screen to look out the living room window into the front yard I see a star magnolia nearly in full white bloom, baby narcissus, and swelling buds on the rhododendron bushes. The snowdrops are all but finished blooming, the daffodils are out in sunny spots and the tulip leaves are six inches above the ground. When I go for a walk I am generally hatless and glove-free these days, and a light jacket over a sweater is plenty warm enough for morning and too warm for the afternoon. When we watch the weather report on the news we cringe with guilt at what Eastern Canadians are enduring, but I think we also get the sense that many of our fellow countrypeople are making the most of this hard winter and will come out swinging while we sort of sashay sideways out of our easy winter into our early spring with self deprecating, embarrassed jokes about not being Real Canadians. Not that we have not had our turns other years. A couple of years ago we endured a two week snow and wind storm so severe it was broadcast on the news across the country - although I am sure many Easterners said 'it is about time they had some real winter over there.' We would have welcomed some real winter in the mountains this year. The ski season was a complete bust in the North Shore mountains of Vancouver, at our local ski hill and some others around the province. These mild winters have their downside. And, what's that about something not being over until the fat lady sings? March came in like a lamb and it still could go out like a lion. We have to enjoy it while we have got it.

I had not taken my camera out for a while and on Monday morning I decided to take it along to my appointment at the chiropractor. I planned to photograph signs of early spring on my walk home. I found many signs I was looking for except one. I had hoped to find a Tim Horton's 'Roll up the Rim to Win' cup discarded on the ground - a sure sign spring is coming. And what do you know? Not a single cup did I see on my walk. Quite shocking, really. Most days those things are all over the place, especially now we have a Timmie's right across the bridge.

A daffodil outside the chiropractic office

Lovely Japonica

Renovations

Heather in full bloom

No idea what this plant is in front of the museum

Streetlights bathed in blossom

Akebono Cherry tree in the town park looks wonderful even without leaves

Time to think about getting the kids outside!

Magnolias hang heavy on young branches

Forsythia is a favourite against a blue sky

A neighbour down the street provides for the fairies

Another sign of new beginnings for someone

Ornamental cherry or plum on our street

Baby narcissus and the last of the snowdrops in our yard

Our star magnolia

Honestly, I do not mean to gloat. Look what the rest of you have to look forward to?

Cheers, and happy weekend,

Rebecca

How to Land a Job in Thirty Seconds

I had been looking for a few months, casually, mind you. I was not confident that any business would be able to accommodate my offered limitations. I only wanted to work a couple of days per week; I could not work weekends; I wanted a job I would not have to take home with me.

Two of my children - college students now - have spent their holidays working at a busy cafe-bistro in the nearby resort village where their dad also works as a manager at the main resort hotel. My kids have often expressed their gratitude at working for such kind people as own the cafe and the owners never tire of telling me how appreciative they are of my children's good work ethic and attitude.

One Wednesday morning, which happened to be my husband's day off, I was struck by an idea out of the blue. I wondered aloud to my husband whether the cafe might be an option for me. I love cafes. I have worked in one before and spend much time in them, and know how busy they can be. My husband thought it was worth a try. That same morning I had to go to the resort village to take care of something at the art gallery I help to run. My husband had to drop in at work as well so we decided to make the ten minute trip to the village. I had phoned the cafe in question earlier, even before I was struck by the idea of working there, and one of the two owners answered. No, they would not reopen until the weekend - they take the entire month of January off like many businesses in the tourism dependent village - but they were in the cafe painting and cleaning and she had said, "Come by, I will make you a coffee!" A good opening line if I ever heard one.

My husband and I took care of our errands and then stopped by the cafe. The owner made me the promised coffee - my usual small Americano (espresso topped with hot water) - and we chatted about our college kids, the owners' time off and whatnot for a few minutes.

"The thing is," I said, "I am looking for a couple of days per week of work. It has been a challenge because I cannot work weekends."

It is difficult now to describe exactly what transpired in those seconds between my statement and success. The owner's eyes opened widely and she made the following points in some order: We have been so worried about reopening so short-staffed. I would love another adult working here. We have been waiting.

I responded with something like: Really? You have? I love cafes and cafe culture. I'm so glad. And then we hugged.

Even more simply put, they needed me as much as I needed them, which in my view is a great way to start a working relationship.

Back in January when I was working backstage for the musical my youngest was performing in I thought, 'When this is over I will enjoy all my free time.' When the play ended its run, however, I found I did not enjoy all that free time. I found it hard to get motivated. I was increasingly lonely and isolated. Almost all the work I do throughout the year - my volunteer work, my writing - requires self-motivation and often a mental workout. I realized that in January, even though I was so busy the structure of my days helped me get things done at home. I appreciated my time more. I did not feel quite so adrift and my days and weeks had a form and shape beyond getting up and seeing my daughter off to school and occupying myself until she returned at three o'clock in the afternoon. Although I did not want to be running off my feet as I had been during the play I did want more structure in my life. I needed it. Perhaps my life at home would suit an introverted person but I am not an introvert.

I worked my third shift at the cafe last Friday. There is so much to learn and I am absorbing everything with my eyes and ears at every minute. The cafe is a hopping place. The food is excellent and I find I am proud to make and serve it. We make most of our menu from scratch and plate it prettily. Our coffee is very good and roasted locally by people I have known for many years thanks to my other roles in the community. I have to work hard but the job is never boring; there is always a sauce to make or something to chop or clean. I am comfortable in the kitchen and feel at home in the physical and social nature of the work itself.

What do my children think of me working at their cafe? My youngest is happy. "This is good," she said decidely, after I assured her I would not be working on weekends or full time. She will also begin working a little at the adjoining ice cream parlour this summer. My older children, who will work at the cafe again when they return from college in the spring were happy for me, too, especially after I assured them that if the question came up of who would get hours in the summer they would always take precedence over their mother.

On Friday, many people I know came into the cafe. One person who works for the village's tourism office and whom I know through the arts council of which I am currently president said to me as I served him his lunch, "You are doing this, too?"

I said in response, "Yes, part-time, but this I get paid for."

He smiled and said, "Yes, this is true."

Note: I typed this post from the handwritten version I wrote in, you guessed it, a cafe this past weekend. The photo above is of the view from the resort village in question. 

How Much do I Love Camping?

I have been thinking a great deal about going back this coming summer to a favourite spot of our family's. We used to go there every summer for a family camping trip, but with all our children working and growing up and dispersing, the last time we were able to go to the spot in question was late in the summer of 2010. Below is my post written shortly after our last trip there. I do hope, if we go this year that the sun will shine more warmly upon those of us able to make the trip and, most of all, that we will be allowed to have a campfire. It really does make all the difference in the cool evenings. Even without a fire, however, our spot is beautiful almost beyond belief. There is a sense of being on the edge of the world there without it taking more than a day's travel from our home. The ocean seems bigger there and the shoreline wilder than any spot near here. I love the ocean and have been missing it as of late. The waves are calling me in the dead of winter and I long to answer their call - when summer comes.

I believe I am now completely thawed after camping for five days on the southwest coast of Vancouver Island with a complete campfire ban in effect.  We are experienced coastal campers but nothing could have prepared me for camping in damp windy conditions without the benefit of a fire in the evenings.  I wore all the wool I brought and went for many walks on the beaches dressed like it was January.

My husband and children did not seem to feel the cold nearly as much as I did.  They dressed warmly, but were not desperate about it.  One day found me pacing around our campsite with a wool blanket tied around my waist like a sarong.  My husband took to calling me 'Nanuk', but by the end of the week, even he said next time we camp at French Beach we should come earlier in the summer, when the possibility of a campfire ban has not yet taken effect.   The forest floor of the campground was littered in gold and brown leaves from the overnight fall-like temperatures, but we were mercifully cozy in our tents and sleeping bags at night, and slept well, looking forward to hot chocolate and coffee made on the Coleman stove in the morning.  We had glorious days on the beaches, hunting for tidal life, scanning the horizon for dolphins (we saw a group of three) and whales (we were blessed with a visit by a grey whale feeding in the kelp beds just off shore at Botanical Beach near Port Renfrew), and warming up on the sunbaked stones littering French Beach and China Beach.  At one point I sat on French Beach, picking up warm stone after warm stone to hold in my frigid hands.

We played round after round of badminton and tossed the football, and no one complained about taking their turn to do the dishes after every meal in a pan of hot water.  We were gratefully distracted from the wind on our second afternoon with a visit from my brother, his family and a couple of nephews, and enjoyed showing them around China Beach - a long stretch of fine sandy beach accessible only by boat or by a short hike through a forest of huge arrow-straight Sitka Spruce trees once used for masts on tallships  - which they thought was truly beautiful.  We had brought a gas lamp with us and after we found it emitted a generous amount of heat we joked about it being our impromptu campfire, placed it on the fire grate and gathered around it every evening just to stay somewhat warm while we sat and talked about the day and shared stories and favourite scenes from well-loved comedy programs.

The last day we hiked into Mystic Beach and enjoyed the sheltered bay there.  We lingered in the warmth, exploring the caves created in the cliffs by the tide, and visited the waterfalls.  I was clicking away with my camera when a fellow hiker offered to take a family photo, and I think it will make a great Christmas card this year.  Soon after, our daughter Emma stood on a rock near the shore.  The tide was coming in then and my boys thoroughly enjoyed watching their sister get soaked by a large rogue wave that hit her at chest height.  Good thing I had packed an extra jacket.

New wooden steps down to Mystic Beach

The last evening after supper was cleared away we walked on French Beach and remarked on the darkness of the clouds heading toward us.  We decided to string up a tarp over the picnic table in case of rain, so at least we would have somewhere dry to cook and eat in the morning.  We were so glad we thought of it, because it rained fairly hard all night long.  After breakfast we packed up the wet tents cheerfully, anticipating the dry warmth we would return to here at home. 

Do I love camping?  Not necessarily in the aforesaid conditions.  But what I do appreciate about camping is the unobstructed family time, the simplicity of choosing meals suitable for cooking over a two burner camp stove,  the 24/7 outdoor living by the briny fresh sea, the inaccessibility of technological gadgets, my husband being well out of cell phone range so he can't be bothered with work, and the appreciation it gives me for the simple things of everyday life - like a hot bath and a solid roof overhead.

The painting above of the large piece of driftwood on French Beach is called 'West Coast Wanderer' by Victoria, B.C. artist Jeffrey J. Boron.  More of his work can be found here.  

Happy Trails

One day this December we had a weather window 

in the middle of a wall of rain

V and I went Christmas shopping

but took an hour's break to walk on the Vedder River Trail

about a half hour's drive from our home

Some of our most beautiful days here 

come when the weather clears 

and we are left with open vistas

and gentle signs of life's ongoing abundance

and generosity to us mere mortals

Seeds cling in the wind and wait

for spring

They are winter's strange flowers

I love them for that

In late fall and winter 

leaves are stripped from the trees

but light shines between the bare branches

widening the view and revealing

the trees' graceful reaching limbs

casting long afternoon shadows on the trail

The trail is shared by walkers, cylists, dogs and horses

Wild rabbits and nervous birds hide in the camouflaging brush

Trail etiquette dictates all creatures yield to each other

keeping the peace and opening faces

to smile and greet all travellers on the trail 

no matter what their mode of transport

At the end of the hour the light waned

I took one last picture

of trees and river, shrubs and grasses

yielding to the twilight

in peace and harmony

striking a chord of joy and gratitude

in my heart

Though the year be dying

and the days be at their shortest

the sporadic gifts of light in December give hope

to all around

sustaining us 'til spring comes again

Autumn Mists and Apples

'Tis the time of year for reflecting on 

the 10 months past, 

their fullness realized

in the turning leaves

 and rising mists from empty fields.

The harvest was good this year.

The view behind our house

I have made so much applesauce 

apple crisp and apple muffins.

A friend shared her bumper crop.

She had more than she could ever use.

Her children are flying the coop

 like mine are.

The grocery bill is shrinking

but my freezer is full.

Is there any thing more perfect than an apple? 

These ones are Macintosh.

They've just been washed.

Now they will be sauced.

For your listening pleasure, a newer take on an old standard,

'Autumn Leaves'

Clean and Be Thankful

I cleaned my oven this morning, and the job was done with a parade of cleaning products including vinegar and baking soda, SOS pads, dish soap, Mr. Clean and a lot of elbow grease. I knew it would be much simpler to spray on some Easy-Off, leave it to do its magic and then simply wipe off the grime, but the last time I did so I was sick and swooning from the toxic fumes for days. That stuff is nasty.

I do not enjoy cleaning my oven, to say the least, but this morning while I scrubbed a couple of months' worth of baked-on cooking I got to thinking. (Who are we kidding here? The last time I cleaned my oven Mark Zuckerberg was trying to get into a fraternity.) Music played in the background to keep me company but my thoughts ran free - when I was not singing along to the Mamma Mia soundtrack at the top of my voice, that is, something I am only allowed to do when no one else except my youngest is home. She sings with me of course, being a Musical Theatre kid.

Two of my three living-away children were able to come home for Thanksgiving this past weekend. The third had to work and celebrated the holiday with a dinner cooked by his roommates. The rest of us enjoyed all the comfort and cheer of being together at home. We cooked and baked together, sang (ABBA was strictly forbidden) and were silly together. And while we cooked and baked the oven smoked. In fact, every time I basted the six and a half pound chicken the fire alarm went off.

Anyway, while I was cleaning the oven I was telling myself I had better not complain about the task because, as much as I detest that particular chore, I was lucky. Lucky enough to have an oven in the first place. Lucky enough to have a beautiful, plump, organic chicken carefully raised by some farming friends to cook in said oven. Lucky enough to share that chicken with a loving family, even if one of us had to be absent. Lucky to have enjoyed the delicious leftovers in front of the TV with my youngest after her siblings left to go back to their respective post-secondary institutions and her dad worked late. Lucky to have a gainfully employed husband. Lucky to have children who desire to further their educations and make something of themselves. Lucky to live in a democratic country which, while not without its problems, remains a relatively safe and reasonable place to raise a family and build a future.

I remember when I was a girl and would be out walking with my mother. As we strolled down the hills of Nelson with the timeless view of the lake below and the streets lined with trees in full flame of fall colour against a blue, blue sky my mother would invariably say, "Aren't we lucky to live in such a beautiful place?" I would generally agree. I also remember when I would whine about being hard-done-by or some such teenage complaint she would invariably say, "Just be grateful." Well, with the news the way it is these days, Mom, I can honestly say I am both lucky and grateful to be where I am and with whom, enjoying the benefits of your healthy and wholesome upbringing filled with books and walks, love and talks.

My oven looks a lot better now. I baked some apple muffins after lunch and my youngest is enjoying two as an after school snack. The fire alarm remained silent throughout.

This Billy Joel song cheered me up the other day when I heard it after a particularly bad news day in the media. The video even features a smoking oven.
 We Didn't Start the Fire

Walk of Ages

The waning year and I were both feeling our ages

so we took a walk together along the lakeshore

The clouds were heavy with moisture 

 The lake reflected the grey above it

We walked the path toward the hot springs source

in search of the fountain of youth

The trees reminded us with age comes dignity, wisdom and sheltering kindness

 beauty often forgotten in this shiny, hungry, forward leaping world

A pair of cyclists rode past us

none too young themselves, but active

Wildflowers grew among the thorny blackberry

trumpeting out messages of eternal hope and sweetness

A winding waterway, still and placid

fed the lake in a constant, quiet way

lilypads and insects giving life to its surface

Snowberries glowed pearly white in the forest gloom

heavy bunches of perfect orbs bending their fine and supple twigs 

into arcs reaching for rest on the ground

Tipped with autumn red and orange

green leaves waved goodbye in the breeze

A trio of ducks followed the shore 

keeping another woman's retriever and me at bay

The fountain of youth needed a paint job

but her water was promising and sent up clouds of steam into the cool air

Returning, I took the narrower, treelined path. 

Like the trees I leaned toward the water and the light

Rosehips glowed like little round coals in the fire

Tougher and brighter than the roses of summer

they would feed the birds in the cold days to come

The year and I having made our peace with time together

I took myself out for a birthday lunch and went home for a nap

Many thanks to my daughter, Emma, who designed my new blog header. I was ready for something different, and she was eager to use her digital design skills newly aquired at college. 

Books for the Armchair Traveller

I have not travelled to many places far from home in my life. I have not been off the North American continent, in fact. Most of my exotic travel has taken place in my imagination through the writings of gifted authors who can bring the very dust alive of a country where I have never set foot. Most of these authors are transplants from North America or England and their stories are relatable, often funny, and full of love for their adopted homeland.

Peter Mayle and his A Year in Provence books was the first transplanted author to really get my attention. He and his wife, Jenny, vacationed in the Provence region in the south of France in the early 1980's. In 1986 they moved to the area and began renovating an old stone farmhouse. Mayle's lighthearted and often comic descriptions of the food and wine, the Provencal characters, the landscape and the lifestyle opened up the world of armchair travelling to me and I happily return to Provence at least once every couple of years.

American Chef, Julia Child wrote a beautiful memoir, My Life in France about the years she and her husband, an American diplomat, spent living in Paris and Marseille. Needing something to do in a strange country, Julia took cooking lessons and discovered she had an aptitude for the art. With her trademark candid style, Julia describes with delight all the sights, sounds and smells of her adventures in France. She absolutely fell for Paris, fell for cooking, and fell for the French people.

An artist friend loaned me a couple of books by Hungarian-Canadian cum Tuscan author Ferenc Mate. The Hills of Tuscany and A Vineyard in Tuscany lept to mind when I was viewing the Facebook photos of a friend who is presently travelling in that part of Italy. Mate, a true Renaissance man, and his wife Candace, a painter, moved to Tuscany from New York (although I am happy to say they met by chance in Vancouver) to make a life there. Mate writes with a great deal of warmth, love, humour and self-deprecation. Between the lines one can sense his innate talent at making lifelong friends and succeeding at anything he turns his hand to. In the second book, he and his wife and their young son Peter, buy a former convent and turn it into a beautifully stunning, award-winning winery in the Montalcino region of Tuscany. Reading his books was like making a new friend, one for whom you feel an immediate appreciation and look forward to visiting again. I have a feeling I will be rereading Mate's sun-drenched memoirs this winter when the coastal weather here is particularly dreary.

I must confess that non-fiction has not always been my thing. I am a fairly dedicated reader of novels and short stories, but if a writer can entice me with true stories, I become a life-long fan. I can do plenty of armchair travelling through novels: Rumer Godden wrote exquisitely of India, Mary Stewart of Greece, Michael Ondaatje of pretty much anywhere, but there is something unmistakably wonderful about a writer who can write truly engaging non-fiction. Gerald Durrell and his My Family and other Animals, about growing up a junior naturalist in Greece, M.Wylie Blanchet and her The Curve of Time in which she takes us along with her family on their adventures by boat in and along the fjords and coastline of Vancouver Island and the Sunshine Coast are two such books. Their stories have an immediacy to them which scoops up the reader and takes them along as a guest on the journey, and I have a true appreciation for that quality in a book. Especially when long-flight travel is not on my real-life agenda any time soon.

Have you any recommendations of similar type books for me? Let me know in the comments, please!? Thank you. 

Floating Down the River, Your Hand in Mine

My husband, half way through his two-year Outdoor Recreation program at Capilano University in Vancouver, was offered a summer job as a river rafting guide at Panorama Resort near the quaint and beautiful East Kootenay town of Invermere. Panorama is essentially a ski resort, but in a bid to be viable year round, offered reasons to visit in the off-season, too: great mountain bike trails, a swimming pool and tennis courts, and river-rafting on the rapids of the small and mighty Toby creek. A few days after our May 16th wedding in my hometown of Nelson, my husband and I filled our Toyota hatchback with the necessities of life and off we went amid cries of 'Good Luck!' and 'Let us know how it goes!' from family and friends.

Beautiful Invermere (not my photo)

Previous to our move to Panorama, I had been in touch with the good folks at Pynelogs Cultural Center, a converted historical log estate on the shores of Lake Windemere, and had been promised a job at the center. Upon our arrival, and after several phone calls, it became clear that, funding being what it was, my job had been reduced to a volunteer position. Pynelogs was at least a twenty minute drive down the mountain from Panorama and was often longer due to cattle on the road stalling the traffic and giving zero response to the blaring horns and shouts of drivers. As a newlywed with a husband returning to college in the fall, I could not afford to volunteer when it would cost me gas money, so after a short time of wondering what to do I fell back on my food service experience and applied for a seating host position in the Toby Creek Lodge Restaurant. I got the job and was introduced to the staff by the manager: "And this one's got a brain in her head, so don't mess around." An auspicious beginning.

Fortunately, my husband and I were given staff accomodation in one of the condominiums at the resort, so our living expenses were modest. We shared the condo with two other rafting guides - Derek, a friendly and very handsome young classmate of my husband's, and Finn, an Australian with a love for The Bottle and a rather surly disposition much of the time. He was the rafting crew leader, however, and it was important to keep on his good side. He was sometimes a benevolent roommate, and I remember his cauliflower cheese pie and his barbecued leg of lamb very well. So, my summer days, besides keeping house with three men, consisted of lounging by the pool - I remember reading The Razor's Edge by Somerset Maughm - cycling or going for drives on the dirt roads up behind the resort, throwing meals together with, as of yet, little talent in the kitchen, cheering at the TV with the guys during The French Open and Wimbledon tennis tournaments, attempting to play tennis with my sporty new husband, and seating guests (and clowning around with waiters) in the restaurant in the evenings. One night early on in my hostess career, and after the restaurant was closed, I sat down to the grand piano by the bar where the wait-staff were counting their tips and calculating my share. I began to play 'Fur Elise' by Beethoven, which I had known by heart for years. The staff must have enjoyed my music, for after that they told me if I played for them every night they would increase my share of the tips. It became a very satisfactory arrangement, as my husband and  I were able to live mainly on my tips and save our paychecks for the coming year back in Vancouver.

One of the great bonuses of my husband working as a raft guide was the free trip for both of us - which we rather optomistically called our honeymoon - rafting for a week on the Tatshenshini and Alsek Rivers in the Yukon Territory, to take place in the latter part of June. Clients payed $2600.00 each for a guided trip down those rivers, plus their air fare and accomodation in Whitehorse before and after the trip. We only had to get ourselves to and from Whitehorse, which we did in our car, driving twelve hours a day for three days through some of the wildest, most beautiful country I have ever seen. Wildlife appeared by the roadsides at regular intervals - grizzly bears, moose, deer, black bears, birds of prey, etc. We had been given the loan of a good 35 mm camera, bought several rolls of film and took along our little point-and-shoot for backup.

Grizzly bears by the road in Jasper National Park

A church in the lovely Hazeltons

After a day or two of sightseeing in Whitehorse - a city of approximately 15,000 people and with, I counted, 28 bars - the voyage down the rivers began at Haines Junction. Our two guides, Jim and Brian, told us the first leg of the trip would be a quick one with the river presently swelled with the runoff to twice its normal volume. We geared up in personal flotation devices, warm, waterproof clothing, and helmets. Everyone was given a paddle and directions in the vein of 'do what you're told if you want to survive'. The large rubber rafts, holding seven people each, rocketed along on the swollen river, and when we came to some narrows held in by sharp, rocky cliffs, it took everyone's work to keep the rafts on course. Our raft guide, Jim, kept us well away from the rocks and we got through the narrows just fine. Not so for the other boat, which bounced off a sharp rock on the cliff and gained a puncture in its sidewall. My husband spent the rest of our 'free' honeymoon rising each of the six days at dawn to pump up the punctured boat that had been slowly, sadly, deflating during the night.

Several of the participants on the trip were over sixty-five. One, a retired teacher and former mountain climber named Gertrude, was eighty-two. All of the retirees, (except the coiffed lady in the high-heeled rubber boots) hated people fussing over them, but all welcomed our help in setting up their tents and making camp each day. Luckily for us all, the weather was basically cooperative, and after that first day in the rapids, our trip consisted of calm days of floating downstream in our rafts, enjoying the opportunity to get to know each other, learning about the flora and fauna from Sid Cannings, our knowledgeable naturalist who was brought along for his expertise, and paddling when necessary. After an excellent dinner each night (the food was almost the best part of the trip, and being mainly cooked over a fire was generally given the adjectives 'Cajun' or 'blackened' when served with a grin by our fearless leader Jim), we spent our evenings around the campfire talking about the day's grizzly, moose, and Arctic Tern sightings.

Brian's boat

Moody skies

One of our tent cities

Views from a hike

Our boat's fearless leader Jim

Late in the trip we left the Tatshenshini River and joined the Alsek River, ending up at Alsek Lake. I will never forget the sight of that lake once the dense fog finally lifted in the morning. The beach, filled with clumps of unusual wildflowers gave way to a glassy blue lake with a backdrop of the Alsek Glacier. The lake was filled with huge, solid masses of blue icebergs which calved off the glacier at regular, crashing intervals. We paddled out to the icebergs, landing on one deemed fairly safe from tipping by our guides, and the group's cameras were put to work. My husband took roll after roll of film at the lake and I, armed as it were with the point and shoot, took one roll. Perhaps my insistence on taking photos on the little camera showed some foresight, for after the trip was over and we were developing our film, it became evident that something had gone wrong with the borrowed camera - none of the pictures turned out. The photos from the little camera turned out better than expected, although our entire collection consisted of only three rolls of photos from twelve absolutely glorious days of that once-in-a-lifetime experience.

Alsek Lake in the fog

Alsek lake, fog lifted, flowers abundant

Amazing icebergs

Since rivers lead ultimately to ocean, our trip ended at Dry Bay, Alaska, where we crawled out of our rafts, faces burnt and lips blistered by the reflected sun of six days on the water. We boarded Lady Lou, a reclaimed WWII bomber painted with Lady Lou herself high-kicking the Can-Can on its side. The interior of the plane was fairly basic, fitted like a bus, so I was astonished to be offered a drink and cookies by the well-dressed flight attendant who had to shout to be heard over the roaring engine and who exhibited great skill at keeping her balance as the plane charged along with typically northern spirit. We soared over the mountains, retracing our route down the rivers, taking half an hour to return to the spot we had left six days earlier. What a relief it was to shower and shampoo in the hotel room that two of the clients so kindly offered to share with my husband and I for our last night as a group. We dined that evening in Whitehorse' nicest little restaurant - all relieved to be going home to our own beds and bathrooms, but full of the wonderful week's experience on the rivers. We talked and laughed like we'd known each other forever. There was nothing to lose in bonding for a week because what we took away was so much bigger than that. The people part is mixed up forever with the scenery, the small hardships of camping in the wild, and the animals we were so blessed to see - a multi sensory experience to add to the store of memories of a young, married couple like us.

Our wonderful group of explorers, my husband and I
 in the back row,
second and third in from the left

The same could be said about that entire summer of 1992. I never saw any of those people again, not Andy the waiter who was so much fun to work with, not Finn nor any of the others - though I did see Derek once at a college function several months later. Eighteen years later we stopped in Invermere on a summer holiday and showed it to our kids. The town was even more developed than it had been in 1992 when the lake was completely surrounded by summer homes built by wealthy Albertans. I am sure Panorama Resort has grown a lot since then as well. We have changed, too, of course - twenty-two years, several moves and four children later.

Recently, I went through the entire box of photos from our trip. We had been invited to a party where each guest was asked to bring a show of just ten slides. I spread all the photos out on the floor trying to remember their exact order. I chose eighteen, which my daughter helped me to scan. Then, I chose the final ten for the party. As I went through the photos, I remembered I had kept a journal on the trip. I re-read the journal and relived my honeymoon, recalling little sensory experiences and feeling so grateful that I had those memories, those photos and that written account to go back to every now and then when I wanted to relive that adventurous time in my life when my husband and I were just starting our own journey together down the curving, varied, beautiful river of life.