Homes Sweet Homes

I was fortunate enough to be born and raised in a beautiful place. My hometown is built on the shores and hillsides by Kootenay Lake. Once a major center of trade and mining in my province of British Columbia, Nelson boasts many beautiful stone buildings constructed around the turn of the last century. Golden sand beaches dot the shore all along the lake and densely forested mountains rise above it. My winters were spent skiing and sledding, summers spent swimming and sunning. A haven for artists and students, my town fostered a uniquely vibrant cultural scene. People still flock there from all over in search of a kind of Utopia. 

I left my hometown at nineteen to attend university. I met my husband and never lived in my hometown again, save a stint of a few months after I was finished with my studies. I pined for Nelson for a few years, always desiring to return and make it my home once again. In the meantime, my husband and I moved for his career from Vancouver to the East Kootenays, then to Vancouver Island, and finally to the Fraser Valley where we have now lived for twenty-three years. I soon learned that my hometown is not the only beautiful place in the world, let alone in my province of BC. 

I remember going for walks in the East Kootenay town of Kimberley, where we spent a couple of very happy years as a young family. There was one spot down the hill from our house (Kimberley is built on a steep hill with three plateaus) with a wide view that highlighted the distant Rocky Mountains. I would regularly stop there on my walks and gaze admiringly at that fiercely dramatic mountain range. Before we left for Vancouver Island where my husband had been offered a transfer, I walked to my spot to say farewell to that special view, hoping it would not be too long before I could return to visit it again. 

I had for a long while secretly longed to live on Vancouver Island. An island life seemed a romantic idea to me. We moved at the start of winter, and I could not believe how mild the climate was. Kimberley's temperatures regularly dipped into the double digits celcius in winter and my little boys loved to watch the snow removal machines do their seemingly constant job in front of our house. We were lucky to see any snow on the Island. Moss and lichen grew rampantly on the north sides of buildings, and we could often visit a nearby beach in January, not necessarily to swim, although our younger son did have a talent for getting wet every time we neared the water. We have a lovely family photo taken during the winter after our older daughter was born. We are sitting on a beach in January, in jeans and fleece jackets, squinting in the sunshine. We lived a few blocks above the Courtenay air park which was built on the flats of the Courtenay river. My husband worked from home, so the kids and I would give him some quiet by taking daily walks down to the air park. We could watch the small planes take off and land, and enjoy the vibrant bird life and aquatic antics of seals and salmon. On weekends our little family would visit local beaches or drive up into the mountains for hikes. Life was indeed good. 

After the non-profit my husband worked for lost their core funding, we were on the move again - up Island to an off-grid lodge in the mountains west of Campbell River. The place felt like my Nelson home in that it was built on the shore and hillsides above a wide lake, but much more remote. The winters were milder, too. When we did get snow, it was generally wet and packable. The kids had a great time playing year round, no matter the weather. They rode their bikes, paddled in little river kayaks, hiked up trails built into the hillsides, swam to the dock, played in the sand, and climbed trees. I soaked in the views - the layered mountains across the lake were an ever-changing pallette of hues I never tired of gazing at. Campbell River provided everything else we needed. Many hours were spent at soccer fields and parks in the beautiful waterfront community. Discovery Passage provided endless hours of whale and seal watching. Once when we were having a meal at the Beehive Cafe, which was basically built on the dock at Foreshore Park, I watched silently as a grey whale rose and dove repeatedly right in front of me.

After five years of off-grid living we were on the move again. Our family of six had outgrown, not the beauty, but the living and working situation, of The Lodge. Saying goodbye to The Island was one of the hardest decisions I had ever had to make. I loved it so much. I still do. I get excited every time I board a ferry to visit our daughter in Victoria where she has chosen to make her home - an Island girl through and through . We were excited to start a new family chapter, but the temptation to flip the pages back was strong. We persevered, however, and began to plant roots in the Fraser Valley. Those roots are fairly deep now, after twenty-three years of making the Upper Fraser our home. 

What struck me first about the Upper Fraser were the mountain views. Mt. Cheam towers over the community of Agassiz, but is still a feature of the landscape in the city we call home now, west of there. How I have grown to love that mountain, and her neighbour, Lady Peak! I have been fortunate enough to climb to the top of Mt. Cheam and admire the long, wide views in each direction. The Valley has much to recommend it. I admire the farmers who work so hard to provide locally grown food. I enjoy the cities being broken up by fields of productive lands and a myriad of rivers intersecting them. The landscape in The Valley is open and generous and encircled with stunning mountain peaks. I also enjoy the fact that within an hour or two of driving, we can be at the ocean in beautiful Vancouver or White Rock. 

I am also incredibly fortunate to spend much time in the Cascade mountains just over the mountain pass from the Fraser Valley and into the Okanagan/Similkameen. The Resort my husband works at (and lives at most of the week) benefits from both the moisture of the Coast and the aridity of the Okanagan. Again, I feel at home. In some ways I have come full circle. I was born and raised at an elevation of 1700-odd feet, which is basically the same elevation as the top of the resort's ski hill. The resort is located near the Eastern border of a huge provincial park, the beauty of which is renowned and loved dearly by many in all four distinct seasons. 

If home is where the heart is, then my home is forever British Columbia. I'm not sure I could live anywhere else. If I can never get on a plane again, I am fairly sure I would be happy continuing to simply explore this incredible province. 

'til next time, 

Rebecca

Warm Thoughts

There comes a time every winter, usually in early March, when I announce to anyone who cares, "I am ready to be warm again." 

I enjoyed a preview of that warmth a couple of weekends ago when my husband and I went to Penticton to see our younger son play in a concert there. Penticton, like much of the Okanagan, is generally drier and warmer this time of year than where we live, and it did not disappoint that weekend. It was so warm that, after the concert, we stood very comfortably outside the theatre talking with our son for a good half hour. It was so warm that in the morning, we went for a walk and had to shed our jackets and scarves, even though there was a light breeze. I felt every muscle in my body relax in the warmth. I turned to my husband at one point and said, "Maybe we should retire here." He responded by drily informing me that Penticton is at least thirty-five degrees celcius most of the summer. "Oh, but it's a dry heat," I scoffed, knowing full well that he was right - I'm not a big fan of thirty-plus temperatures. 

My dad's parents were Snowbirds. They joined thousands of other retired Canadians every winter and went down to the California desert. My Nana suffered with arthritis, and the dry heat made her achy joints feel a whole lot better than they did during the wet winters in her home in South Surrey/Whiterock. My grandparents even bought a home in Rancho Mirage, outside of Palm Springs. When they turned eighty, however, the medical insurance skyrocketed and they decided to sell up and remain in South Surrey each winter. I'm sure it was hard for them to say goodbye to those hot, dry, comfortable winters down south. I wonder if they ever thought of retiring to Penticton. I wish they were around to ask. 

I don't mind winter at all. I don't yet have crippling arthritis or suffer through Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) or anything like that. I don't mind rain, either, as long as it doesn't rain incessently for days and days on end. I like being cozy with fluffy duvets and blankets tucked under my chin while the winter weather rages outside. I like making hot soup and warm biscuits for supper. I enjoy skiing and rambles on a snowy trail. I like the views of the mountains from my windows when the leaves are off the trees. Come late spring, those mountain views are filled in with masses of green growth. I like watching the flames flicker in the fireplace and taking hot baths on a cold night. But, even I, friend of winter, reach my seasonal limit. After months of wearing layers upon layers, walking down the street with my shoulders hunched against the cold, hands thrust in pockets Bob Dylan style, I'm ready to stand tall with my shoulders back, wear a sunhat and flowy dress and reclaim my outdoor comfort!

You know that first day in spring when you feel warm enough to walk down the street in a t-shirt? That is always a moment of bliss for me. The air temperature is neither too hot, nor too cold. That is my sweet spot. I am so looking forward to that moment in spring when I don't have to decide which jacket to wear, but we are not there yet. On this last day of March, the season is still hovering between winter chill and spring thaw. A sunny day still ends in a freezing night. A warm, mild day filled with bird song and blooming flowers can easily Jekyll and Hyde into a raw, frigid morning where the snow line descends on the mountains overnight. 

Spring is definitely happening, though, and for that, I say "Welcome Spring, and thank you for all your many gifts of beauty and cheerfulness, and the hope of many, many warm days to come."

Happy Easter, everyone!

'til next time, 

Rebecca

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. 

City Mouse, Mountain Mouse

I was so exhausted after work Friday I forgot the onions and garlic for the Shepherd's Pie I was set to make the next day.  We were gathering up clothing, food and supplies to take up to our place at the mountain resort where my husband is employed, and where our daughter and I would also spend our weekend. I had the recipe in front of me and read it over to make sure I gathered all the ingredients. (I also ended up forgetting the rosemary.) For some stupid reason I had awoken that morning at 4:45 and could not, for the life of me, fall back to sleep. Instead, I had given in, got up, made coffee and taken care of some emails. I never sleep to my 6:20 alarm on my work days, but 4:45 is ridiculous. Fourteen and a half hours later I was pushing through my foggy haze to get organized. Fortunately, my husband had come down to pick us up, and I would not have to drive the hour and ten minutes to the resort. He was also trying to be helpful in a 'let's hurry' sort of way.

Once we were on the road I could relax. A beautiful evening drive was in front of us and a mellow and quiet weekend was something to look very much forward to. The weekend before my husband had come down with the stomach flu and a few days later our daughter got it. I had successfully fought off the flu, but I was truly spent after looking after my family, working, and surviving on the interrupted sleep I seem to get nowadays. As we left the freeway behind and began the gradual winding climb to the resort I felt every cell in my body breathe a sigh of relief. I enjoy my job, I like the convenience of living in a mid-sized city and appreciate all it has to offer my daughter and me by way of cultural and educational opportunities, but I was born and raised in a town perched on a mountainside above a long and lovely lake, and the scent of lake water, evergreens and cottonwood are part of my DNA.

The first thing I do when I arrive at our humble little place in the mountains is fill my lungs with the sweet, fresh, fir and pine scented air. Next, I fill a glass with delicious mountain water and drink it down. The city where I live used to boast some of the best drinking water in Canada, but now it has to be chlorinated. After my ritual of inhaling and water drinking I put my stuff away and my husband made some popcorn. We sat down in front of the laptop and watched some comedy on YouTube. My husband has lately discovered a Brit comedian named Michael McIntyre,who is very funny but also incredibly fast talking. After about forty-five minutes of trying to keep up to Michael McIntyre I gave up and went to bed. I slept the deepest, longest sleep I'd had in ages.

My daughter was up before me the next morning, which almost never happens. I got up about 9 and made coffee, which I am confidently sure I would never forget to bring no matter how foggy I am the night before. My husband doesn't drink coffee, he wakes up ready to go which is a completely foreign concept to me, and doesn't keep it on hand. My daughter was still feeling a bit rough so we kept our ambitions of activity low and wore pyjamas until the afternoon. After lunch we ventured out for a walk on one of the many trails in the park and came across a couple of snowshoe hares, their feet still white but their bodies turning brown for their summer camouflage. They seemed to be chasing around in some sort of mating ritual and kept darting across our path. The air was warm, but not nearly as warm as it would be down in the valley. Still, we stuck to the shade where possible and put our hands in the cold rushing stream dissecting our path. We returned early to our place and I began to prepare our Shepherd's Pie. I soon realized I lacked the required onion and garlic. I wondered if the Resort chef would spare me some, and made my way out the door to walk the ten minutes to my husband's office. I had barely gone fifty meters when I saw our neighbour pull up in his BC Parks truck. I called out, "Do you happen to have an onion?" He said he did, at first thinking I was a tourist before recognizing me despite my lack of winter garb, and we proceeded to chat about Shepherd's Pie and cooking in general. I offered him a piece in exchange for the onion and garlic, and he took me up on it. I had met him and his girlfriend only once before in the winter, but familiarity is quick in somewhat isolated resort communities, I find. I think it has to be.

We thoroughly enjoyed our dinner. The simplest meals seem to taste best in a camping-type environment, where the flavours mingle with fresh air, wood smoke and sunscreen. I remember making Sloppy Joes, which is basically meat sauce on a bun, for my family when we were camping on the West Coast of Vancouver Island, and they begged me to make it at home. I made the dish a couple of months later and the kids were disappointed, even though the ingredients were exactly the same as when we were camping. After the dishes were done, my husband made our first campfire of the summer and we sat around it in camp chairs and talked of this, and that, and burned an old insect and mold damaged paperback nearly page by page. My actor daughter and I read selected lines from the pages by way of a eulogy for the book. We let the fire die and went back inside to watch more Michael McIntyre and then we had another long and satisfying sleep.

The next morning I got up before my husband left for work. Our daughter was up early, too, so I suggested we aim to leave the house by 10-ish since we were both feeling a whole lot better than the day before. We packed a simple picnic and drove the four kilometers up to the lakes. The May morning shone on the blue-green of the lake water and the verdant green of the shore. I knew a path circled the lake so we set out upon it. We stopped several times to exclaim at the tree-perfumed scents of the forest in which we hiked, the birds and especially the ground squirrels that so delighted my daughter with their winning/food begging ways, The walk was longer than we anticipated, and very glad we'd brought peanut butter and jam sandwiches and apples we stopped to sit on a log overlooking the water to enjoy our lunch.  Happy people in canoes and kayaks paddled by in front of us and ducks and geese floated and fished. A dog came to visit us and I jumped because I had been bitten just a half hour before by another dog I had been assured would be friendly if I said hello. This particular dog was an adorable puppy and only made a muddy mess of my leg as it raced around us. I was grateful to put my throbbing and bleeding hand in the cold, clean lake water (no motors are allowed on the lakes) before we continued our trek.

We drove back to our place and made tea and ate more food. We decided we had earned a movie and chose Johnny English. Although the hike around the beautiful lake had made me feel blissful and somewhat romantic about life, the dog bite had brought me very much back to reality and I thought a laugh would do me good. It did do me good, as did the antiseptic wipes and the Advil. We made another simple but enjoyable dinner, packed up and drove down the winding descent to the freeway. We arrived home to a very warm apartment and flicked on the air conditioner. Our daughter caught up on the rest of her homework (she had already done plenty on the weekend after missing school for three days), and my husband and I watched an episode of Miss Marple.

I woke up the next morning at 5:30. The traffic had started in earnest on the thoroughfare by our building and the Tim Horton's drive-thru had already been open for an hour and a half. Not quite ready to give into the city's ways I suggested to my husband who was now on days off, that we drive the few minutes to the river and go for a walk before the heat of the day set in. The cottonwoods were shedding their fluff and giving off their heady, honeyed scent. Acres of pink and purple phlox bordered the pathway and the sun shone warmly down. The river swollen from the spring runoff raced along beside us. I was very glad to carry on the nature therapy a little longer so near our city home. I know we are very lucky to live where we live. The cares of the weekdays would come soon enough.

Later that day I went to the second hand book store and bought another copy of the burned novel.

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

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. 

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.

Climb Every Mountain - or at least one

Last Friday as I was running around like the proverbial headless chicken, helping my son get packed and organized for his move to the university on Sunday, I made the decision to accept the offer made earlier by some friends to accompany them on a hike to the top of our local landmark, Mt. Cheam. Our packing was well underway and the chance to go up the mountain may not come our way again for a long time, so, I decided to risk the strain on my recovering knee and go with the two other members of my household who would have Saturday off: the university bound son who could really use a stress-buster like climbing a mountain, and my youngest daughter.

The next morning the three of us arose at 5:00 a.m. We had prepared our lunches the night before, that is, after I had shown my son how to do his banking online, and laid out our clothing. All we had to do in the morning was eat, make some go-mugs of coffee, and wait for our ride which was due to arrive at 6:00. At 5:30 my husband got out of bed and brought me some assorted ski poles. He said that using them would help me keep the pressure off my knees when hiking. When we found the right-sized ones, our ride arrived and off we went into the silvery grey dawn to begin our adventure.

We drove in two vehicles to the bottom of the forestry road which would take us up to the trail head. We left the car in a clearing at the bottom of the road and all climbed into the 4x4 truck, the only vehicle that could handle that particular deactivated forestry track. The three adults and the dog sat in the cab and the four kids made themselves comfortable with blankets and pillows in the back - they had a hay bale to sit on and a rope to hold onto when the going got extra bumpy. Our driver picked his way up the fifteen kilometers of one of the roughest roads I have ever been on. By deactivated, the sign meant 'full of huge ruts where culverts used to be'. We would enter these drainage ditches on an angle so as not to bottom out. Slowly and with the truck in extra low four-wheel drive, we climbed and we climbed and we climbed, and as the sun rose on a perfectly clear day we pointed out creeks and mountain peaks, wildflowers and stunted fir trees with huge cones sitting like birds on the perfectly perpendicular branches. We chatted cheerfully in expectation of the glories which awaited us at the top. By 8:45, we had reached the parking lot. Six other trucks were already parked, but there was still plenty of room for us. We gathered our backpacks, refilled our water bottles and leashed the dog. We visited the outhouse, tightened our shoelaces and put on our caps and sunscreen. By 9:00 we were off on the trail, its sides a three dimensional tapestry of late summer wildflowers.

The trail started gradually until we reached tiny Spoon Lake which, aptly named, was shaped as if a giant had taken a spoonful out of the earth. The water was that strangely beautiful turquoise colour one only sees in the alpine. After the lake the climbing began. The path was well used and solid underfoot. We climbed switchback after switchback and soon the kids were well ahead. I began to see and feel the benefit of the ski poles and I silently thanked my husband for what was to be the first of many times during the two and a half hours climb up and the two hours back down the trail. Every so often we would stop and turn to take in the ever-changing view. Each time we stopped we could see new peaks in the beyond and new shapes below: trucks climbing the top of the road to the parking lot far below, hikers making their way up the path behind us, and folds and folds of green and blue treed hillsides.

Spoon Lake from above

Some of our group looking toward the Southwest

At one point we stopped to let some faster hikers pass. They all had the same large, nylon backpacks and I wondered if they were going to camp overnight at the top. About three quarters of the way up we met two young men who had spent the night on the top. They were grinning ear to ear and exclaiming about how the entire milky way had been visible the night before and how the experience was like being in a planetarium, only better, of course.

Before long, we had reached the plateau before the final short climb to the peak. We had hiked in the wonderful coolness of the morning and although tired and in need of lunch, none of us was suffering. The kids went straight away the very top of the peak above me. I stopped to rest and take in the incredible and vertigo-inducing view of our home valley below to the north and the sharp and splendid peaks of the Cascade Mountains to the South.

Snow-covered Mt. Baker on the far right

 I began to climb the last bit of the peak when my youngest began to make her way down. "It makes me nervous to be up there," she said when she reached me. I asked her if the view was different up there on that narrow peak with the sheer drops on all sides, and she said, "No, no different at all, and the shale makes it quite tricky to come down." I had still to climb down the mountain, which I knew was often harder on the knees than going up, so, I decided to stay put with her on the plateau. As we ate our lunch and put on some more layers of clothing to combat the cool wind, we watched the group of nylon back-pack laden hikers just below us in a small meadow. Another hiker came up the trail and told us that we would soon be treated to a wonderful show, thanks to the group below. One by one, the hikers who had passed us earler opened their nylon packs to reveal parachutes, and one by one they attached them to harnesses, checked them for safety and then jumped off the cliff below us into the blue. I thought of all the times we had watched them from far below, rising with the updraft that came up the north face of the mountain, drifting and falling with the air currents and taking their sweet time in landing. Often they would land in our high school field 2100 metres below from where we were sitting at that moment.

I had left my heavy camera at home. I wanted to concentrate on not injuring myself more than anything, and my kids were both bringing their cameras. After about an hour at the top the plateau and the pathway to the peak were getting crowded. Everyone and their dog had decided to climb Mt. Cheam that day, or so it seemed. We began to make our way down the mountain, but we took our time. To be eye-level with Mt. Baker, a snow covered dormant volcano, as well as the other peaks we had admired from our home way down in the valley was a wonderful thing and we were reluctant to leave the views behind. Of course, the kids were much quicker down than we adults were with our much older knees. We asked them to wait for us at Spoon Lake. On our way down we frequently had to step aside to make way for all the hikers making their way up. The sun was high by that time of day and many of the ascending hikers looked hot and thirsty. Some were improperly dressed for hiking a steep trail. We even saw one girl in bare feet carrying flip-flops. The black flies were coming out in droves and were nipping at our legs, and by the time we reached the lake, a helicopter had landed nearby with a wedding party. Our peaceful wilderness experience was coming to an end

By the time we reached the parking lot it was packed with vehicles. Trucks and SUVs spilled over onto the roadside below. After rehydrating with a whole lot of water and some juicy peaches, as well as a little coffee brought in a Thermos by our forward thinking driver, we climbed back into our truck with one very tired little dog. Going down seemed a little quicker than the climb up the road, but it was still a labourious process. Our driver moved over several times to let those in a hurry leave us in their dust. By the time we were near the bottom we were surrounded by all-terrain vehicles and dirt bikes, their engines whining insistently, their wheels kicking up dust. A system of trails for such a purpose must be in the area, we figured.

Back in two vehicles we made our way into Chilliwack to go for some well-deserved ice cream. Tired, but elated, we sat in our Dairy Queen booth talking over the day. We discussed how every high school student should have the chance to go up Mt. Cheam, and about how the view gives, not only a geography lesson on our area, but also a lesson in wonder and awe, a lesson in the 'big picture' of our existence on the earth. I said that once a person goes up a mountain and sees the world far below from a completely different angle, something in her changes. And then I thought silently, that when she is down in the valley once again, she can look up to the peak she has climbed and say, "I have been all the way up there. I have seen all of this as it really is, from a bird's eye view." She will keep that picture in her mind and refer to it often. She will soar up to the peak again and again in her imagination and may never quite come down again.

Mt. Cheam from down here - in late March

Thank you to my children for taking such terrific photos! Have a wonderful weekend, whatever adventures await you.

Big Fun at Damp Camp

On Sunday evening we received a message from our youngest daughter's teacher: "Would either you or your husband be able to come on the camping trip on Wednesday? We are short parents. Let me know. Bye."

Mrs. G has been taking her class to Camp Squeah annually for ten years. In every other year but this one, not only has the weather cooperated, parents have clamored to go on the trip, but with the looming weather forecast and a few communication problems, four of the parents that had said they would go earlier in the year, pulled out at the last minute. I had not signed up because it seemed like so many other parents wanted to go, and until the teacher's phone call I had no reason to believe otherwise. I had also thought perhaps it might be a good opportunity for my daughter to have an adventure without her parents tagging along.

My husband certainly could not go on such short notice, so I looked at my schedule and after school on Monday struck a compromise with Mrs. G. I could meet the class at the camp, which is only about a half hour drive from our house, on Wednesday noon, stay the night, and leave the following day at supper time. I had a couple of commitments this week, but could fit the camp in for 36 hours or so. She said yes to the compromise and I went home to get organized.

The rain was pouring as I drove to the camp, the semi trucks spewing up clouds of mist. I pulled into the camp and parked behind our friend Jim who was one of the drivers. I found him and another parent putting the finishing touches on an elaborate system of tarps over the various tents. Although I had been invited to share the teacher's tent she informed me that plans had changed and some boys had been instructed to pitch me a small tent. I found the tent and began to put my things inside. I soon pulled them out. No ground sheet had been placed under the tent and the bottom was already soaked. I decided to sleep in the back of my van. At least I would be dry, there would be room for my daughter if her sleeping situation was not working out - her group's tent walls were already wet on the inside - and I prepared for a bit of a rough night. Oh well, I told myself. I will survive, as would the kids, if no one caught pneumonia before morning.

I joined my daughter's group at the high ropes course for their afternoon session. The other group was canoeing. After nearly every child gave the course a try, I decided to give it a go and chose an element which consisted of a wire stretched tightly between two poles. I climbed the pole on the right, using the large metal staples which had been inserted all the way up to a wire suspended at about 35 feet in the air. I was, of course, in a full harness and attached to a rope/pulley system held on the ground by one of the instructors, but I was still fairly nervous at being so high up. I began to make my way across the wire to the other side, holding on to the ropes hung at various intervals along the way. I discovered that sliding my feet and keeping my heels down helped to steady me. When I reached the other side I was instructed to lean back and was let down to the ground. Good fun, but I was glad to be on solid earth again. Later on in the day I went in to our group's lodge to help with supper. The lodge, which was warm and dry, housed bathrooms, a food preparation area and a large meeting area with couches. As all the kids came in from their activities, many complained of wet feet and wet towels, and asked, 'where do we hang our stuff to dry?' Very good question, I thought. We would be lucky to make it through the night at this rate. Soon afterwards an instructor offered the use of a large industrial propane dryer in the back room of the building, and we began what was to be a fairly constant cycle of drying wet socks, pants, hooded sweatshirts, and towels. We could not dry shoes, and many of the kids still had wet feet when they returned to the school on Friday afternoon.

After a good supper that night of pasta, garlic toast and salad, the teacher made an announcement. We had been offered the use of the cabins. While a few hearty and well prepared kids decided to stay in their tents, most decided to move into the cabins. The teacher, another female parent and I occupied a deluxe, and slightly musty cabin which even had a bathroom and a small kitchen of sorts. In comparison with how I thought my night would be spent in the back of my Honda van, the cabin seemed like The Ritz. I settled into one of the three bedrooms and then joined the rest of the group around the campfire for an evening of stories, s'mores, and games. Bedtime was to begin at 10:00. By 10:20 my tired daughter had left her cabin full of girls who were not nearly as eager for sleep as she was and joined me in my room. We enjoyed a fairly good night's sleep as the rain fell with the constancy of a waterfall.

The next morning we awoke to more rain and we adults rose early-ish to make a hearty breakfast of eggs, ham and cheese served on toasted English muffins, with orange juice and camp coffee. I joined my group on a nature hike in the dripping rainforest and then helped with lunch. After lunch, I helped with the clean up while my daughter's group went canoeing. I kept an eye on the big dryer, folded clothes and arranged them on the picnic tables for the kids. Then, I packed up my own things. I visited with the other adults for a while and then said goodbye to my daughter who was enjoying herself at the archery range. I drove home, my windshield wipers on low by now, a bit sorry to be leaving the camp, but I had a singing engagement for the evening. I needed to get home, eat supper, shower and warm up my voice.

Even though it had rained constantly, the beauty of the forested setting of the camp was not dampened. The scent of rain-soaked ferns, moss and cedar filled me up with the sense of well-being I always have in the forest. I shared that well-being with the kids, who although fairly wet a lot of the time, were generally delighted with all the activities and opportunities for fun on the trip. They appreciated the food, the warm, dry clothes and towels after canoeing or hiking in the rain. They lined up gratefully for hot chocolate and participated in the campfire games with enthusiasm. Any attempts to hold on to their carefully guarded too-cool-for-school persona, seemed all but washed away in that setting, and then warmed up by the campfire they helped to make with old man's beard, a dry moss which hangs off tree limbs, in their bush-craft classes. Not everyone behaved perfectly, but overall a general sense of camaraderie pervaded the atmosphere and it was easy for me to enjoy the kids, and to embrace the experience. I felt lucky to be there, and lucky to have such good rain gear.

The camping trip reminded me of the importance of exposing children and families to outdoor experiences, to the challenges they present and also the opportunities for self-knowledge and improvement. Many of the kids who conquered elements on the high ropes were amazed at themselves. One particular girl came out of her shell in a big way and joined in all the girl chatter in her cabin, much to the surprise of her bunk-mates. I heard one boy thank my daughter for teaching him 'that cool game last night'. My daughter is not one of the cool kids, but in her own way, she is a leader. I saw proof of that fact when the teacher asked her to lead some drama games around the campfire. Everyone, including the adults, had so much fun playing 'Bang!' and 'Concentration'. The boys and girls who persevered in the tents were proud of themselves, and the less well-prepared ones who decided on the cabins were relieved and grateful for the rescue from inevitably wet bedding - most department store tents are not made for wet conditions. (There is also an art to setting up tents in the rain, and tarps can only do so much.) I remembered my family's years working and living in a camp setting similar to Camp Squeah. All the hours spent outside, rain or shine, the hikes to the lookout, the swimming, canoeing and kayaking in the lake was time spent in the best and healthiest way for my children, myself and my husband. Those years formed us into people who seek the benefits of a healthy lifestyle, although it is not always easy keep up the standards we once maintained as a family as the kids get older.

This summer, I vow to spend more time with my kids outside, and I am determined to get some more camping in. It is far too easy these days to allow ourselves to become overloaded with tasks or distracted by things that do not, in the big picture of life, really matter. True perspective is so easily lost and the wrong things can become relied upon to soothe and entertain us.

I also hope for the kids I spent 36 hours with this week. They have seen and experienced what their lives can be like with lots of exercise, fun, healthy food and fresh air, even in the rain. Perhaps they can take a little of that, hold onto it, and let it define their future for the better.

The badge above is available here. I'd like to order one for all the kids. 

A Runner's Prayer

Since, in the past week we have had both a cougar sighting (a hungry young male driven off the mountain by his stronger competition) and a mugging in our little town, and for the fact that a tractor-trailer flying by me much too close for comfort this morning nearly caused me to jump for my life into the ditch, I have resurrected a little prayer I came up with and used to say to myself as I ventured forth into the wilderness on my thrice-weekly, often gloriously solo, runs on the road and pathways of the environs of our home at Strathcona Park Lodge. Running up there in that beautiful wilderness I came across cougar tracks in the snow but never a real cougar, saw a black bear a few times that lifted its head slowly from its feast of fresh spring grass to observe my passing, did get run into the ditch by an RV once, but never encountered anyone attempting to steal my purse. Of course, I would not be running with a purse, and bear spray has more than one use.
Anyway, here is the prayer:

A Runner's Prayer

From dangerous beasts,
animal
human
and vehicular,
deliver me.
Amen

The photo above is one I took on a family trip through Alberta in 2010, and is of a typical Canadian highway along which someone like me might choose to run.