On Warm Fall Weather

It has been a lovely fall here in Ottawa. Besides the glorious colours associated with this season -- the reds and oranges have been stunning -- the weather has been warm and above all, bright and sunny. But this isn't a post about the weather. A few of my friends have referred to the weather as a sure sign of "Indian Summer", a term that very commonly refers to warm fall weather in Canada and apparently in the U.S.

There are a few historical reasons generally referenced for this usage, but the most common refers to the perceived deceitfulness of indigenous peoples towards Europeans. In other words, the phrase belongs in the same family of terms such as "Indian giver," which is based on this dubious duplicity. Therefore, in this usage, "Indian summer" would be a "deceitful and treacherous" imitation of summer, which appears to be a return of warmer weather but is really a relatively short-lived "lie" giving way to the "truth" of the usual cold and unpleasant conditions.

My point is not simply to debunk this usage or to list the many ways in which it is terribly inept. Instead, I'm writing this because when I hear people use the term "Indian Summer" I have a sudden jolt of pain run through my body and I thought I'd share why. Can we think of other terms that would suitably replace said term without relying on colonial frameworks? I trust with a little imagination we can...

How to Fight Loneliness?

It's that creeping feeling deep in your gut, you could almost mistake it for anxiety or excitement, polar opposites of each other yes, but just a clever biological mirror image, similar to what Lacan called an imago. But this is oh so subtly different that it is difficult to grasp. Loneliness. Perhaps my worst fear, but with age and a little help from my friends, it passes almost unnoticed.

At the moment I'm feeling a little bout of it coming down the pipes. Bubbling deep in my abdomen, rising up in a chest-tightening grip. Deep breaths and calm mind; deep breaths and calm mind might just be my mantra for the evening.

I arrived back from my marvelous 18-day vacation, during which time I spent a significant amount of time with no less than six of my closest friends, and I suppose even more depending on how I calculate such intimately qualitative data. In any case, most of this time was spent on intensive back-country hikes in the Coast Mountains of BC and the Rocky Mountains in Alberta, where it was basically my friends, me and a few of our distant animal, bird and/or plant cousins. Caribou, ground squirrels, lichens, mosses, alpine wildflowers, hawks, eagles, elk, deer, Dall's sheep, rainbow trout, cutthroat trout, mosquitoes, midges, damselflies, etc, etc, you get the picture.

Even on the occasions where I went off on my own for the day, something I am more than prone to do, after all, taking in the bush on my own is a privilege I seldom enjoy these days, I knew someone was just around the proverbial corner, though it was more likely a 4km hike through alpine meadows, down steep precipices and back up mud-encrusted trails. It was that feeling of presence, knowing that someone was there in more than a metaphysical way, but in the sense of an ass warming a bench in a hut or boiling some tea or putting up a tent under the setting sun up ahead. Presence. At this moment, back at home in my large house by myself, I miss that presence. Though I remain confident that I can find it within me, I miss it, and right now feeling lonely is like a fine, serrated knife stabbing my heart. I've lost something dear to me that I should've savoured longer, like those Okanagan peaches I've been lusting over since I arrived in BC. But if there's something I've learned lately, 'shoulds' are a recipe for longing for a past that never was and never could be.

I enjoyed myself when I was away. And now I'm back and I miss my friends and I'm alone and it hurts. They're far away and even if I was surrounded by some of my favourite local people right now, and there are many of them, I'd feel dreadfully alone, because the ones I miss are not going to appear. I'll ride the feeling out on my own and be happy I did when it passes. Otherwise, loneliness turns into fear that it never will.

Tonquin Valley

Last week several of my friends and I headed to the Tonquin Valley in Jasper National Park for a five-day hiking trip in the backcountry. Our last multi-day foray into the wilderness was two years ago in Killarney Provincial Park in Ontario, a far cry from the spectacular Rocky Mountains. While Killarney had its own particular charm, partly due to its proximity to my place of birth, the Tonquin Valley is without a doubt in a league of its own.

On our first night we stayed at the Edith Cavell hostel underneath the mammoth Edith Cavell peak. This gave us a small taste of things to come. The hostel was well-maintained and the price was right. A great option for anyone needing a place to stay before heading out to the Tonquin.

The Tonquin Valley trailhead begins at the parking lot just outside the hostel, an ideal location to start a day-long hike. On our second day we set out on the trail to our final destination, the Wates-Gibson Memorial Hut, operated by the Alpine Club of Canada. The trail wanders along the Astoria River until it veers south towards Chrome Lake and the Eremite Valley. It is a moderate-difficult trail, nearly 18kms to the hut. I'd say pack as light as possible and expect rain, lots of it. The trail is often wet and muddy in most spots.

Once we arrived at the hut, we made a quick dinner and went to bed early to prepare for our next four days of day hikes through the Tonquin and Eremite Valleys. The most stunning landscape around the area was the marvelous Amethyst Lake, surrounded by the Ramparts to the west, Clitheroe Mountain to the east and the impressive Raptor Meadows on the lakeshore.



The other major highlight was our last day hike up to the Fraser Glacier, home to BC's Fraser River. Climbing up to the Continental Divide in the driving wind and stinging snow was well worth the privilege of playing underneath the glacier at nearly 2,500 metres.



The one major disappointment of our trip was that I didn't get to see the elusive grizzly bear. We did spot a large caribou, a moose and some elk on our trip, along with a number of circling birds of prey. I'd recommend the Tonquin Valley to anyone who wants relatively easy access to glaciers with little human traffic and good chances to view the endangered woodland caribou. Stay at the ACC hut if you have the money, the valley is rainy and cold almost all the time, though the three Parks Canada campgrounds around Amethyst Lake are nice and comfortable, and the warden cabin is just above the lake on the main trail in case of emergencies.

Similkameen Valley

There's a place nestled deep in BC's southern interior that is dear to me, a magical place where I once lived and worked, the type of place everyone must live in at least once in their life. The Similkameen Valley, and particularly the small towns of Cawston and Keremeos, are gems full of ranchers, organic farmers, wine makers, artists, and an array of eccentric characters who never cease to amaze me. But, beyond the people, the valley, unique for its dry, desert-like climate, is an ecological wonder. The wild sage along Highway 3 south of Cawston is mystifying, though it's faced with being replaced by row after row of vineyards. I don't drink wine, but if I did I might just stop after seeing so many grapes replace hectares of my beloved sagebrush.



If you have a chance, visit this valley. Veer off the highway anywhere past Keremeos going towards Osoyoos, and visit any number of organic farms. The Similkameen has the largest concentration of organic farms in North America according to my reliable sources, and they're happy to welcome visitors. I went down to Mariposa Farms off Sumac Road near the Washington State border at Nighthawk and picked my own peaches, plums and apricots earlier today, and it was heavenly. And did I mention cheap too. I even bought some low-impact, organic wine from Forbidden Fruit Winery, another valley star. Grab some fruit, and maybe some wine, all organic and fresh, and sit under the searing sun down by the Similkameen River near Kobau Park in Cawston or even in downtown Keremeos. The views of the mountains combined with the fruit juice dripping from your chin are well worth the ride.

Howe Sound Crest Trail

My good friends Eloginy, James and I braved the unusually hot coastal weather last week and climbed the Howe Sound Crest Trail. Starting at Cypress Mountain, we set out along the trail in probably the three hottest and driest days the BC coast has ever seen. Low to mid-30s for three straight days, it was glorious.

The 27.6 km trail was very well marked throughout the Coast Mountain range, leading us up and down a number of summits, through mountain meadows, down rock slides, and around amethyst-coloured lakes. If you've gone 10m without seeing one of the orange markers-- whether trail tape hanging from a tree, trail diamonds nailed to trees or paint on a rock-- you've probably gone too far.

The toughest section of the trail was by far the approach to The Lions. Famous for their daunting presence over the East Vancouver landscape, The Lions are two towering rock monuments that act as beacons throughout most of the trail. From our campsite on St-Marks' summit, we wound our way up Unnecessary Mountain, and back down and then up towards the Lions. Once you find yourself at the bottom of the West Lion, satisfied with the stunning view, don't rest on your laurels. Coming down from here, there are several technical sections, including going across a slide at the southern end of the base of the West Lion and then making your way up over the Lion cub, a smaller peak between the East and West Lion. We found a site to camp two summits over from the Cub, after crossing a steep traverse with a rope and chain, giving us a sense of being in some low-budget S&M melodrama--> Ropes & Chains: The Lions Roar.



One important thing to consider is that there are few water supplies up in this section of the trail. We were lucky to find some piles of snow in the higher up sections, a bit late for mid-August, but given the hot weather, it was possible to find snow melt. However, by the end of this second day, we had one litre left in our bottles when we set up camp on top of the summit, with 2 hours to go before the next water source.



The best part of the trail was the very rewarding traverse of Brunswick Mountain. After walking by the newly-rebuilt Magnesia Meadow emergency hut, the trail veers west towards Howe Sound, and then north as it hugs the middle section of Brunswick. The wildflower meadows were marvelous walking through here. Purples, oranges, yellows, reds, I counted at least 5 different flowers growing directly below the Brunswick summit-- the smell was intoxicating.

The highlight of the trip in my book was the descent from the ridge between Brunswick and Hand Mountains to the chain of lakes running behind the Brunswick summit. When I reached the first of three lakes, I dropped my 50 lb pack, stripped off my sweaty clothes, and dove into the glacial water. And then I finally unleashed my fly rod and caught some pretty mountain trout.



Later that night we made it to Deeks Lake, where we camped for the third night before descending to HWY 99 at the newly- built Porteau Rd. exit. It's a tough spot to catch a ride, so I'd suggest walking the 2 kms to the Porteau Cove PP rest stop to find a ride or to park a car.

Overall, I'd say this trail is well worth tackling, but only if you have mountain experience and are a competent map reader. Some of the sections are awe-inspiring, but could also bring on some serious fears, considering the steep drops and sheer skill required to complete the trail. And don't forget to fill your water bottles as often as possible.

Québec's 400th

I returned from the 400 year celebrations in Québec City recently, holding onto my sanity ever so tenuously. I had traveled into the belly of the nationalist beast and been bombarded for almost two weeks with the quatercentenary celebrations. Museum exhibits, art exhibits, street festivals, films, concerts, rallies, monuments, books and other displays of Québec's long and distinguished history. It was all the eye could see. Stretches of tourists, myself included, taking in the story about Champlain's fateful landing 400 years ago. I had been expecting more debate, more controversy, at least from the so-called Québec sovereigntists, but there was only a whisper among a deafening current of pride and exhilaration.

Luckily I found a few people who wanted to highlight the madness of commemorating the origins of French colonialism. Pace the photo at the top of this entry, courtesy of the anti-colonial contingent at the march I attended with some friends July 3rd.

Edisto Beach State Park

I was among a group of three intrepid residents of Ottawa who decided enough was enough- this year's record snowfall was no laughing matter. We took the reins and planned a road trip to the sun. In this case, our final destination was Savannah, the legendary city in Georgia that has inspired many writers and travelers alike.

However, on the way we made several show-stopping discoveries, not in the Columbus sense, I'd never be bold enough to make such extravagant claims, but nice new places to return to in the future.

Besides the Outer Banks of North Carolina (Kitty Hawk, Cape Hatteras, Ocracoke Island), the most glorious spot on the map that we played at was Edisto Island, South Carolina. In fact, we camped for two nights in Edisto Beach State Park, a wonderful place to spend a few nights. If I had had the time, I think my entire week would've been spent in Edisto camping among the Palmettos and warm spring Atlantic wind.

The park itself has two separate campsites. One is down by the beach, but be prepared to book spots way ahead of time here. The other is only a couple of kilometres away, adjacent to a salt marsh. We stayed at the latter, and explored the 5 kilometres of trails in and around the large marsh. The one downside about our site were the over-excitable mockingbirds, which in my opinion, should pipe up only when spoken to.

While the camping and beach were great, my stay in Edisto, and perhaps in the South more generally, seemed haunted by the silences. It seems everywhere I went in Edisto- the general store, local pub/restaurant, state park, etc- I was served by African-Americans, even though to my admittedly un-trained eyes it seemed like none lived near the beach, a place reserved mostly for wealthy landowners and vacationers. This area of South Carolina was once world-renowned for its Sea Island cotton, and the large plantation-style houses speckle the drive along Highway 174 onto the island.

My next trip to Edisto will include an extended discussion or two with local residents about this particular history, and the contemporary segregation that exists in the area. The unsettling feeling nibbling at my mind demands such future inquiry.

Remembering

I watched a movie and it seemed everybody in it was trying to forget, but no matter how hard they tried, they remembered even more. So much so, that it became all they could do. Remembering what they were trying so hard to forget.

They would stare blankly at perfect strangers and loved ones alike and claim to know nothing. Rumours, conspiracies, gossip, they’d say. None of it was true. It was everything to remember something someone could point to. For years this was enough to push the voices that kept creeping into their minds away. But then the voices became so loud that they were forced to let them in, where they had always been, silenced.

A lifetime of trying to forget, to erase, is exhausting. I can’t forget those things I wish I could, they stay with me for days that turn into years, yet I never really claim to forget them, even though I wish to. But, I was reminded tonight that fighting to forget is doomed from the beginning.

It’s never about forgetting the past. It’s about remembering it differently.

The North Side Bike Polo Invitational 2007

I went to the final game of the NSBI 2007 at Ev Tremblay Park in west Ottawa on Sunday, September 2nd, and it was a wicked game. The Shottas from Ottawa played Overrated from NYC, who won 5-3. It was a well contested match, with lots of blood left on the court, which seems somehow inevitable in bike polo given the number of collisions.

Overall, the NSBI was a huge success, with teams from NYC, Philly, Milwaukee, Dayton (Ohio), Toronto and Ottawa. Here are some pics.

Festival de montgolfières de Gatineau

J’ai été au Festival de montgolfières de Gatineau avec des amis ce soir, et c’était plus mémorable que j’aurais pensé.

Quoique que nous avons décidé que $15 était un peu trop cher à payer pour la rentrée sur le terrain officiel, nous avons pu trouver un endroit idéal pour regarder le départ des montgolfières. Comme vous pourrez constater des photos ci-dessous, c’est un événement coloré.

Time's Made Up My Mind

I dreamt that life had passed me by. In fact, there it was, racing by me, NASCAR-style, with no planned stops. I swore at it every time. I yelled at the top of my lungs, urging it to stop for me, to just let me take a breath before I jumped back in. Please give me a moment, and I’ll be right back on board. But there were no moments to spare. And it passed me by, over and over again.

For the first two years I put up a good fight. A great fight even. I ran and ran and ran, never looking back, trying to catch up. Then I stopped and waved and waved and waved, until I realized that there was no waiting for me. Finally, after two years of this nonsense, I resigned myself to accept my fate. I stood there, watching it pass me by over and over again.

There it would be, with different passengers every time, people with purposes, with steely gazes, with goals and plans and blackberries and lists. I had none of that.

Then something odd happened. I woke up. The dream was over. There had never been a race. Only misplaced regrets. Time’s made up my mind. I’ve become a driver. And I wasn’t even looking for a job.

New York City Photo Montage

Public art or crass advertisement? You be the judge...

Found on a street corner. Tells you only part of the story.

Manhattan far in the rainy distance of a Brooklyn rooftop.

Central Park north on a cloudy Sunday

Friends above Brooklyn, gazing out at the endless urban landscape.

Brownstones on Lenox/Malcolm X north of Central Park.

Eating Vegan in Harlem

There we were, just arrived in Harlem, and we were headed down to the local vegan restaurant- Uptown Juice Bar (54 West 125th Street just east of Malcolm X).

What a treat, amazing vegan soul food and fresh-squeezed juices in the heart of Harlem, only blocks away from the busy Malcolm X corridor. My favourite was the faux BBQ chicken drumsticks, perfectly seasoned, like no BBQ sauce I've ever had before. Another favourite was the fake fried chicken stir fry mixed in with plantain, well-suited to my vegan palate.

In addition to the succulent spin on southern home-cooking, the Uptown has a well-stocked juice bar with well over 30 separate varieties of fresh juices. I chose the papaya & pineapple hypertension mix, which was sweetly refreshing.

Uptown Juice Bar is a popular spot for a good reason. Check it out the next time you're in Harlem. Large plates with four food options cost $9, while a large juice goes for about $4.

Wolfe Island Music Fest

Last night I went to Kingston to check out the Wolfe Island Music Fest. Friday night featured the Hootenanny Tour, a rotating review of Canada's cow punk scene. It included such talent as Jim Bryson, Julie Fader, Luther Wright and Jenny Whiteley.

After the twenty minute ferry ride from downtown Kingston, the festivities got under way shortly after sunset, just enough time for those people arriving on the 8pm boat to set up their tents in the park around the corner from the Town Hall square.

The show lasted well into the night, with the last note from the one-song encore drowning out over the St-Lawrence past 1130pm. While the pace was hardly frenetic throughout the set, it was nonetheless a delightful evening of music under the stars.

The highlights from the evening were numerous. After some discussion with my fellow concert-goers, Jim Bryson's solo performances stood out as the most inspiring of the evening. His mix of melancholic and up-tempo folk showed off his ever-expanding repertoire. He's truly one of the area's finest musicians.


Another of my favourites was Chris Brown, of Bourbon Tabernacle Choir fame. When he took to the stage to perform some of his own material, the crowd waited in silence for what surely was some of the best music of the evening. I'll be looking out for him in the future.


Also, Sam of Sheesham and Lotus, put on a great performance playing the stand-up bass and banjo, even though at times the banjo was sadly drowned out by the cacophony of instruments on stage. Note to organizers: bring up the levels on the banjo, it's a hootenanny after all.

Lastly, Sarah Harmer came on and sang a few of her own songs, and in my mind made up for her abysmal performance at Bluesfest a month ago. She was a wonderful addition to the train of performances.


Unfortunately, I wasn't able to stay for the second day, what they were calling the 'rock' day, but one night of bluegrass on Wolfe Island was enough to convince me to go again next year.

Une trame sonore

Je me prépare, patiemment, pour le moment quand ma vie tombera en place, comme une pièce dans une casse-tête. C’est peu être inutile, ou même désespéré, mais l’attente est si importante qu’il semble parfois y avoir rien d’autre.

Comment savoir quand j’y arrive ? Ceci me reste un gros mystère, qui se cache sagement dans les corridors de mon écorce cérébrale. Caché oui, mais laissant des traces, des morceaux d’appâts, comme un leurre jeté à l’eau d’une chaloupe de pêche. Même le trajectoire de la ligne avant qu’elle plonge dans l’eau, le demi-cercle parfait sortant du moulinet, le mouvement quasi-artistique, me frappe, doucement bien sûr, mais sans faute. Cet image me dit que la vie n’est surtout pas ce qu’on en pense.

Je me trouve à compter le nombre de jour depuis que je suis bloqué sur ma cible, sur mon obsession. Est-ce vrai que tout va un jour sembler évident ? La trame sonore dehors, à l’autre bord de ma fenêtre, de mon mur, de la nature qui me berce doucement dans ses bras forts, me dit autrement. Les cigales chanteront toujours, jusqu’au levé du soleil, mais jamais pareillement. Tout comme nous.

Pour cette raison, il n’y aura pas de moment éclairant, quand tout tombera en place. Ça, j’en suis certain. En effet, le plus qu’on peut espérer c’est pour le potentiel d’aimer, de nous donner aux autres pleinement. C’est une trame sonore qui vaut toujours la peine d’écouter.

Illuminaris Festival in Vancouver

Saturday night I walked over to Commercial and Broadway with my good friend Jenny from Victoria and met some other friends at a restaurant before heading out to the Illuminaris Festival at Trout Lake (12th Ave. & Commercial).

Illuminaris is widely known in Vancouver as a festival of lanterns, where a procession of artists circle the lake with their handmade lighting devices. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I was pleasantly surprised by what I saw & heard.

It all began for me with a phalanx of boys dancing to the pulsating beats of a percussion orchestra, all the while twirling batons of fire, much to the impressively large crowd's delight. Once I met back up with my friends, I had temporarily lost them in the smoky haze, we ambled around the park appreciating the workmanship that went into so many of the lanterns.

There were ballerinas, dragons, submarines, planes, ladybugs, rabbits, and all manner of regularly-shaped lanterns with exquisite lines and designs. At one point, my friend looked over at me and asked, somewhat incredulously, "How can people be so creative?" This from an architect/interior designer.

That pretty much summed up the evening. I was constantly awed by the commitment to art that so many people demonstrated through their work. For many long time supporters though, the festival itself has become a bit too big and commercialized, as evidenced by the need for concession stands and a tiny village of porta-potties. But, for a first-time reveler, it was a rare treat to enjoy such fantastic artwork outdoors and I sure didn't mind pressing against the thousands of people pushing their way around the lake. It definitely beats the drunken throngs watching the fireworks at Kits Beach or English Bay.

Rainbow Lake Trail- Whistler, BC

A friend and I headed out to Whistler earlier today from the comfortable summer confines of Vancouver. The traffic along the Sea-to-Sky Highway is absurd right now with all the construction in preparation for the 2010 Olympics. If you were looking for another reason to question the entire Olympic industry (i.e., rampant consumerism, commodification of excellence, xenophobic nationalism), then a gentle drive down highway 99 from Vancouver to Whistler will perhaps fulfill that promise. Or maybe the push to evict people from the Downtown Eastside will. Either way, I digress.

The Rainbow Lake Trail, which one can access on Alta Lake Road at Twenty One Mile Creek, is a wonderful way to spend an afternoon hiking. From the parking lot on the road, it's a 850m elevation and 8km hike up to Rainbow Lake, the Town of Whistler's source for drinking water.

The hike is a meander through a forest of majestic hemlock tress and giant red cedars, quaint mountain meadows and mossy bogs; all leading up to Rainbow Lake, at an elevation of 1470m. Before arriving, you must cross a generous amount of creeks, perhaps as many as 30, with some very impressive bridges spanning their lengths. How do they construct these structures in such isolated areas?


On this lucky day, July 26th, 2007, the lake was fully surrounded by snow, and mostly covered in ice. This made the final push to get to the top treacherous at times, but the 8km hike up took us more or less 3 hours, with a generous amount of time for photo breaks.

There are a number of great vistas, most notably near km 7, where there's a clear view of Whistler Mountain and the ski slopes. Without a doubt, the best part of the hike was arriving at Rainbow Lake, where we pulled out our lunches and enjoyed our snowy surroundings. Never before had hummus and rice crackers tasted quite so divine.

If you're looking for a good day hike near Vancouver, then this trail may be for you. But plan some extra time to get to the trailhead now that the construction on the highway is going full force. The time to get to Whistler has doubled from the last time I went 5 years ago.

Last thing, use the outhouses provided along the way, this is Whistler's watershed. But if you forget and accidentally pee beside the lake, it doesn't make you a bad person, does it?