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.

Vancouver

I've had a love affair with Vancouver for ten years now, in fact, our diamond anniversary is in two months. I've traveled there seven of those years on at least fifteen different occasions, for reasons as diverse as love, work, and play. There's no city I feel quite the same bond with, something I chalk up to the distance. Yes, my heart does grow fonder.

This past trip I stayed with a friend in Kitsilano near Blenheim & Third. Lavender was wafting on the sea breeze and blackberries grew like massive weeds throughout the neighbourhood. There are several small parks around here -- the type of parks that drive me crazy in other cities because they serve solely as doggy outhouses -- but in Vancouver, they are lined with benches that look out over the ocean towards downtown to the east and West Vancouver and the mountains to the north.



It's true that the city is getting a serious facelift for the 2010 Olympics and cranes are almost as prominent on the landscape as those famous Coast Mountains. While I was chatting with friends who work in the social services sector both on the coast and in the interior, they spoke of how some service providers in the city have been giving people in the Downtown Eastside one-way tickets to the interior, in this case, Vernon, in order to 'clean-up' the city. Besides this gross Olympic-ification, the battle over Insite -- the needle exchange facility -- and the uber-gentrification of the eastside are longstanding battles that are simmering nearly out of control. The Olympics seem to have provided politicians and developers with all the right excuses to bulldoze the residents of the eastside out of existence.



Despite these extravagant transgressions, I'll no doubt be returning to Vancouver, my heart in hand.

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.

On Love and Associated Feelings

I met this girl 10 days ago. I was out on a Wednesday afternoon, wandering the city in search of a restful place to work, my usual mid-week modus operandi. I set myself up in this cute little café-like establishment in a neighbourhood I had never been to, despite my years of living in its relative vicinity.

She walked in wearing a smart little black sun dress and unkept short-cropped hair. Something about her jumped out at me, knocking out all of my pretensions of getting work done in the said café. Instead, I lay fixated on her being, this invisible aura that lovingly embraced her. As soon as I caught her eye she smiled a smile so pure and joyous that my stomach's visceral reaction said much more than my words ever could. I knew it right then and there: if she wanted it, she had my love. And after three decades of feeling, I can honestly say that I've never felt quite like that before. I watched her drift effortlessly between customers and friends, her smile beaming radiant life into the café, moving those around her to as-yet uncharted ground. I was at once inspired and deeply intrigued. I left the café several hours later, after having only a very brief conversation with her about some inane pseudo-political point of contention, and felt the "maybe I'll see her again" kind of regret I had grown accustomed to.

Instead, I found a message in my inbox from the girl-in-the-black-sundress telling me she wanted to see me again. I felt lucky. And moved. And nervous. Frighteningly so.

Now we've seen each other a few times in the 10 days since we met, and I miss her. She left 2 hours ago to her son and her other responsibilities, and I don't even really know her, but I miss her. I want her and whatever she brings along with her right next to me, I want to feel her, to be in her presence. Last night was this magical thing. Every time we kissed along the river trail we walked down, I nearly had to brace myself from falling, the feeling of love just transcended any real sense of space I may have had. I was floating. She said she felt drugged, I'd say I felt caressed. In fact, when we kissed, these long passionate kisses that I must say everyone needs to experience at least on a weekly basis, my body quivered. Down my spine, up my arms, to the top of my head all the way down to my toes. It was exhilarating. I wanted to sit with that feeling, just digest it fully. Let it sink in. I told the feeling it was welcome in my body at any time. I wanted it to stay for a while.

There is this one precious moment from that night that I feel most deeply. And no, it has nothing to do with discarding items of clothing. We were lying on the couch cuddling and she looked up at me: "You know, you've brought life to my life." And though what she said was sweet, it was the look in her eye, the way a small little tear welled up before disappearing, the sincerity of her emotions, that moved me. Above all, it was the light in her eyes- she shone brighter than even the first day I met her- that embraced something so deep inside me that I'm unable to fully articulate it. I won't even try, I'm just going to let it wash through my body and thank this beautiful person for receiving my love so fully. Whatever else happens, bringing such joy to someone's life is a blessing. And I'm quite sure my eyes shine in much the same way as hers.

A Dangerous Woman: The Graphic Biography of Emma Goldman by Sharon Rudahl

The best part of this book is Emma Goldman's life as a radical anarchist. If you don't know much about her, then this book is a fun starting point. Rudahl explores many of the key periods of her life, from her departure from Russia at a young age, to her organizing years in the U.S., to her eventual deportation. The novel spans her entire life, giving readers a concise overview of Goldman's compelling biography.

Unlike other accounts of her life, Rudahl enters into the intricacies of Goldman's everyday, giving us a glimpse into Goldman's many key relationships. We find out that she was as ethical and spirited in her personal relationship as she was in her public persona as one of the leading radicals in early 20th century America.

Despite the exciting narrative, one Rudahl puts together based on Goldman's auto-biography, I struggled through much of the novel. I found Rudahl's drawings almost distracting in their busyness. In addition, the structure of her panels left me regularly confused as to where to skip to next. The story itself remains strong, it'd be pretty difficult to take the life out of Goldman's story, but Rudahl's water-colouresque renderings left me wondering how much i would've enjoyed the story otherwise.

I'd say pick up the graphic novel at the nearest library, read about Emma Goldman's inspiring life, and thank Rudahl for sharing it in this format.

Writing Project

Two weeks ago my friend Denise dropped an idea into my lap that was impossible not to love. She had found two old photos in an antiques store, one of a woman and one of a man, both circa 1920 or so and taken in Québec (Sorel and Sherbrooke). We decided to write each other love letters in character. I was Théophile and she became Marie-Evangéline. We then made a small exhibit with the letters and photos at her 1920's-style speakeasy event. The highlight was when we got to read them aloud. Here's my letter, and the photo.

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Ma charmante Marie-Evangéline :

Je dois le dire directement, ma belle, avant de raconter les plaisanteries de ma vie ici à Montréal. Tu me manques. Comme une partie de mon corps a été enlevé, je suis démuni sans le bonheur de ton esprit tout près de moi. Mais l’espoir de vous voir encore bientôt me donne le courage de persévérer avec mes études ici à l’école normale.

Depuis notre dernier séjour ensemble à Sherbrooke, tu reviens dans mes pensées à tout bout de soufle. Je me sens coupable, parti vers un nouveau futur sans toi, ma lumière resplendide. Avez-vous la bonté d’âme de me pardonner? D’ouvrir votre Coeur aux sentiments profonds qui surgissent? J’ôse rêver d’une journée pleine de grâce dont je serai près de vous encore une fois.

La vie ici à Montréal est sans cesse. L’école est située sur la ferme Logan, tout près du plateau principal de la ville. Je me sens chanceux d’être impliqué dans une formation si distinguée, quoique la grande majorité des maîtres de notre pays ont passé par ses portes. En effet, les religieux sont bien préparés pour l’enseignement, et ne perdent aucun moment pour nous avertir des grands dangers séculaires qui nous menacent dans la ville.

La semaine passée nous sommes allés vers le centre-ville, jusqu'à la grande rue St-Laurent. Là, nous avons rencontré des Protestants et même des Juifs. Notre ordre faisait du travail missionaire parmis les non-Catholiques, tandis que nous, les étudiants de l’école normale, visitions la cathédrale principale. Quel bel édifice Evangéline, j’espère le voir un jour avec vous.

Je dois retourner à mes études, nous avons un examen préliminaire demain matin, mais c’est difficile de m’y mettre pleinement avec les mémoires dansantes de votre sourire si près de mon cœur. L’auteur Prévost nous a dit que l'esprit perd sa force en s'assujetissant trop à l'empire des sens, mais c’est justement la perte de force émergeant de mes sentiments qui me rend amoureux de vous, ma jolie Marie-Evangéline.

Avec la foi de mon Coeur, Esprit et Ame

Votre Théophile


Montréal, 20 mai, 1922

Canoeing in the rain

Yesterday I could think of little else. My beautiful green canoe beckoned all the way from Constance Bay, where it is lovingly stored at Mom & Dad's place. Though it seemed like less-than-ideal paddling conditions from the city, little did I know it would be near hurricane conditions out on the river. Damn, I drove out there only to find that the whitecaps were out full force. I waited an hour and the gales seemed to die down, but then, just as a I strapped my PDF on, they whipped up again. Both M&D insisted I not go out, and though I was close, I decided to continue planting beans, peas, onions and asparagus with my Dad. In the end, this turned out to make for an enjoyable afternoon.

But the water still hollers my name, and my body aches for being on the water. I need a name for my canoe, if you have any ideas, drop them my way.

In Love with a Boy

You know that warm, fuzzy feeling deep in your gut. The one that carries you away to places you never thought possible. That feeling, the one I haven't felt nearly enough over the recent past, I get it quite often around my main man, Quinlan Morris- pictured above at the Hawksley Workman concert at Bluesfest last year.

This week we wandered around my garden and built a stone castle after we went for our weekly swimming session with his lovely Mom, Christine. I love Quinn, for the way he walks so awkwardly, or how he looks at me with utter puzzlement when I'm making a fool of myself, or the way he grabs for my hand when we're out walking. So touching.

Sometimes I wish I was a kid so I could just hang out. Play in the sand, watch dogs, hold everyone's hands, yeah, especially that, holding people's hands and cuddling with abandonment. I had the incredible good fortune of spending quality time with three kids under 2 years this week- thanks Corina, Kalapi and Christine for trusting me with your babies.

Kaleb loved dogs and smiling, Durga Das just wanted to sleep in my arms, and Quinn, well he wanted to do it all. I want a baby. But, like most things in life, the egg needs to come before the chicken. Is that the way it goes? In the meantime, I'll be more than content with the time I have with Quinn et al.