by Helena Zukowski

Remember the days when “getting there was half the fun” as we flew “the friendly skies”? Well, with in-flight amenities a perk of the past and increased airport security the new reality, air travel these days can be more than a tad trying.

____________________________________________________

“The methodology sometimes veers into the ridiculous: the

– the Disney employee chastised for carrying a snow globe; the mother

refused permission to board with her breast pump and empty baby

bottles because her infant was not travelling with her

____________________________________________________

Of course, travellers expected airport screening to get tougher post 9/11. But the consensus amongst today’s passengers is that the methodology sometimes veers into the ridiculous – the Disney employee chastised for carrying a snow globe, for example; the mother refused permission to board with her breast pump and empty baby bottles because her infant was not travelling with her – and that common courtesy and respect take a back seat in the push for increased security measures.

Though “there is no latitude permitted in a screener’s interpretation of the rules,” according to Mathieu Laroque, spokesperson for the Canadian Air Transport Security Authority (CATSA), it can be confusing and frustrating for travellers who find that, in reality, there is variance in how airport security rules are interpreted and applied.

______________________________________________

So what’s a disgruntled flyer to do?  Is there any recourse

when airport security personnel neglect common courtesy or

are seen to be acting beyond the bounds of common sense?

______________________________________________

Currently, Canadian airport security is subcontracted by CATSA to local companies such as Garda and Aeroguard. New hires are put through a two-week training program and periodic updates, with advanced training for managers – and “courtesy is definitely one component of the program,” notes Laroque. Still, studies show that most complaints relating to airport security could have been avoided if screeners had been more courteous and respectful. To this end, though travellers still have no choice but to submit to security searches and questioning, passengers are encouraged to talk to airport or airline officials if they feel inappropriately treated. If this doesn’t resolve the issue, fliers can complain directly to CATSA, giving the time and place of the incident and the officer’s name. CATSA will investigate and respond to complainants within 30 days.

In addition, a private member’s Bill (C-310) is now before Parliament for an “Airline Passenger’s Bill of Rights” that would see compensation for last-minute cancellations and flights delayed on the tarmac longer than one hour. If Bill C-310 passes, airlines would also be required to inform travellers regarding missing luggage and the reasons for flight delays within an hour of receiving the information. Canadian airlines are opposing the bill, arguing it would result in higher fares and possible termination of service to smaller communities. However, the legislation continues to proceed: the bill reached second reading in May 2009 and has been referred to committee for final ruling.

New screening technology in the experimental stages at 10 U.S. airports and B.C.’s Kelowna airport (the first in the world to install the device and the test site for all Canadian airports) is another move that supports and enhances the rights of travellers. The Integrated Check Point (ICP) is a full-body scanner that screens liquids and gels in carry-on luggage (these would still need to be stored in baggies), but also shows outlines of what is under passengers’ clothing, such as a wad of money or concealed weapons. The result: less hassle for both passengers and screeners (no more pat-downs, for one). Also on the radar: “one-stop security,” which ensures passengers who have cleared security at one airport are not required to submit to security again before boarding connecting flights. Under the new Canada-Europe Open Skies agreement, by which planes are given open-sky access between any airport in Canada and those in the European Union, passengers flying to Europe would be the first to benefit. (The agreement replaces existing restrictions on routes and prices, as well as eases constraints on control and ownership of airlines.) As for the full-body scanner, Transport Canada will decide by late 2009 whether to expand its use to other Canadian airports.

• What’s your view on enhanced airport security?
• What’s your most aggravating airport security story?
• Let us know!

the official gripe line

Passengers who have complaints about airport security personnel in Canada, or questions about security requirements,  can access the CATSA website at catsa.gc.ca or phone 1-888- 294-2202. Complaints are processed within 30 days. consumer.ca/1753

More Airline Madness.

by Kerry Banks

From 1921 to 1945, Jericho Beach was home to the Pacific Coast Station of the RCAF, and a concrete wharf was built as part of its seaplane base. The structure’s perimeter was later enhanced during the 1976 Habitat Forum, using the original 1938 railings from the Lions Gate Bridge.

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“But many complained that the wharf

had become an eyesore, and in July 2008,

 the Parks Board voted to demolish all

but the most eastern section of the structure

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But many complained that the wharf had become an eyesore, and in July 2008, after a public consultation process, the Parks Board voted to demolish all but the most eastern section of the 0.6-hectare structure, which would be repaired to create a viewpoint overlooking the harbour. Interpretive signs would outline the wartime history of the dock and its postwar evolution, while the remaining area would be restored to a natural beach. However, since 2008, a new Parks Board has been elected, and a group of citizens – who want the wharf repaired and made available for public events – have mounted a fresh campaign to save the relic. As a result, a second consultation is being held this fall to decide the Jericho landmark’s fate.

What’s your view? Should this B.C. landmark be saved?

savejerichobeach.ca; kendalkendrick.com

Painting by Kendal Kendrick

“Just give her a kick in the belly,” says Dayleen. Our trail guide is growing impatient with my mare’s plodding pace. But I feel sympathy for Hazel, who is 16 and has been humping tourists through these Alberta hills for a decade. If the mare wants to take her time, it’s all right with me. I’m in no great hurry, and staying a few paces back keeps me clear of the goofy antics of Champ, who is second in our three-horse procession.

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“We are a few hours into a five-day roadtrip

through the Alberta Rockies and, just to make it

perfectly clear that we are in cowboy country,

our hosts have made sure our adventure kicks off

with a two-hour trail ride.”

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It appears that Champ wants to run, or else bite Dayleen’s horse in the ass, neither of which is making it easy on John Masters, a my travelling companion. A freelance writer, Masters isn’t fond of horses and is an inexperienced rider – a bad combination when climbing ridges with steep fallaways while trying to control a skittish gelding.

We are a few hours into a five-day roadtrip through the Alberta Rockies and, just to make it perfectly clear that we are in cowboy country, our hosts – the folk at Travel Alberta – have made sure our adventure kicks off with a two-hour trail ride. In fact, tomorrow’s schedule features yet another two-hour ride at a locale outside Banff, which would be fine if we were ranch hands or had titanium buttocks, neither of which happens to be the case.

In addition to the Boundary Ranch, Alberta's 4,211-square-km Kananaskis Country features campgrounds, golf and two alpine and X-country ski areas developed for previous winter Olympics.

There was supposed to be other journalists on this trek, but for some unknown reason a tour of Alberta’s Rockies inspired little enthusiasm. In fact, of the 120 international and Canadian travel writers who signed up for this fall’s Go Media Canadian Tourist Commission-sponsored tours, I was the only one who selected “Working the Rockies.” Masters is here by default – he was booted off his first choice, a VIA Rail trip across Canada – because he had done it before. And since there are only two of us, Travel Aberta has opted to dispense with the customary escort, supplying us instead with a road map, directions, booked accomodations, a rental car, unlimited gas and – just so we don’t get too footloose – a 13-page itinerary.

Our car, a Mitsubishi (and I thought the company only made TVs and computers) has a couple of attractive features: good acceleration and a sweet sound system, which means we can better appreciate the CDs I burned for the trip. Of course, Masters, who is no audiophile, would prefer to listen to CBC news. It’s one of his daily rituals, along with reading the Globe and Mail and drinking a double espresso in the late afternoon. Incredibly, he requires no caffeine in the morning.

The toughest part of our trip so far has been getting out of Calgary, a city that doesn’t see any need for coherent signage, and which apparently believes that endless urban sprawl is what God intended. However, once we escaped from Cowtown’s cement runways and headed west into Kananaskis Country, the drive suddenly changed for the better. Set in the foothills and of the Rockies, the province’s 4,211-square-kilometre recreational district boasts numerous provincial parks and some spectacular natural beauty. And though the area is open to tourists year round, fall may be the best time to visit because the highways aren’t clogged with camper trailers.

Before we reached our first stop – Boundary Ranch – I had already made Masters stop a couple of times so I could snap photos of the stunning landscape. Interestingly, we both have the same model of camera, a Panasonic digital, and even odder we both have the same model of backpack, a piece of swag we both scored on a previous media trip. Fortunately, no one is going to take us for twins. We look nothing alike.

Masters (in green shirt) and Dayleen. An hour later, waiting for the circulation in his legs to return: "Ice picks in the knees," Masters groans while hobbling about in the dirt.

I’m not the only person who finds this rugged terrain visually inspiring. Kananaskis Country has served as the setting for many movies, including Russell Crowe’s Mystery, Alaska; Clint Eastwood’s Unforgiven; Brad Pitt’s The Assassination Of Jesse James and Heath Ledger’s Brokeback Mountain.

Boundary Ranch www.boundaryranch.com/ has a connection with the movies as well: the owner, Rick Guinn, a former rodeo star, also had a brief acting and modelling career. He starred in Buffalo Rider, a 1978 film that dramatizes the true life of Western legend C.J. “Buffalo” Jones, who worked to prevent the extinction of the American buffalo during the 19th-century. ”Guinn landed the role largely because he was the only actor the producers could find who could actually ride a buffalo.”

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“Guinn landed the role largely because he

was the only actor the producers could find who

could actually ride a buffalo.”

_____________________________________

After finishing our trail ride and waiting for the circulation in Masters’  legs to return – “Ice picks in the knees,” he groans while hobbling about in the dirt – we tour the grounds. Boundary Ranch is a major operation with about 90 horses, so it can accomodate large tour groups. In addition to trail rides, which last anywhere from one hour to six days, the ranch also offers hikes, canoe trips, rodeos, gunfight re-enactments, chuckwagon races and chili cook-offs. The outfit has even partnered with another company to provide a “Surf & Saddle” package to those who want to combine trail rides with whitewater rafting.

Under the savvy tutelage of its buffalo-riding owner, film and rodeo star Rick Guinn, the Boundary Ranch has expanded its amenities since the 1930s to include gunfights, Wild West rodeos, photo safaris, sleigh rides, calf and horse roping, mountain biking and more.

We don’t have time for the Surf & Saddle combo, unfortunately. We have to get to Mt. Engadine Lodge before dark. It’s located about an hour’s drive away along a gravel road called the Smith-Dorrien Trail. And as we accelerate into the afternoon sun I plug in a CD. Elvis Presly’s voice fills the car – “A hunk a hunk of burning love …”

“A little rock n’ roll for the Rockies,” I say, and put on my shades.

Continued…Part II, III

Photos by Kerry Banks

As founder Charles Montgomery explains it: the BCAA-sponsored* Homes for the Games “opens Vancouver homes to Olympic visitors while raising money to combat homelessness in the city.” More than half of the proceeds from the program will be donated to two local charities targeting homelessness: Covenant House and Streetohome Foundation. www.bcaa.com/hfg; homeforthegames.com

Also see: Profile: Charles Montgomery

*As a silver-level sponsor

by Sonu Purhar

WHISTLER November 12-15: Cornucopia

For anyone who loves food and wine (and really, who doesn’t?), Whistler is the place to be November 12 to 15 – when the village hosts its annual Cornucopia celebration. The event brings together a Mulligan’s Stew of chefs, restaurateurs, sommeliers and vintners, all eager to share their tips and tricks with the public. Event highlights: a Casino Royale party worthy of Bond; an Artisan Market at the Westin Resort & Spa ( a sampling bonanza); and, of course, sumptuous spreads of nibbles, multi-course meals and after-dinner treats. Don’t miss: the Crush Gala Grand Tasting, Cornucopia’s two-night finale, where foodies and grape lovers can sip and swallow the bounty of more than 75 local wineries. Ticket prices vary; see the website for details.

• FRASER VALLEY November 21-22: Bald Eagle Festival

courtesy Fraser Valley Bald Eagle Festival

The folks in Sasquatch Country turn their attention to the skies this month in anticipation of Canada’s third-largest gathering of bald eagles. More than 1,200-plus raptors are drawn to the valley every fall by its millions of spawning salmon, though the birds aren’t the region’s only visitors. November’s cool, damp weather coaxes the bulk of Fraser Valley’s wildlife population into the open, including bears, seals, coyotes and great white sturgeon, with venues from Mission to Chilliwack providing eagle-watching opportunities, jet-boat eco-tours and guided walks through ancient aboriginal sites and around the Chehalis River. Fraservalleybaldeaglefestival.ca; 604-826-7361

Also see: Mighty Hawg Daytripper

• REGIONAL HIGHLIGHT November 5-15, Montreal: Cinemania

The days are shorter, the skies darker, the weather gloomier – what better atmosphere for Montreal’s annual Cinemania film festival? This year’s lineup features the year’s best in French cinema – and with some selections playing exclusively at the festival, it could be film buffs only chance to view. There’s a film for every taste, from the steamy biopic Chanel Coco & Igor Stravinsky to the political thriller Secret Defense/Secrets of State. Non-francophones can also rest easy: the films are all subtitled. 514-878-0082

• INTERNATIONAL HIGHLIGHT September 23-December 2, Rome: Romaeuropa Festival

Every year, countries around the world create stunning cultural productions, most of them unseen anywhere else on the globe – but the Fondazione Romaeuropa wants to change that. For more than two decades, the Rome-based institution has presented a multifaceted event showcasing an inspiring fusion of original international performance. And last year its 60 festival picks drew an audience of 60,000-plus spectators, all eager to witness the latest worldwide masterpieces in contemporary art, from hip-hop to ballet to Indian dance – and this year’s bash is already on its way to topping those numbers. The festival is in full swing throughout November; download program and ticket information from the website. +39 06 422961

Lead image courtesy Whistler Cornucopia

by Rob Howatson

  It is our first night at Kona Village Resort on Hawaii’s Big Island, where Leila and I have been assigned a window seat in the property’s quiet but elegant restaurant. As my wife scans the menu, I watch gentle waves roll across Kahuwai Bay, the surf faintly lit by a single floodlight strapped to a coconut tree.

Kona Village prides itself on being unplugged. Its 125 thatched-roof bungalows, arranged around a lagoon and black- and white-sand beaches, are tricked out like five-star hotel rooms – minus the distractions of air conditioning, televisions, radios and telephones. Walkways are lit by low-slung garden lights and the occasional tiki torch. Guests are issued flashlights to find their way after the evening festivities . . . or, as one young vacationer is now doing, to explore the tidal zone after sunset.

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“Did you see that?”

My wife glances up from the menu. “What?”

“In the water, just beyond the kid.”

__________________________________

The eight-year-old is dressed in a crisply ironed shirt and pleated walking shorts, his blond mop perfectly combed. Earlier, he had been seated at the table next to us. Now, the beam of his flashlight bobbing erratically, he turns his back to the sea and stoops to examine a shell. As he does so, a blubbery, white, two-metre-long appendage rises from the water and flops about for a jarring moment before disappearing. The boy does not see the apparition. Neither does his family, happily chatting away in the restaurant.

“Did you see that?”

My wife glances up from the menu. “What?”

“In the water, just beyond the kid.”

I try to describe it, but the best I can do is confirm what I didn’t see. It wasn’t a whale. It wasn’t a shark’s fin. It wasn’t a squid’s tentacle.

“Hmm,” says Leila, returning her attention to the menu. “Calamari sounds good.”

Having logged a lot of vacation miles together, my wife is familiar with my nervous travel quirks. When we stayed in Hilo, for example, on the jungle side of the island, and the power went out as we prepared for bed, I sprang to my feet and began cranking our Wind ’N Go flashlight.

“Prepare the rental car for evacuation to higher ground,” I whispered into the darkness.

Leila rolled over and went to sleep. Apparently, she either didn’t know or didn’t care that Hilo had been flattened twice by tsunamis in the previous century, or that the city lies at the base of an active volcano, or that a week before our arrival, the Big Island had been rocked by a 6.7 earthquake. In fact, Leila slept particularly well that night. I popped a Zantac, stared at the ceiling and listened to the coqui frogs.

______________________________________

The appendage, the two-metre limb,

the white blubbery thing, lifts again from

the water, within striking distance.

______________________________________

After that episode, I vowed to relax. But it’s hard when a little boy is tinkering about in the dark beside the Pacific, oblivious to a lurking sea beast. The appendage, the two-metre limb, the white blubbery thing, lifts again from the water, within striking distance. The boy sees the creature and steps toward the bay to investigate. I scan the restaurant for our server, unsure of what to say even if he should materialize. “Kraken” is the only word that comes to mind – the monster in Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. As in “Waiter, there’s a Kraken in my view.” As in, “Doesn’t the Kona coast possess one of the steepest offshore slopes in the Hawaiian Islands – a logical place for a leviathan to ascend?!” Leila senses I am about to do something spectacularly decisive and hides behind her menu.

________________________________________

My flailing, untanned limbs propel me

out of the darkness and onto the barely illuminated

rocky landing with such force that the startled boy

nearly stumbles backward into the sea. 

________________________________________

I bolt from the restaurant and race across the lawn, singeing my hair on a tiki lamp as I round a corner. My flailing, untanned limbs propel me out of the darkness and onto the barely illuminated rocky landing with such force that the startled boy nearly stumbles backward into the sea. Whatever has been crashing about in the shallows is gone. But I notice, for the first time, a wooden sign: Please Do Not Swim with, Touch or Throw Rocks at the Manta Rays. I realize the coconut tree floodlight is meant to attract the gentle winged giants, which move slowly through the shallows and sometimes expose the white underside of a wing tip, as if waving hello. The boy shoots me a wary look and resumes beachcombing. I slink back to the restaurant, avoiding eye contact with his family, now crowded at the window. Leila peeks over her menu. I flash the “shaka” signal (back of the hand, pinky and thumb extended) – a Hawaiian greeting . . . and, of course, surfers’ code for “hang loose.”

Lead image courtesy Margaret Butschler/Vancouver Aquarium

For the top-ranked O'Neill Coldwater Classic tour, surfers must perform radical, controlled manoeuvres in the critical section of each wave – with speed, power and flow – to maximize their scores.

All this past week, Tofino’s rugged shores have been invaded by more than 120 international surfers on this fourth stop of the 2009 O’Neill Coldwater Classic tour. It’s the first time a professional surfing competition has been staged on Canadian soil, and the locals are stoked, not only because Tofino surfer Peter Devries has unexpectedly made it through to the event’s quarterfinals, but because it proclaims to the world that the tiny outpost is the surfing capital of Canada.

If you haven’t visited Tofino in a while, you may be surprised to see what a hold surfing has on this West Coast town, and how the sport has become an important plank in the local economy. In fact, the place resembles Waimea in Hawaii, with surf shops and burrito joints scattered everywhere. Of course, Tofino doesn’t have the breed of monster waves that regularly hammer the north coast of Oahu, but they are definitely big and narly enough to have earned the town a berth on this year’s tour, with $140,000 in prize money up for grabs.

For each wave ridden, surfers are scored on a scale from 0.1 to 10.0, broken into one-tenth increments.

“The Cold Water Classic event in Tofino is the one all the surfers on the tour have been talking about,” says O’Neill global event manager Bernhard Ritzer. “It represents all that we have set out to achieve with the O’Neill Coldwater Classic Series, which is about providing a unique and challenging experience for the world’s best surfers by pushing the boundaries and exploring new remote and spectacular locations.”

The prestigious cold-water surfing series, which concludes early this November in Santa Cruz, California, made stops earlier this fall in the inhospitable waters of northern Tasmania, northern Scotland and the western cape of South Africa, but the conditions in Tofino might be the most formidable of all. Unpredictable waves, bone-chilling winds and pelting rain make its surf a strenuous physical test. Simply paddling out to the waves while encased in thick neoprene requires strength and stamina. And then too there are the bears, whose presence inspires a mixture of fear and fascination amongst the series’ organizers and surfers, who have trekking to a nearby salmon hatchery to watch the beasts feed.

It’s certainly not the sort of conditions most of these world-class athletes are accustomed to. In fact, it’s only within the last few years that the technology of wet suits has improved to the point where boarders can survive the elements and still surf competitively in them. Even so, the surfers’ feet were bare for Tuesday’s competition, and with the sun shining, most were not wearing anything on their heads while doing battle with the raging froth at Chesterman Beach.

In the Coldwater Classic format, athletes compete against one another in 25-minute heats. In the early going there are four boarders in each heat, but as the field is whittled down it becomes three, then finally gets down to head-to-head match-ups. Surfers can ride as many waves as they want in their allotted 25 minutes, but only their top two scores count. The judges, who sit in a covered wooden booth on the beach, rate the boarders on their creativity, technique and daring, on how many manoeuvres they complete and the speed, control and power they exhibit in the most critical section of the wave.

When he's not competing, Australian surfer Shannon Brown lives in Tofino, where he teaches at the Westside Surf School.

One of the keys to achieving a high score is picking a solid wave, so there is often a fair bit of time in a heat when nothing much is happening. That’s where announcer Dom Domic comes in, filling the dead air with updates on the surfers’ times and standings (which the surfers need to know as well), counting down the remaining minutes and offering commentary on the competitors and the surroundings. When the surfers get up on a wave, Domic, also president of the B.C. Surfing Association, describes the action using a vocabulary that is awash with surf  jargon – backside air, lip bashes, hacks, acid drops, fakeys and fat closeouts. And when a rider takes a tumble, he doesn’t fall but “comes unstuck.” The other unusual thing about Domic’s delivery is that he does it with a hand-held mike the front seat of a truck parked surf-side.

In fact, as I stare out my bedroom window right now, I can hear Domic’s throaty voice rising in excitement. Something big must be happening outside. I guess it’s time to suit up and jog down to the beach to see what’s causing the commotion. Let’s hope a bear hasn’t eaten one of the surfers.

Postscript: The waves broke perfectly for Tofino and local Peter Devries, who defeated Australian Jay Thompson on Saturday (October 31) to become the first Canadian to win a professional surfing event. Half of the town showed up to watch the final. Die-hards were also talking about the ‘out-of-bound’ surfing just north of Tofino. Local surfing enthusiast Brady Clarke puts that scene in perspective with Vancouver Island: Surfing the Wild Side

Got your own surf story? Or your own sweet spot – on the coast or elsewhere? Drop me a line.

Announcers describe the action using a vocabulary that is awash with surf jargon – backside air, lip bashes, hacks, acid drops, fakeys and fat closeouts. And when riders take a tumble, they don’t fall but “come unstuck.”

Critical Reading: The Driftwood Coast: Surfing Vancouver Island by Brady Clarke.

Surf Schools:

• Tofino’s Pacific Surf School Lessons, rentals, camps for all ages and skill livels, 250-725-215

• Tofino Surf School Comprehensive tutorials, from fundamentals to wave-pattern interpretation, reading tides and “surf etiquette.” 250-725-2711

• Surf Sister Founded by Canadian women’s surfing champ Jenny Stewart. 250-725-4456
• West Side Surf School Personalized coaching by superstar Sepp Bruhwiler. 250-725-2404

Photographs: Kerry Banks

by Liz Bryan

Leg One: Victoria to Port Renfrew (107 km)

Head out of Victoria onto Hwy. 1, then west toward Colwood and the start of Hwy. 14. Known as the West Coast Road from Sooke, north, Hwy. 14 is one of the oldest byways in B.C., the first trail to connect Victoria’s fort of 1843 with the pioneer settlements that sprang up along the Pacific coast to Sooke. At the first major traffic light, turn south (left) onto Ocean Boulevard and follow the signs to Fort Rodd Hill, built in 1895 to guard the naval station at Esquimalt. Now a historic park, the fort’s old buildings and gun emplacements are still intact on a wondrous rocky headland, complete with gnarled Garry oaks, arbutus trees, wildflowers and a herd of black-tailed deer. Below is a second historic site: Fisgard Lighthouse, built in 1860 and now housing a museum dedicated to charting the shipwrecks along the West Coast’s Graveyard of the Pacific and the intricacies of the Fresnel lens.

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Jaunt: Victoria to Port Renfrew Circle Tour
Distance: Approx. 250 km
Fuel: 1 tank
Duration: Two days
Prime Time: March or April
Tunes: The Bills, Let ’Em Run (Borealis Records); Vivaldi, Four Seasons (Spring)

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Continue past the fort along a winding forest road to a humpback bridge and the Coburg Peninsula, a narrow spit of land between the beach and Esquimalt Lagoon (a favourite spot for birdwatchers). Royal Roads University lies across the lagoon. At the end of the spit, turn north (right) along Lagoon Road to Metchosin Road, which curves high above the shore. A side road leads to Albert Head and Witty’s Lagoon, with beachside parks, sandy cliffs, rainforest trails and, again, good birding. As the community of Metchosin nears, keep an eye out for ’Chosin Pottery, Galloping Goose Sausage Makers and St. Mary’s Church, its graveyard shaded by giant mossy oaks and bright with dancing white fawn lilies and pink shooting stars. The church is known locally as St. Mary of the Lilies.

The settlement of Shirley is marked by its 1937 community hall (with any luck there will be a craft sale in progress) and, just beyond the hall, a narrow forest road that leads to red-and-white Sheringham Point Lighthouse (1912), a prime West Coast photo postcard. The forest trail down to the shore is currently a little rough. The lighthouse itself sits behind a wire mesh fence, but improvements are planned to keep the lighthouse and grounds accessible.

Turn right (north) along Happy Valley Road, then Kangaroo Road, to get back onto Hwy. 14. West lies Milne’s Landing, where the general store keeps alive a tradition begun by settler Edward Milne, who started an emporium here more than 100 years ago. Turn inland for a visit to Sooke Potholes Regional Park, a popular swimming spot with rocks sculpted into pools by the Sooke River. The town of Sooke, across the river, has a fine little museum. Adjacent Moss Cottage dates from the 1860s. Walk down to the harbour on Maple Avenue to check out the fishboats and, if it’s coffee time, the Little Vienna Bakery, Serious Coffee (Victoria’s own version of Starbucks) or Mom’s Café, a local institution (though it’s under new management). Sooke is also known to gastronomes around the world for the incredible edibles at Sooke Harbour House. It’s well worth a drive down Whiffen Spit Road just to see the place (and maybe make advance plans for dinner?) and to stroll on the spit at the entrance to Sooke Inlet. West of Sooke, the highway continues along the shore, with several oceanfront B&Bs along the route. The settlement of Shirley is marked by its 1937 community hall (with any luck there will be a craft sale in progress) and, just beyond the hall, a narrow forest road that leads to red-and-white Sheringham Point Lighthouse (1912), a prime West Coast photo postcard. The forest trail down to the shore is currently a little rough. The lighthouse itself sits behind a wire mesh fence, but improvements are planned to keep the lighthouse and grounds accessible.

French Beach is one of the few along here with automobile access. It also has campsites and picnic tables and is a good spot for whale-watching. About four km beyond, Point No Point is a popular resort with teahouse, dining room and cabins on the tip of the windswept promontory of the same name, so called because it was invisible to surveyors from certain angles. The next beach along is Sandcut, reached by a 10-minute trail through steep woods but well worth the effort: A waterfall splashes over a sandstone lip into a freshwater pool (in summer, a perfect shower to wash off salt and sand). The small community of Jordan River is a surfing mecca; north of the sheltering Olympic Peninsula, the waves roll in unobstructed from across the Pacific. Good eats: Breakers Restaurant for clam chowder and sea views. North from Jordan River, the West Coast Road veers away from the shore, narrow and winding and hemmed in with rainforest. Trails lead down to well-marked beaches such as China and Sombrio, both good for picnics and linked, from China Beach to Port Renfrew, by the 47-km Juan de Fuca Trail. Not as rugged or isolated as the famous West Coast Trail, the Juan de Fuca is more accessible for day hikes.

Port Renfrew is an old logging/fishing community at the mouth of Port San Juan, where the San Juan and Gordon rivers flow into the sea. There is a cluster of small homes here, plus a general store, smattering of eateries and lots of history. Beside the wharf sits the newest incarnation of the Port Renfrew Hotel (the original landmark structure was formerly a loggers’ bunkhouse, barged across the strait in 1927), serving decent grub alongside its spiffy new waterfront accommodations. The local church is a reincarnation, too. Built originally in Somenos, near Duncan, in 1875, it was dismantled and trucked to Port Renfrew in 1970; its bell came from the HMCS Swansea, a navy frigate scrapped in 1967. Near the mouth of the bay is one of nature’s marvels: the tidal pools of Botanical Beach. Here the sea has etched deep holes into the sandstone and at low tide the pools are nature’s fish tanks, teeming with tidal life – a marine marvel that brings in almost as many tourists as the West Coast Trail. To reach the beach  (a pleasant 20-minute walk), drive past the trail infocentre and veer left, following the signs to the parking lot. The hotel provides details on tides and the best places to watch the sunset. For another short hike, ask for directions to the legendary Red Creek Fir (73.8 metres high, 12.5 metres in circumference), along the San Juan River. Good eats & sleeps: Port Renfrew Hotel and Resort, on the wharf (250-647-5541); Soule Creek Lodge (1-866-277-6853), up (and we do mean up) Powder Main Road on the top of a ridge, with superb views and an inventive seafood menu with produce grown on-site. (Roadtrippers can overnight in the lodge or a cozy yurt.)

Leg Two: Port Renfrew to Victoria (Approx. 140 km)

It’s feasible now to drive an ordinary passenger car from Port Renfrew along logging roads to Cowichan Lake, as the 52 km of unpaved road (Harris Creek Main) is well graded, though still used by logging trucks. (As it has no services, the road is not recommended for night driving, however.) Take it slowly and enjoy an intimate look at the rainforest and B.C.’s logging industry in all its stages, from clear-cuts to replantings of several vintages. There are two excellent forestry campsites along the way, at Fairy and Lizard Lakes (for good swimming, fishing and nature trails), plus several one-way wooden bridges over creeks – some of them more like roaring canyons. Stop to see the enormous Harris Creek Spruce, approached over a small footbridge. While in the woods, look down and enjoy the forest floor, all mossy green with salal and ferns and woodland flowers, including bunchberry and trilliums. Back en route, the road branches several times but the way is well posted (as it should be; the provincial government is promoting this as a circle route) until it reaches Cowichan Lake at the community of Mesachie Lake. Enlightened mill owners planted some 200 trees of 33 different varieties from around the world here back in the 1940s. These heritage trees give this tiny place an endearing charm.

Cowichan Lake (which enjoys the warmest average summer temperatures in Canada) is 30 km long, with a road circling it, though only the eastern ends are paved. Watch for Cowichan’s mythical lake monster, Stin Qua. Honeymoon Bay, a few kilometres west of Mesachie Lake, is worth a detour for its wildflower reserve, which protects, among other plants, a large stand of pink fawn lilies. Good eats: The Honeypot Pub & Restaurant. If not detouring, turn east (right) to Lake Cowichan. If timed right, the town’s April daffodil festival – known as Delightfully Daffy Daze – is a must-stop, with its antique show and flea market; or walk along the Cowichan River and visit the Kaatza Station Museum for a glimpse of the island’s mining and logging days.

It’s only 30 km from Lake Cowichan to Duncan and Hwy. 1, the return route to Victoria. In Duncan: 40 totems, a farmer’s market, funky new shops and the Quw’utsun Cultural Centre’s native carvers in action. The pastoral Cowichan Valley is internationally known as a foodie haven, with several wineries, a cheesemaker, stands selling fresh produce of all kinds and farms where alpacas, emu and even water buffalo strut their stuff. Drive back to Victoria via the scenic Malahat – a 45-minute drive if driven without breaks. Or, take the ferry at Mill Bay across Saanich Inlet to Brentwood Bay, and spend the last of the day at Butchart Gardens (reserve ahead for dinner or high tea: 250-652-8222).

Lead image courtesy Sooke Region Museum

by Masa Takei 

We’re going fishing, as simple and primal a thing as that. We’re also on a National Geographic-worthy outing, a scientific mission for conservation, a veritable journey back in time. It’s a prehistoric creature that we seek – a living dinosaur, but one faced with imminent extinction.

The Fraser River's sturgeon population ’s is the largest truly wild stock of this species left in the world. Even so, the Fraser River Sturgeon Conservation Society estimates the latter’s numbers have plunged by 25 per cent.

Casting lines from the dock at B.C.’s Harrison Lake, our guide fires up the engine on our seven-metre aluminum jet boat and sets course for the mouth of the Harrison River, just 110 km east of Vancouver. A few raindrops spatter the windshield from low, heavy clouds; tendrils of mist drape the flanks of the surrounding Coast Mountains. “A month ago we’d be able to fish right here,” says 39-year-old Tony Nootebos, who has guided on these waters for the past 14 years. But this late fall afternoon, we don’t even slow our pace as we reach the river mouth and head inland.

The beast we are in search of, the white sturgeon, is North America’s largest freshwater fish. (The biggest caught to date was more than six metres long and weighed 600-plus kilos – about the length and payload capacity of a Ford F-150 pickup.) It’s a species that has plied these waters for more than 60 million years, virtually unchanged. Something that has withstood Darwinian forces throughout the millennia would suggest a robustness of design. Yet within the last century, the sturgeon’s numbers have dropped toward extirpation, mainly due to habitat degradation and overfishing. In 1897, almost a half-million kilograms of sturgeon were pulled from the Fraser River in a single year by the 160 gillnetters licensed to do so. By the mid-1900s, the numbers of these inland-water leviathans had dropped so precipitously that only two local commercial fishing licenses remained active. Given a decades-long maturation period, the remaining sturgeon stock has slim hope of fully recovering.

__________________________________________________

The old black-and-white photo makes it easy to believe

 creatures of such size existed only in another era. Just four

years ago, though, another group of fishermen caught a

specimen measuring 3.3 metres in the Fraser near Mission,

where it took four men six-and-a-half hours to land the goliath.

____________________________________________________

One 1920s shot in the B.C. archives shows 30 men in tweed suits and waistcoats, posing on a dock with a sturgeon laid across packing crates. If the crates were standard issue, then the sturgeon was some four-and-a-half metres long. The old black-and-white photo makes it easy to believe creatures of such size existed only in another era. Just four years ago, though, another group of fishermen caught a specimen measuring 3.3 metres in the Fraser near Mission, where it took four men six-and-a-half hours to land the goliath. A colour photo subsequently ran in the local newspaper, a classic grip-and-grin shot of 10 fishermen standing in a river to support one fish on the surface.

We motor the length of the Harrison River, our wake in the dark jade waters lingering behind us like an airliner’s contrail. A seal colony lounging atop a log boom eyes us as we speed past. Nootebos points to hundreds of dots in the distance: bald eagles fishing on the river ahead. The photographer in our group throws off his fleece and readies his gear. The only other passenger, a woman from Montreal sheathed in a stylish corduroy coat, designer jeans and gumboots, fishes in her handbag for her point-and-shoot.

My pole arcs, pulled down like a divining rod to the motherlode. Line peels out of the reel with a frantic zzz-z-zzzzz. I haul up and reel in, jolted with adrenaline as I get a feel for the size and strength of the creature I’m now attached to.

Concentrations of North America’s last white sturgeon exist in rivers located primarily on the west coast. The Columbia and Snake rivers in the U.S. and the Fraser and Harrison in B.C. are the last sport fisheries; the Fraser’s is the largest truly wild stock of sturgeon left in the world. Even so, the Fraser River Sturgeon Conservation Society estimates the latter’s numbers have plunged by 25 per cent, from somewhere around 62,000 in 2003 to about 47,000 in 2006. The most disturbing statistic, however, is that the greatest drop is among juveniles, suggesting that the population is failing to renew itself.

Today, sturgeon fishing on the Fraser is strictly catch-and-release, while commercial guiding services play a significant role in both stewardship and a tagging program that gathers population stats. “The sport fishery is the eyes and ears on the river,” says Nootebos – and it’s a well-motivated crowd, given that commerce and conservation are inextricably linked. With 90 guides in the area, the industry contributes an estimated $20 million to the B.C. economy.

Arriving at the wide, muddy Fraser, Nootebos finds the spot he’s looking for, kills the engine and lets the boat drift while he produces a plastic bucket of fluorescent-orange salmon roe encased in a nylon stocking. Taking a barbless fish hook the size of his thumb, he nips the top of a sac and, swivelling crane-like with the 2.5-metre fishing rod, casts the bait bomb out across the surface of the river. I picture the orange orb settling on the riverbed, a beacon in the murk. But it is the roe’s sweetish scent and taste that will lure the sturgeon, which has poor eyesight and relies on a keen sense of smell and taste to feed.

____________________________________

Reports claim a half-bushel of onions,

a can of beans and a house cat found in the

stomachs of sturgeon catch.

____________________________________

It was a Canadian researcher who discovered that sturgeon have taste buds outside their mouths (sensitive barbels – four catfish-like whiskers that project from the snout – are used to probe the river bottom for food). The gentle creature is, in fact, a toothless scavenger that spends its days sucking up relatively small protein packets – as Nootebos puts it, like “hoovers vacuuming the bottom.” Lamprey eels, eulachon, ditch eels, crayfish and dead salmon parts are regular fare. Just about anything is inhaled, though. Reports claim a half-bushel of onions, a can of beans and a house cat found in the stomachs of sturgeon catch.

Nootebos baits two more hooks and mounts three rods in holders at the back of the boat. Each of us is assigned our own entry in this lottery. And so it begins.

Our lines out, we wait. The day’s drizzle lends an air of solemnity. We monitor the tips of our respective rods expectantly. But as the minutes pass, our short attention spans are sadly apparent when Nootebos points to two rods now quivering with the nibblings of beasts below. There’s a moment of indecisive panic before two of us leap to pull rods from holders, then lean back to set the hooks: throwing the heavy rods back hard as coached, striving for purchase in the hard, cartilaginous mouths beneath us.

My pole arcs, pulled down like a divining rod to the motherlode. Line peels out of the reel with a frantic zzz-z-zzzzz. Next to me, Montreal also has a battle on her hands. Nootebos takes in the other line, then restarts the boat to orient it favourably for the work ahead. I haul up and reel in, jolted with adrenaline as I get a feel for the size and strength of the creature I’m now attached to. A few metres of line are gained, then the fish is off; nothing to do but let it run. Suddenly, a shudder, then . . . nothing. I reel in slack, hoping it’s just that the sturgeon is swimming straight for us. The hook comes back to the boat bare.

The sturgeon has no teeth, but I pause before grabbing its lower lip – a good 15 centimetres wide – with both hands. It feels rubbery but solid, and, with a leg either side, I embrace this living log. It appears calmed by the unfamiliar experience of floating upside down.

Meanwhile, Montreal is huffing and puffing. She’s hooked onto something big. Nootebos straps a fighting belt around her waist, a white-plastic affair with a cup to brace the butt of the rod. Stylish turquoise-leather gloves strain as she struggles with a force many times heavier than she. The fight draws out. Nootebos, a sheepish look on his face, leans in to support the rod, one hand beneath its centre point like he’s doing a bicep curl. Montreal’s exclamations are no longer self-conscious theatrics. She lets out childbirth-worthy groans.

The photographer and I guffaw like a couple of knuckleheads. Nootebos takes the rod from Montreal and passes it to me; 15 minutes later, I’m eating crow. A lactic burn sears through my arms as I calculate the cost of replacing the thousand-dollar rod and reel about to slip overboard. The photographer steps in and puts in his time. Soon, he too is looking for takers.

___________________________________________________

Nootebos grabs the pole, clamps his thumb down on the

spool of the reel and cranks up hard on the rod, taking in line

by the armload. A massive flash of white suddenly churns

the water alongside, bigger than anything we’d imagined. 

_____________________________________________

The second pass around, we hit upon an ingenious way to double-team the beast: facing each other, one with the rod in both hands, the other propping it up on one shoulder. Embarrassed though he might be for us, Nootebos runs for his camera. Yet despite our chicanery, the fish seems nowhere near as tired as us. Nootebos grabs the pole, clamps his thumb down on the spool of the reel and cranks up hard on the rod, taking in line by the armload. A massive flash of white suddenly churns the water alongside, bigger than anything we’d imagined. Reinvigorated, we resume the fight, alternately reeling in line and letting the fish run. Finally, we bring it up from the deep.

_____________________________

Its snout out of the water,

the sturgeon regards us with a tiny,

baleful, blue-grey eye. 

_____________________________

Its snout out of the water, the sturgeon regards us with a tiny, baleful, blue-grey eye. We’ve been wrestling with the fish for more than an hour and have drifted almost three km downriver. I strip off my down jacket and stuff myself into waders. By the time I get overboard, Nootebos has removed the hook and is holding the colossus by the mouth, belly up in knee-deep waters. I take over while he jumps back aboard for a measuring tape. The sturgeon has no teeth, but I pause before grabbing its lower lip – a good 15 centimetres wide – with both hands. It feels rubbery but solid, and, with a leg either side, I embrace this living log. It appears calmed by the unfamiliar experience of floating upside down. We measure from snout to tail fork (252 cm), then the girth (102 cm). Nootebos’s guess is 140 to 180 kg – less than half the weight of the monster caught four years ago but still the heft of a Shetland pony.

__________________________________________

Nootebos returns with a Sharpie-sized syringe

loaded with an electronic tag. Sliding the tip of the

 needle into the skin behind the sturgeon’s

head, he depresses the plunger.

__________________________________________

Producing a Trekkie-looking, paddle-headed device, Nootebos flips the sturgeon upright and scans behind its head: an untagged virgin. Again, he leaves me holding the fish’s maw. I study the mottled purple, pink and grey back, marked by a line of white ridges. These must be the scutes – armoured plates girding its flanks. A sudden squirming. I clamp tighter with both shins. Nootebos returns with a Sharpie-sized syringe loaded with an electronic tag. Sliding the tip of the needle into the skin behind the sturgeon’s head, he depresses the plunger, then checks with the reader that the tag is operational. Our work is done.

Then it comes, the obligatory grip-and-grin. Nootebos and I kneel in the water to support a creature that weighs more than both of us put together. Montreal looks on, smiling, from the boat. We grip, we grin, as the photographer captures the image for posterity, then release our connection to a primeval time. With a flip of the tail, it glides back into the Fraser’s murky depths.

sturgeon generals

• B.C. Sportfishing Group offers eight-hour guided fishing daytrips for four people at $796, four-hour trips for $518. Everything (including waders and fishing gear) is included; guests need only dress for the weather. With 22 boats, BCSFG can accommodate up to 88 guests at one time – year-round (peak season is April to November). 1-877-796-3345

Photos courtesy Darryl Leniuk

by Kerry McPhedran

Miss Kerry? Phone call! Please follow.”

Phone call?  It’s November. I’m alternately blotting sweat and sipping a chilled Kingfisher on a rooftop terrace four storeys above the Ganges, India’s holiest river, in Varanasi – India’s holiest city. Those lucky enough to die here, where Lord Shiva married, or to be cremated alongside the Ganga Ma (Mother Ganges), revered as a living goddess, are believed to break free of the endless cycle of reincarnation. Peace is theirs.

Fireworks explode overhead. It is the first night of Diwali, the year’s holiest celebration for India’s 850 million Hindus – a good number of whom are now packed excitedly into wooden boats drifting through floating candle offerings and marigold garlands on the Ganges. Sanskrit mantras punctuated by the rattling of conch shells and bells and the beating of drums spiral up from one of Varanasi’s 30 legendary ghats, each a series of stone steps sweeping down to the water’s edge. My friend and fellow traveller, Jill, looks impressed at my summons by the Dolphin Restaurant’s head waiter, but is more interested in eating her freshly baked naan while it’s hot.

“Hello?”

“Kerry! Welcome to India! I am Rafiq! I meet your train in Agra in four days?”

Oh, blessed Google. Before leaving Canada, we had hired Rafiq online to be our driver for the second half of this six-week India odyssey. The clincher? An English couple’s Trip Advisor testimonial, praising Rafiq’s fierce belief in safety – a rare attribute in a country where car fatalities are the major cause of death.

For the first half of our passage through India, we trekked the remote Himalayas of Sikkim (India’s northern state, tucked between Bhutan and Nepal) with a guide, four porters and five dzos (a cow-yak hybrid), the latter’s tinkling bells and the occasional dzo-boy’s call the only sounds. Travelling then by taxi, we journeyed from the sedate Himalayan hill station of Darjeeling down to India’s great plains, then on by overnight train to arrive here in Varanasi, a festival-mad city of crumbling pastel palaces, temples and stone gateways that is half movie set, half watercolour dream – an Alice-sliding-down-the-rabbit-hole experience. On a wild taxi ride from train station to hotel, the driver wove between sacred cows, three-wheeled auto-rickshaws, pedicabs and pony-drawn two-wheeled tongas, taking dead aim at oncoming large trucks, hand on the horn, eyes locked with those of other drivers in a game of chicken.

After the peace of the Himalayas, we have landed feet first in the real India, where driving is a blood sport.

But tonight, we will scrape sacred cow doo and marigold petals off our sandals and fall asleep instantly and deeply, lulled by the city’s blaring mantras – broadcast on scratchy sound systems – and the knowledge that soon, after just one more overnight train, to Agra, Rafiq will be safely in the driver’s seat. In the winding lanes below, the dead, wrapped in gold cloth, will be carried through the night by bereaved sons to the ghats – to be released by fire and the Ganges’ divine waters. And at dawn, we will be woken by the thump of golden monkeys leaping onto the roof from a neighbouring building while, below, the devout already face the morning. Standing chest deep in the polluted Ganges, sipping the holy waters from cupped hands, they will chant the Gayatri to the sun god: Lord, we behold your light that fills the three worlds; and pray for your radiance to illumine our minds.

Four nights later, we are waiting in MGS station for the night train to Agra and Rafiq. It is the usual scene: smartly kitted Indian soldiers rub shoulders with near-naked holy sadhus; sacred cows and beggars scrounge among the crowd; plump matrons trail gold-edged saris past barefoot porters, whose dhotis are gathered between poverty-thin legs, bowed under the weight of bulging suitcases. Legless men in shabby western suits push alongside on trolleys half the size of skateboards; big-eyed shoeshine boys dog us, despite our open-toed sandals.

The delight of riding an Indian train is its passing parade: the 14 million souls who board and depart daily. To take a train, as Lonely Planet says, is to ride India’s bloodstream. Rail regulations detail five pages of those eligible for fare discounts: from circus performers and cancer patients who use an ostomy bag to midwives, widows of martyrs, those with non-infectious leprosy, Boy Scouts in uniform and vegetable vendors earning less than $10 a month. Child recipients of National Bravery Awards travel free in second-sleeper class. A corpse is charged the parcel rate. With luck (uncertainty is a given), chai wallahs will scurry through the cars, offering hot tea, while porters ferry sheets, pillows and blankets to the 2AC berths (air-conditioned cars with two-tiered beds) favoured by tourists.

What is not a delight is the drabness of the train. Thanks to The Darjeeling Limited, that quirky 2007 Cannes festival-winner directed by Wes Anderson, a new generation of movie-goers believes Indian trains are sheathed in hand-painted drawings of elephants and temples, while inside, swaying glass chandeliers tinkle in exquisite dining rooms and private compartments – plump with Rajasthan silk cushions and enormous windows – overlook India rolling past. In the real India, only trucks are lovingly hand-painted (Fox hired Rajasthani truck painters to embellish its movie’s train) and real Indian train windows are infamous for their near-opaque haze.

“Accept no food on the train from strangers!” advised our Varanasi hotel clerk, waggling his head as we checked out. “Even kindly seeming people may drug you and steal your goods.” And so, armed with bananas and Pure Love biscuits (but alas, no cable to chain our luggage) we lie back in the dark in berths 41 and 42, legs bent as if we are seated, suitcases tucked under our calves against would-be thieves. Suddenly, as the ceiling fan whips dangerously close to Jill’s face in the upper berth, two heavily made-up hijras (eunuch and transvestite entertainers who dress in women’s clothing) fling open the compartment curtain to give a Hindi “Oo-la-la!” at our pale faces, then bat their eyelashes before disappearing. It’s all very Some Like It Hot.

Our man in India: the dapper, street-savvy master of all things even remotely significant in the creation of the perfect chauffeured roadtrip, Rafique Sheikh: rajasthandriver.com

Seventeen hours later, the train arrives – two hours late. Rumpled and sticky, we exit the station, trailing other passengers, a downloaded photo of Rafiq’s moustached face in hand. More eager men thrust forward. “Yes, yes, this is the only door, Madam!” “Your driver must be a scoundrel, madam!” “He is not coming, madam!” “Here is my car!” My god! We should have gotten Rafiq’s cellphone number . . . But he does have our photo . . . did he leave because the train was late? A small, clean-shaven man smiles quietly off to one side. He wears a crisp, short-sleeved blue shirt and dark slacks. “Rafiq?” asks Jill. “But where is your moustache?” A bigger, shy smile. “I have shaved it off just now to look younger.”  We like Rafiq instantly for his confession.

“Chalo? – Let’s go?” Rafiq nods to a distinctive, boxy white sedan ensconced in the shade. The Ambassador! Traditional favourite of maharajas and prime ministers, India’s classic national car is now our first choice, too. Styled on the U.K.’s Oxford Morris but built in India, the spacious air-conditioned Amby is bound to draw approving glances on our grand tour.

And so it does, as, in a rush of colour, India comes at us head-on over the Ambassador’s pure retro dashboard. Often unnerving, sometimes truly frightening, it is thrilling, shocking, magical and unforgettable as we fly past buses, trucks, loping camels and motorcycles with entire families piled on, rickshaws, women carrying bricks on their elegant heads, uniformed school kids waving wildly, the occasional elephant, sadhus and more than one wedding, complete with groom on horseback and brass band. Sheep flow around us; bands of monkeys clamber over the Ambassador’s hood as the days fly by.

By the end of week one, the traveller’s inevitable frustrations with India have fallen away as Rafiq transports us from Agra into India’s great northern state: Rajasthan. This is the magical India that foreigners imagine. Women in long swirling ghagharas (skirts) of burnt orange and proud, mustachioed and turbaned men; fairytale palaces and walled forts; half of India’s 500,000 camels, led by tribal people on the move. Here, caste matters and men are still kings in a land of kings, where to speak of a question of honour is to speak of “an issue of moustache.”

Before important undertakings, prayers are said to Ganesh, the beloved, elephant-headed son of Lord Shiva. (above) Elephants at Amber Court.

Like most first-time travellers in India, we trace a route through Rajasthan’s four ancient cities, each besotted with one colour: bubblegum-pink Jaipur, painted to please the visiting Prince of Wales in 1876; dazzling, marble-white Udaipur; hyacinth-blue Jodhpur; and, at the desert’s edge, shimmering, golden-walled Jaisalmer, a 12th-century storybook sandcastle illustration. And always, with wheels instead of rails, we are independent, free of what-time-does-the-train-leave-and-from-which-track-and-will-there-be-food-on-board? Our worries, that we’d be at the mercy of a self-serving driver intent on delivering us to his cousin’s endless shops, fall away. Instead, Rafiq takes us home to his family for dinner in Udaipur. He becomes a friend but remains professional. He finds his own accommodation and meals. And each morning the newly washed Ambassador awaits its rumpled Canadian passengers, with Rafiq, cheerful in a freshly ironed cotton shirt and slacks, standing beside it, ready to answer the day’s endless stream of questions. We tour forts and palaces as he parks in the shade, water bottles readied for our return. He becomes our informal cultural guide, explaining life as a Muslim in 90 per cent Hindu India, revealing how corruption and kickbacks work, advising when to say “No” to professional beggars versus “Yes” to the truly poor and how to discourage India’s legions of street-boy vendors with a mere click of the tongue, eyes forward.

“Incredible, India?” asks Rafiq, leaning forward, brows knit, from the right-side driver’s seat (Britain’s legacy) as an 18-wheeler grazes past. The man drives like an aerobatic pilot. Subtle, confident movements of the wheel. Proudly: “This is the real India – you cannot see India from the train or a plane.”

Jill rides shotgun today. I’m in the back, lulled by the Ambassador’s diesel-engine thrum and the pink tassel swaying from the rear-view mirror, Lonely Planet’s Rajasthan, Delhi & Agra open in my lap. Rajasthan’s history reads like a fairytale. The Rajputs’ bravery and sense of honour were unparalleled. Theirs was a culture of chivalry – part medieval European knights, part Japanese samurais. Rajput warriors fought centuries of invaders against all odds. When no hope was left, honour demanded that jauhar (mass suicide) take place. “Women and children . . . immolated themselves on a huge funeral pyre while the men donned saffron robes and rode out to confront the enemy and certain death.” Medieval foreshadowing of 21st-century driving in India?

On the road from Agra to Pushkar, we witness our first accident when a car clips an oncoming cyclist. A few miles on, we pass two totalled cars. Rafiq, who trained 14 years ago with an Anglo-American company that stressed safety, angrily explains why India has such carnage on its roads. “People do not take responsibility!” – including the government. Anything that can move is allowed on any Indian road. At night, trucks bear down on unlit camel carts, bikes and tractors.

“Look! They are not licensed, they have no lights, no insurance.” Rafiq gestures at a tiny local “bus” precariously stuffed with waving local women. “But if I hit a peacock, our national bird, I am in trouble.” Glum silence. Turning onto a short stretch of six-lane freeway, we’re puzzled by a large sign – “Please do not drive in the wrong direction” – until we look ahead to see a massive truck bearing down on us – on our side of the divided freeway. The old adage “Don’t drive in countries that believe in reincarnation” takes on a new urgency. “They can’t read,” shrugs Rafiq, adeptly curving onto the shoulder with seconds to spare.

Given that Rajasthan is a harsh land with a harsher climate, we couldn’t have picked a better time to journey here. The monsoons are over; daytime is hot but not unbearable, the desert nights cool but not yet cold; and India is everything we imagined, and more.  In tiny, holy “pure-veg” Pushkar (the vegetarian population of 14,000 lives without eggs, meat or alcohol), we are amongst the 200,000 people and 50,000 camels converging once a year for Kartika, the most sacred Hindu lunar month. Pilgrims bathe by moonlight; tribal traders haggle over the length of a camel’s eyelashes. Before dawn, turbaned traders, wrapped in brown-and-grey blankets against the cold, brew tea, stroking their impressive moustaches. At midday, we join the devoted crush to perform puja (prayers) at India’s only temple to Brahman, and emerge with red-powder tikkas on our foreheads.

Just when Jill and I think we can’t take any more crowds, we find ourselves two days’ travel away from the nearest city in a country village, where we join two Parisians on a magical, starlit adventure. We have already crossed the Aravelli Hills?, one of the world’s oldest mountain ranges, which splits east and west Rajasthan. Now we are in search of Narlai, a film location in The Darjeeling Limited,  a tiny village – notable for its free-running, startlingly hairy black pigs – that looks dodgy. But we are soon booked into Number 16, the same room Mick Jagger chose in 2006, at Rawla Narlai, a 17th-century hunting lodge gifted to the Maharaja of Jodhpur – and walled off from the piggies. The elegant manager, a relative of India’s royal family, tells us that the Darjeeling cast and crew celebrated Christmas here when the film wrapped. “It can be a slow time for travel – and I was so pleased to see how you celebrate Christmas!”

Later, the Parisians, Jill and I travel by creaking oxcart – guided by turbaned Rajputs from the warrior caste, swinging oil-lit lamps – to an ancient, vast, sunken stone well that is the size of an Olympic swimming pool but only half full, its perimeter and interior steps lined with flickering ghee candles. Seated at one end, we dine on thali –  deliciously spiced dishes from royal recipes served in round bowls on a silver tray  – while reclining on silk cushions strewn with flower petals. A distant husky voice sings to the gods; a bonfire crackles up to the starry night. Paris and Vancouver seem very far away.

Two days’ drive beyond Narlai, and we are sidestepping open sewage running along the backstreets of Jaisalmer when a man with no legs, no arms, his torso wrapped in thick leather, rolls past on his side, his assistant nudging an alms pot before him. “You must give. He is truly a holy person,” calls a shopkeeper, tucking his own rupees into the pot.

This is India: exquisite carved-sandstone “lace” havellis (mansions); a frail grandmother rushing to stop traffic for jaywalking tourists in hopes of a few rupees; white-marble palaces floating on lakes; milky-marble Jain temples with naked monks; dalits, despite their new self-description as India’s “oppressed,” still trapped by their Untouchables status, doing India’s dirty work; beautiful brides covered in bangles, and bare-wristed widows abandoned by society and family, barely covered by thin, white-cotton saris. India’s middle class may be growing, but more than one third still toil for a dollar a day. Tourists book luxurious rail journeys on board the Palace on Wheels but haggle over a few rupees with homeless taxi wallahs.

An Indian friend in Canada advised we travel as Indians do: “Let India wash over you and take in what you can.” It seems to work. We feel oddly not foreign in this country of 1.13 billion, where the common Sanskrit greeting of deep respect – Namasté, I bow to the divine in you – transcends the confusion of 2,000 ethnic groups speaking 1,652 languages and dialects.

By week two, our days have settled into a relaxed routine. We explore each destination for two to four days, yet don’t feel glued at the hip to Rafiq. Local touts offering postcards, puppets and fabric look surprised, laugh and stop badgering when we wave them away with Lapka! –  a local term for a “tourist catcher” that Rafiq has taught us. We love our road days in the Ambassador. An easy four- to six-hour drive includes stops for lunch, tea breaks and such architectural wonders as Kumbalgarh, the remote 15th-century fort with walls long enough to enclose 360 temples, wide enough for eight horses to ride abreast along its top.

We are comfortable travelling in silence, but sometimes Rafiq tells us a story. It could be the tale of Rajasthan’s bandit-queen-turned-politician Poolan Devi, or Rafiq’s own romance – how he fell in love with the photo of a beautiful young woman not knowing she was deaf and mute; how it took four years to convince both families the marriage could work. Sometimes Rafiq sings along with a CD. He wanted to be a singer, but when his father died young, fate made Rafiq a driver, though a driver with ambition. After a decade at the wheel for many of India’s big tourism companies, he now has his own business, “for my sons.”

It is our last night. Jaisalmer, less than 100 km from the Pakistan border, is the end of the road. Jill and I fly to Delhi tomorrow. A sunset camel ride at the nearby Sam sand dunes was touristy but offered a glimpse of Sahara-like desert. Now it is evening. The Ambassador’s headlights pick up scrubby thorn trees, goats and herdsmen blurring past. Rafiq tips back his head and begins to sing the Bollywood love song we’ve adopted as our driving theme song: Dil kah raha hai tus se yu rishta jod loo . . .  My heart tells me that I make a relationship with you  . . . the real India.

> Northern India in Style: From the deserts of Rajasthan to the foothills of the Himalayas, including Delhi, Jaipur and Agra, with stays at former palaces and modern classics such as the Glass House on the Ganges. 12 guests per tour, November and December. From $2,715 plus local payment.
www.bcaa.com/indiainstyle

the wheelman
To hire a driver and car through Rafique Sheikh: rajasthandriver.com

Tips for hiring a car long-distance
• Hire one driver and an air-conditioned car for entire stay, even if planning on “down days” to explore on foot or lounge poolside at the hotel. Get driver’s cellphone number prior to arrival.
• Get rate in writing. Average for two passengers: $75/day including car, mileage, gas, tolls, driver’s food and separate lodging (driver arranges); suggested tip: $3 to $5 per day, per passenger. Check references: i.e., is the driver safety-conscious, familiar with the area, able to speak English well enough to add cultural insights?
• Expect to pay a deposit (Western Union is best). Drivers have a limited tourist season; without a deposit, they risk being “stiffed” by clients who book and then are tricked into hiring someone else on arrival. Note: Drivers are not designated guides; certified guides can be hired at each tourist site, or see guidebooks for recommendations.
• Drivers can suggest hotels, but it’s best to explore options before arriving in India or ask other travellers along the way.
• Note: many hotels don’t permit drivers to join guests for a meal or drink; respect this to avoid embarrassing driver. Independent restaurants welcome all.

Z-spots
• Varanasi: Palace on River/Rashmi Guest House +91 542 2402778
• Rajasthan: Narlai: Rawla Narlai; Jaipur: Umaid Bhawan Guest House; Pushkar: Raj Resorts (Tip: don’t confuse with other tented resorts with similar names); Jaisalmer: Hotel Killa Bhawan; Delhi: Ahuja Residency (Tip: Ahuja has two locations; request “Golf Links” in embassy area)

Pocket essentials
• Dukoral — travellers’ diarrhea oral vaccine, available with doctor’s prescription (take prior to departure)
• Wet Ones in flat packet; invaluable for wiping hands, dusty shoes and train surfaces
• Flat, universal sink plug and clothesline
• Earplugs (for festivals and sleeping) and black eye-mask (for sleeping on trains)
• Easily removed shoes (frequent temple visits)
• Four-digit PIN number for ATM and credit card transactions (only HSBC recognizes six-digit PINs)
• Lonely Planet’s Rajasthan, Delhi & Agra

Lead image courtesy Kerry McPhedran.

by Tyee Bridge

In his 2004 travel memoir The Last Heathen, Charles Montgomery followed the trail of his great-grandfather, a 19th-century Anglican missionary, to the Melanesian Islands of the South Pacific. (Praised by critics at the New York Times and the Globe & Mail, among many other publications, the book won the 2005 Charles Taylor Prize for Literary Non-Fiction.) Five years later, in talking about his current projects, Montgomery recounts one of the book’s early scenes: “There was this village of grass huts at the base of a volcano on the island of Tanna, where I arrived at sunset, alone, not knowing anybody. Some young men saw me and led me to a clearing in the woods, their sacred kava drinking grounds, and greeted me by letting me take part in their kava ritual.”

The generosity of the locals on Tanna Island led to Montgomery's latest project: a 2010 Olympic Games program benefitting both travellers to Vancouver and the city's homeless population.

After he was pleasantly drunk – the root of a local pepper plant, kava has relaxant and anaesthetic properties – the villagers then escorted him, head spinning, to a hut for a plate of steaming root vegetables and a warm bed. It was a pivotal moment. “I was amazed and impressed that these people would be so generous to a stranger,” says Montgomery. And though The Last Heathen includes far more bizarre experiences, it’s that generosity and hospitality that are most on his mind these days. In fact, the villagers’ open-heartedness is what has led Montgomery to his most recent initiatives: a book in progress, tentatively titled Happy City, and a 2010 Olympic Games program benefiting both travellers to Vancouver and the city’s homeless population.

Montgomery grew up in Vancouver Island’s North Cowichan, on a hobby farm with chickens, turkeys and a few cows.  “Looking back, I suppose that was my introduction to the culture of exchange. The rule was, when you come to the farm, you work. But that wasn’t a bad thing. My relatives loved it. They’d fix fences, clear Scotch broom from the fields and till the garden in spring.”

After journalism school and an internship at B.C.’s regional Lillooet Bridge River News, Montgomery then followed a long line of Canadian journalists to a Hong Kong expatriate community where he reported on stories in Southeast Asia from 1996 to 1998. Travelling abroad led to inevitable comparisons with his own culture, and by the time he was writing The Last Heathen four years later, a clear question had emerged. “When I came back to Vancouver I wanted to know, what makes people around the world so generous and trusting, and what stops many of us in North America from being that way?”

“We want folks across Canada to know

they’ve got a place to stay for the Games, and

that just by coming and having a great time,

they’ll be helping Vancouver deal with homelessness.”

–Charles Montgomery

In 2006, Montgomery discovered a group of UBC economists and psychologists, led by professor emeritus of economics John Helliwell, who were studying the nature of happiness and the economics of trust. “The single most powerful correlate of human happiness, they said, is the quality and number of trusting relationships we have with others. So the best way to be happy is to be generous – not just with money, but by giving of yourself, by being open to other people.”

That premise is the core of Happy City, which is set in Colombia, Paris and Mexico City. In Montgomery’s words, the book “explores the intersection of the design of cities and the design of our minds . . . and how cities can make or break happiness.” His encounter with Helliwell also led Montgomery to launch Home for the Games, a project that opens Vancouver homes to Olympic visitors while raising money to combat homelessness in the city.

“At the time I was asking these questions, everyone in Vancouver was talking about the Olympics. So I asked Helliwell, ‘Will the Olympics make Vancouver happy?’ He said the most powerful effect the Games could have on happiness is if they fostered a culture of engagement and generosity. That got me thinking.”

Later, at his kitchen table, Montgomery and a few friends took two related problems – Vancouver’s growing homeless population and the lack of hotel rooms for thousands of 2010 Olympic visitors – and cracked them together like a pair of walnuts. The resulting project, Home for the Games, will enable residents to share their homes in return for modest compensation, with more than half the proceeds donated to two local charities focused on homelessness (Covenant House and Streetohome Foundation). The payoff? Not just money saved and donated, but the chance for visitors and hosts to celebrate together – and get happy.

Get Mobilized for the Games – and Homelessness

Launched in August 2009, the Home for the Games website lists everything needed to register (free for homeowners and visitors) and get connected — whether you’re a Vancouver home-owner or an Olympic visitor.

For more information see: “Lodge in the Heart.”

Lead image courtesy Charles Montgomery

As Geert Mak, one of the Netherlands’ most prominent journalists, says: “The monumentality of Amsterdam exists only in the heads of its inhabitants, not on the streets.” But Mak means no Dutch put-down. He’s talking about the unshakeable inner security Amsterdammers possess, which means they have no need of grand palaces or broad avenues as displays of urban pride. The result: a city that remains a collection of folksy villages where travellers can still find themselves on the cutting edge of global trends.

courtesy Helena Zukowski

Insiders say Amsterdam’s contradictory nature springs from cultural compromise: people have to work together to stop the sea from inundating their land. The byproduct of all this “togetherness” is what the Dutch call gezelligheid – an inner confidence that keeps them open to whatever new style blows northwards. Like cultural magpies, Amsterdammers can always sense the hottest new fashion trend and who will be the next major musical talent. Not surprisingly, perhaps, theirs is a city with more museums per capita than anywhere else in Europe (prodigious in their collections and wacky in their themes) but also a place where one can while away the day in a traditional Delft-tiled “brown café” (so named for their smoke-stained walls and dark furniture), sunbathe in the buff on a canal, wave to a “working girl” in the red-light district or steam in a mixed-gender sauna.

As for great neighbourhoods that best personify the city’s eclectic character: the Nine Streets is a narrow collection of stylish bohemian boutiques, cafés and galleries linking Amsterdam’s western ring of canals; De Pijp, just south of the museum district, is a stew of subcultures, with Turkish, Moroccan and Indonesian restaurants and shops cheek-by-jowl with brown cafés; and the abandoned and decaying 19th-century city gasworks (Westergasfabriek) was recently transformed into Amsterdam’s most dynamic cultural district.

insider’s guide

courtesy Helena Zukowski

The Go Spots

• Amsterdam’s revitalized Eastern Docklands area, dating back to the city’s 17th-century Golden Age, is a progressive bit of urban planning that mixes living space, restaurants, businesses, galleries, restaurants and clubs. For theatre and live music: Panama, a trendy café/resto/nightclub. 311-8686
• Lovers of Delft porcelain will find hand-painted replicas at the Galleria d’Arte Rinascimento. 622-7509
• The newest addition to the city’s Jewish heritage: the children’s museum (opened December 2006) in the Jewish Historical Museum. 531-0310
• Like-a-Local sets visitors up with local hosts. Cruise the canals via private barge or dine with Amsterdammers in their homes. 670-2483

Trendy Vittles
• De Silveren Spiegel Traditional Dutch cuisine (try the lamb trilogy) in a crooked 400-year-old house. 624-6589
• Café-Restaurant Dauphine This transformed Renault garage, now a chic brasserie, features seafood platters, soft-shell crab and crème brûlée. 462-1646
• In a Frankendael Park greenhouse, the roomy De Kas serves fresh, organic herbs and veggies from its own garden. 462-4562
• Pancakes Restaurant — for a taste of the Dutch national staple, served with every filling imaginable, even sushi. Berenstraat 38.

Best Crash Zones
• The Lloyd Hotel in the new Eastern Docklands advertises equal service to all, but rooms range from one- to five-star. From 95 euros. 561-3636;
• The legendary madame Xaviera Hollander has turned her talents to Xaviera’s B&B. 110 euros, including breakfast for two. 673- 3934;
• Two-night city stays for Cdn.$405 (includes four-star hotel, airport transfers, sightseeing tour). bcaa.com/citystay

Lead image courtesy Helena Zukowski.

by Sonu Purhar

The morning of the jump, I’m peering through the windshield at scudding storm clouds, wondering if I’ll be devastated – or relieved – if we have to cancel, though there’s plenty of time to mull over both possibilities as we navigate the seemingly endless hectares of the Fraser Valley’s rural heart. Two weeks ago, I resolved to start my own “bucket list” – now-or-never goals to accomplish before kicking the bucket, so to speak – à la Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman’s 2007 film of the same name. Swan-diving from a plane seemed a good place to start. But after persuading a friend to accompany me and booking with Skydive Vancouver, all I can see clearly now are clusters of moody cows.

We’re greeted at Skydive’s Abbotsford office by instructor Gerald Harper, a leather-skinned Aussie with an impressive 14,000-plus jump record and several New Zealand and Canadian skydiving championships. With 32 years in the jump business, he assures us, Skydive’s safety record is equally impressive.

___________________________

What Harper doesn’t reveal, however,

is that two to three skydivers die each

year in Canada.

___________________________

The preliminaries taken care of, he then ushers us into a barn-like hangar hung with world flags and daunting equipment, where, as if signing on for a suicide mission, I shakily scrawl my name across a death waiver.

Just weeks ago, the now-vacant skies droned with the military and civilian aircraft of Abbotsford’s annual July air show, performing aerobatics alongside the 100-plus skydivers who jump daily in summer. The sport isn’t exactly booming, but in 2007 more than 40,000 first-timers took the plunge in B.C., some as old as 85 – no doubt crossing items off their own bucket lists. Today there’s only one other newbie, and once she’s down we’re up.

My friend Carla and I trek to the middle of the field on which we’ll soon be landing and eagerly scan the skies. A plane shoots out of the clouds; minutes later, something drops and falls like a brick before an enormous pink parachute unfurls and the snapping wind weaves our predecessor through the clouds like an erratic Mary Poppins. We’re enthralled, rooted to the spot. But Harper hauls us back to the hangar for “training”: a two-minute demo of awkward poses practised belly-down on a battered wooden vaulting horse, followed by “suiting up” in bubblegum-pink overalls – tighter than a disco jumpsuit – with matching cap and goggles. Within the hour, Harper and fellow staffer – and son – Jess, a gold-medal-winning New Zealand skydiver, are herding us across the sodden grass to a rickety-looking Cessna. I squeeze into the cramped hull; the others crowd round like stacks of cargo as the plane taxis for takeoff.

First jumps are always completed in tandem with an instructor, but I’m still caught off-guard when, after just 14 minutes of flying, Harper clips the front straps of his jumpsuit to those on my back. There’s no time to dwell on this abrupt intimacy, however. My new free-fall mate manoeuvres me to the ratty curtain that serves as a makeshift door and pushes it aside. I freeze: cold wind whips my face as I gape at endless kilometres of slate-grey sky. Far in the distance, the earth stretches like a strip of carpet.

Arms crossed tightly over my chest, I crouch on my knees, ankles crossed, as if in rapturous prayer (which maybe I should be). Sprawled 12,000 feet below, Abbotsford’s agricultural expanse appears hazily through accumulating clouds, the airfield just another postage-stamp speck in a checkerboard of green. A screaming wind fills the tiny Cessna, echoing my jumbled thoughts, one more frantic than the rest: Am I really going to jump? For one infinite moment, I hang suspended over the door jamb, staring into a vast gulf of cloud; then we plunge down.

Earth and sky fuse. I’m jerked in 10 different directions, free-falling at 200 kilometres an hour. Air floods my lungs, the wind a giant boot crushing my face. Just before I can panic about death by suffocation: a body-wrenching jolt as the parachute abruptly snaps taut – and suddenly we’re drifting peacefully, the dazzling metropolis of Vancouver sprawled wondrously before us. Harper spins us in a slow circle, pointing out the sights: the white dome of B.C. Place, Vancouver Island’s bumpy ridges and, far in the distance, the hulking mass of Washington’s Mount Baker.

Giddy with exhilaration, I mentally scratch “skydiving” off the list. Next up: bungee jumping!

TAKE ACTION

• Skydive Vancouver: Tandem and advanced skydiving; also offers solo courses for those ready to go it alone. $272. Abbotsford, B.C.; 1-888-738-5867
• Pacific Skydivers: Perfect for newbies (half-hour of ground preparation). $239. Pitt Meadows, B.C.; 604-465-7311
• Whistler Skydiving: Soar over snow-covered peaks. $270. Pemberton/Whistler, B.C.; 604-698-7120
• Victoria Skydiving Adventures Inc.: Bonus: ask about the Exhibition Jumps, which raise money for local charities. $375. Victoria, B.C.; 250-655-4434

Lead image courtesy Sonu Purhar

by  Masa Takei

courtesy Kreg Alde

This must be where the Model T took a tumble. Slopes drop precipitously from either side of the metre-wide ridge beneath my boots. Up ahead, a game trail snakes through a field of chest-high devil’s club and between Jack pine an arm’s-span apart. We’re 56 kilometres into a 63-km hike through the northern Rockies, and two of the guides, Josef Villiger and son René, have stopped to screw in a marker a couple of hundred metres back. I dump my 25-kilo pack and wipe a trickle of sweat with a mud-splashed sleeve. Photographer Taylor Kennedy inspects a trail blaze: a hand-size strip of bark hewn from a Douglas fir, the puckered edges around white flesh long healed. Our third guide, Toni Schuler, of Switzerland, points to a matching blaze on the tree’s opposite side.

It is the sixth day of this week-long trek. By the same time tomorrow the five of us will have reached Hobi’s, a trapper’s cabin on the Herrick River and the end of our journey. We’ve traversed boreal forests, waded rivers, climbed high into sub-alpine meadows then up alpine peaks, and are now alternately slogging through lowland bogs and scrambling across prickly, densely vegetated slopes. Since the expedition started, we’ve met not one other human soul; the only tracks we’ve found have been those of moose, elk, bear and the odd wolf.

But time and again, we’ve all uttered the words, “How the heck did they get the car through here?” For despite the distracting beauty that surrounds us, hovering at the periphery of our consciousness are the hardy men and women who first forged a road through this punishing terrain. Seventy years before us, in the depths of the Great Depression, they came: pushing, pulling, sometimes even carrying, a 1927 Model-T Ford.

The most northerly agricultural tract in Canada, B.C.’s Peace River Country is a 365,000-square-km swath that straddles the B.C.-Alberta border, from Grande Cache in the south to the Yukon and Northwest Territories in the north. Roughly the size of Germany, it has less than half a per cent of that country’s population. The problem with developing the Peace Country through the early 1900s was not a shortage of farmers and ranchers, however, but the exorbitant cost of transporting goods to Vancouver ports. So with the federal government slow to make good on promises of a railway, the pioneers of the Peace took matters into their own hands.

courtesy Kreg Alde

At the fore of this movement: 67-year-old Alex Monkman, a Metis raised in Manitoba and lured west by the gold rush of 1898 who eventually settled here to farm, hunt, trap and trade furs. In fact, it was during a trapping expedition in 1922 that he came across what was thought to be the lowest pass through the Rockies north of Missoula, Montana – a pass First Nations had been using for at least 300 years. Though it would be 1936 before he and a partner launched the Monkman Pass Highway Association and a three-year campaign to cut a 211-km trail from Rio Grande, Alberta, to the railway station at Hansard, B.C. For if no railway was forthcoming, Monkman reasoned, then why not a highway? “If we could cut our way in, we could cut our way out,” he proclaimed. Show that a shortcut through the Rockies was possible, and the government would surely be obliged to build a road. And to egg on the Ottawa bureaucrats: dedicated crews of farmers, ranchers and townsfolk would drag a “Pathfinder” Model T over the mountains, then drive it down the main street in Prince George with a symbolic bag of grain to demonstrate the viability and importance of a highway to farmers in the Peace.

It was a venture that, ultimately, would prove unsuccessful. World War II broke out, men were needed elsewhere, and Monkman’s vision faded into obscurity. But then four years ago, 30-year-old environmental management consultant Kreg Alde embarked on his own wilderness odyssey with a cadre of modern-day volunteer Peace Country pioneers, some of whom took weeks away from work and families to reclaim Monkman’s trail from years of overgrowth. The soft-spoken father of two simply felt, pioneer-style, “that someone should and so why not me?” After all, three generations of Aldes had already left blood, sweat and tears on this land. Kreg’s father, Wayne, an avid outdoorsman, had traced Monkman’s trail in 1977 and hiked it again with Kreg in 2000. The following year, Kreg’s grandfather died in a plane crash on nearby Ice Mountain while flying in to pick up Wayne from a hike through the next pass over. Yet this time, the goal behind the trail would not be a causeway for commerce, but a call to adventure and the chance to build something lasting that would benefit generations to come. At the same time, it would preserve the spirit of those who first cherished such a vision. And three years and 1,900 volunteer hours later, on July 17, 2008, Kreg Alde stood with tears in his eyes at the trail’s grand opening.

But would the people come? A trail unused is one quickly reclaimed by nature. So Alde embarked on yet another campaign of inspiration. Instead of a Model T, three Swiss guides from northern Alberta would convey a photographer and a journalist over the Monkman Trail – in hopes we would compare it favourably to such venerable classics as the Chilkoot and West Coast trails. It was an easy sell. As one, already smitten,  journalist wrote in 1937 of the area’s highlights: Kinuseo Falls is “50 feet higher than Niagara . . . one of the marvels of the Canadian Rockies”;  Monkman Lake is “so similar to Lake Louise . . . that it needs only the poppies and the chateau to be its twin….Yet how many have known these gifts of God, let alone seen them?” Sign me up, Alde, we all emailed back. And so it was, on a warm morning in late summer we found ourselves rumbling out of Tumbler Ridge in Alde’s one-tonne pickup for the drive to the start of the Monkman Pass Memorial Trail. Just a half-hour later, I was standing with Kennedy, gaping at Kinuseo Falls where it plunged past vast swirls of limestone into a pool rimmed with logs polished as smooth and round as baby carrots. How is it we’d never heard of this place?

Day two brought the Cascades: 10 waterfalls suspended above a three-kilometre-long section of Monkman Creek, four of them bearing the names of the original trailblazers: Brooks, Moore, Monkman and McGinnis. At Monkman Lake, we hovered over Schuler’s shoulder as he painted a perfect watercolour of the icefield-cloaked mountains reflected in the vast, clear lake, the plaintive call of a loon echoing through the gathering dusk. On the third day, after a long climb up to the Tarns to meadows filled with wildflowers (purple monk’s hoods, yellow arnicas, red columbines) and a 2,275-metre scramble up Paxton Peak for views of mountains beyond more mountains, including the pyramid of Mt. Robson, we camped by Hugh Lake (named after Alde’s grandfather) on the Continental Divide. By day four,  we’d descended from alpine nirvana to where the vegetation again thickened, the trail became rougher and we squelched deep into muck that threatened to spill over our boot tops. “You’ve got to know Wayne and Kreg. They just walk through everything. Brush, water, anything,” Schuler offered by way of explanation as we ploughed a direct line through bog until dusk.

Two days later, our feet have succumbed to blisters, our packs cling to our backs like morbidly obese monkeys and our knees groan loud complaints. In a perverse way we’re having great fun, particularly when reminded of those who bore a significantly heavier load up these slopes.

courtesy Kreg Alde

Peering down at where the Model T tumbled all those years ago, I try to imagine the men’s exhaustion and panic that day. “We had nearly reached the top when, on one of the shifts, the car jumped its restraining blocks and went careening down the hill. [Then] – just as it was broadside – [it] landed in a clump of tag alder. Its weight and speed caused the trees to bend and, for a moment, we thought the car had stopped. Then, like a springboard, the trees recoiled and flipped the car up and over. It rolled sideways to the bottom.” The steering wheel, spoked wheels and windshield were smashed. No wonder the Model T was little more than a battered skeleton by trail’s end.

Taking swigs of water, the five of us again plunge onward and downward – until breaking out of the brush we come to the Fontoniko River where it meets the drainage from Ice Mountain, the last river crossing of the day. Flapjack, our second-to-last camp, is just 20 metres away across the river, and boots, socks, shirts, pants – all come off. This is the perfect opportunity to get in a cold wash while there’s still daylight to dry us. Once across, we find a steel fire ring and dry firewood (as with the other camps Kreg has established en route), where Josef and René wrestle with the heli-dropped 170-litre bear-proof barrel containing our extra camp equipment and food stash. The rest of us slash ferns, level brush for the tents and build a fire. And as the tents go up, so does a perimeter of twin strands of cord strung between graphite rods – an electric bear fence, developed in Alaska, to keep curious grizzlies out while we sleep. The bear spray, bear bangers, air horn and, our defence of last resort, a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun, will be kept inside our tents for the night. Meanwhile, Josef, 59, climbs eight metres up a dense fir, sawing away branches with one hand as he goes and winding a length of recycled airplane control wire with a pulley around the trunk. He does the same in a neighbouring tree to create our bear-safe food cache.

The fragrance of wood smoke is soon mingled with more savoury aromas. Tonight: a hearty stew with buns baked by Josef’s wife. A cast-iron pan over the flames makes for perfect bannock, eaten with butter and jam. And judging from Monkman’s journal accounts, what we’re eating is of far superior quality to what the original trail builders could expect after weeks of being “wet to the neck every night”: bannock “so hard [the men] heaved [it] into the bushes”; going without meat for 10 days before killing a grizzly for a stew with dried beans –

“slim and poor fare for hard-working men

doing heavy clearing.”

What hasn’t changed, though, is the region’s abundance of berries – huckleberries, raspberries, Saskatoons, blueberries. Each day we have scooped these up on the fly, barely slowing our pace. And the next morning Schuler again returns after a quick foray with a mug full of blueberries, for flapjacks browned in a skillet over the open fire. We’ll need the energy. In this section of the trail, the vegetation has grown primordial: skunk cabbage fronds the size of welcome mats and devil’s club of such proportions the plants are spiny caricatures of themselves. Thorns find their way through pants and into hands. Schuler swings his Shweizer Gertel, a cross between a machete and a scythe, to clear a way through the overgrowth. The trail becomes less defined until it’s just a suggestion. “Yoy, yoy, yoy,” intones Josef in his Swiss, singsong lilt, “Flapjack to here, needs a crew for a month.” Then we’re fanning out, searching for the next strip of pink flagging that marks the trail.

A couple of kilometres on is the hike’s final river crossing: a 50-metre-span with a strong current. Alde had been marooned here three times by high water in what’s now dubbed “Misery Creek.” Today though, a two-person cable car ensures safe passage. The aluminum-and-wood car runs along a thick cable – an elegant design constructed by Josef, likely vetted by civil-engineer René, then tested over a creek on Schuler’s cattle ranch. The tools we’ve humped in are needed to give it a few more tweaks.

Overhead, an ominous sky threatens. Josef immediately sets about hammering 30-centimetre spikes into the base of the cable car’s timber platforms. Thunder growls in the distance. Josef hammers more frantically. All of us then assemble at the cable moorings and, under Josef’s direction, attach the cable wrench to take up a few centimetres of slack. As the rumbling comes perceptibly closer, we scramble to get ourselves, and our packs, across the river.

No sooner are we on the other side, underneath a tarp nailed to the opposite platform, than a deep, rolling boom descends, punctuated with cymbal crashes, followed by a flashbulb-pop of lightning. A rain, of downright biblical proportions, hammers down. We huddle and eat a lunch of German sausage and home-baked buns.

We tramp the last couple of kilometres in a downpour, soaked but jubilant – our hike out a far cry from the “hell” the original trail builders experienced – “working with that car for the last eight miles in nearly two feet of snow with unfrozen bog holes beneath.” Instead, we are soon sitting under tarps with a bottle of Louis Latour 2005 Chardonnay, a souvenir from the last barrel-cache, with plenty of time to relax and explore before the riverboat ride out in the morning. Monkman, on the other hand, arrived here a day too late for his crew’s prescheduled pickup. The boat left with a load of sick men, then was stopped by slush ice on its return trip to ferry out the Model T. After struggling 200 km through the bush over three years, the crew were forced to quit just 85 km short of getting the Pathfinder to Hansard and still needed to get themselves and their horses out over the remaining rough terrain. The Model T was left to rust at Hobi’s until its rescue many years later, when it was restored for the Pioneer Museum in Grande Prairie, Alberta. Finally, in 1960, the wilderness encompassing much of the trail was proclaimed a provincial park – a designation that ensures no cars will ever be driven through, or again tumble down, the pass. Still, though Monkman’s dream of a shortcut to the coast may have died in its tracks, Kreg Alde and his modern-day adventures have preserved its vision.

• ECO FOOTPRINT Low impact. (Note: the ecologically sensitive alpine meadows of the Tarns region are reachable only on foot; helicopter tours are prohibited.)
• GUIDED BY NATURE Kreg Alde and his knowledgeable guides take care of logistics. monkmanexpeditions.com
• GEAR Expedition pack; sandals for river crossings; well-fitting/broken-in hiking boots.
• ADDITIONAL INTEL Tumbler Ridge is well known for its dinosaur “footprints” and skeletal remains.
• GETTING INVOLVED The Wolverine Nordic & Mountain Society managed trail construction; funds are always appreciated at pris.bc.ca/wnms. As for the Peace Country, it has largely succumbed to development, save for the wilderness oasis that is Monkman Provincial Park. But a far larger area still threatened by resource extraction, the Muskwa-Kechika Management Area, lies directly northeast.
• CRITICAL READING People of the Pass, by Madelon Flint Truax and Beth Flint Sheehan – a comprehensive account of Monkman’s highway efforts. (Beaverlodge & District Historical Association, 1988). Exploring Tumbler Ridge, Charles Helm (Tumbler Ridge News, 2008).

Matterhorn; courtesy Ron Layters, flickr.com

Will wonders never cease? Not apparently if Bernard Weber has anything to say about it. Following up on the runaway success of his global contest to select the New Seven Wonders of the World in 2007, the Swiss-born Canadian entrepreneur and founder of the New Open World Corporation, is now running a campaign to choose The New Seven Wonders of Nature. If you want to cast your vote, simply log on to http://www.vote7.com/n7w&nbsp  where you will find photos and descriptions of all the finalists.

Niagara Falls; courtesy Insight, flickr.com

The contest, which was lauched in 2008, has since whittled a list of 261 nominees down to 28. On July 21, 2009, a panel of experts chaired by Federico Mayor, former chief of UNESCO, picked the 28 finalists based on geographical balance, diversity and the importance to human life, from a list of 77 nominees that had collected the most votes in an early round of polling. The world’s top seven natural wonders will be selected by a global poll conducted using the Internet, phone and text message, with the official final announcement slated for 2011.

The list of finalists includes a wide range of natural wonders including rivers, islands, waterfalls, forests and rock formations, and hail from all corners of the Earth. Among the more familiar wonders are Australia’s Uluru (Ayers Rock), the Great Barrier Reef, the Amazon Rainforest, Africa’s Mount Kilimanjaro, Switzerland’s Matterhorn, Germany’s Black Forest and Ecuador’s Galapagos Islands. Canada is represented by two wonders: Niagara Falls and the Bay of Fundy. The only site included from the U.S. is the Grand Canyon.

In addition to the usual supsects, a number of obscure locales made the list, such as Lebanon’s Jeita Grotto, Azerbaijan’s Mud Volcanoes, Poland’s Lake Musurian District, Korea’s Jeju Island, the United Arab Emirates’ Bu Tinah Shoals, Puerto Rico’s El Yunque Rainforest, and Nigeria’s Zuma Rock.

Uluru; courtesy Becky E.; flickr.com

Judging by past evidence, the voting will be intense. About 100 million people cast ballots in the selection of the seven man-made wonders in 2007. The winners were Rome’s Colosseum, the Great Wall of China; India’s Taj Mahal, Jordan’s Petra; Rio’s Christ the Redeemer Statue; Peru’s Machu Picchu; and the Pyramid at Chichen Itza, Mexico.

Weber says he expects more than a billion people  to participate in the voting this time. ”This campaign should contribute to the appreciation–to the knowledge—of our environment and not just the one in our country but worldwide,” he told the Associated Press. “If we or our children want to save anything, we should first appreciate it.” Weber declined to give any numbers of votes so far. But the organization plans to release detail about voter profiles later, he added. Registration on the Web site aims to prevent people from voting twice.

New Zealand's Milford Sound; courtesy Swisscan, flickr.com

Although the contest is to pick the “New” Seven Wonders of the Natural World, there is actually no consensus as to what constitutes the original seven natural wonders. There are several lists floating around on the Internet. The most popular one includes Mt. Everest, the Great Barrier Reef, the Northern Lights, the Grand Canyon, Mexico’s Paricutin Volcano, Victoria Falls, and the harbour of Rio De Janeiro.

So which natural wonders do you think deserve to make the final seven? Let us know.

Lead image by benisntfunny; flickr.com ]]> http://www.mywestworld.com/travel-blog/the-search-for-seven-wonders/feed/ 0 http://www.mywestworld.com/travel-blog/birds-on-the-brain/ http://www.mywestworld.com/travel-blog/birds-on-the-brain/#comments Sat, 22 Aug 2009 05:52:00 +0000 Kerry Banks http://www.mywestworld.com/?p=2457 I snapped this photo within walking distance of my home in Vancouver, which would be tough to do in most cities. After I had taken a few shots of the blue heron, it was scared off by a lycra-clad cyclist, who was riding through the marsh, blithely chugging past a sign that reads “Environmentally Sensitive Area. Please Keep Out.” This also struck me as a uniquely Vancouver event. At least, he said “Sorry” as the big bird flapped away.

courtesy Kerry Banks

The heron was hunting for fish in one of the ponds near Jericho Beach, a wetlands habitat that is home to several species of waterfowl as well as turtles, frogs, muskrats and beavers. My main purpose for visiting Jericho is to take pictures, but since the area is rife with birds, I find that I am slowly and unintentionally joining the ranks of what is North America’s fastest growing hobby: birdwatching.

It’s a development that my family regards with some bemusement. My wife has begun calling me “Nature Boy” and my teenage daughter is less than impressed. At dinner the other night as I was describing some of the birds I’ve seen at Jericho, she said, “You seem to know a lot about them. Have you given them human names yet?” Her final retort, as she left the table, was “Birds are boring.” I can’t agree. They sing, screech, swim, waddle, fly, fight and hunt. And when you actually stop to examine their plumage it is hard to deny their beauty. Most things, with the possible exception of Brittany Spears, become more interesting the more you know about them, and I find this to be true of birds.

I’m not alone in this opinion. About 70 million North Americans currently participate in birdwatching, a hobby that employs more than 60,000 people in the retail and nature tour trades, and generates more than $25 billion dollars annually. Spending on bird watching is on the rise around the globe. For example, the birders who flock to Kuşcenneti National Park at Lake Manyas in Turkey are estimated to spend as much as $103 million annually. Guided birding tours have become a major business with at least 127 companies offering them worldwide. There are now several websites that cater specifically to bird watching enthusiasts who are keen to travel, such as www.travellingbirder.com and Where Do You Want to Go Birding Today? www.camacdonald.com/birding/birding.htm.

courtesy Kerry Banks

Some of these birdwatching trips venture to remote and inhospitable regions. One of the popular destinations for Birdseekers, an English company that offers bird-watching tours at some 30 different global locations, are barren, windswept islands in Alaska’s Bering Sea. The company’s founder and director, Steve Bird (yes, that’s his real name) says that his clients are willing to pay $16,000 or more for a 25-day trip to Alaska for the chance to spot a Bristle-thighed Curlew, McKay’s Bunting, Smith’s Longspur or Red-legged Kittiwake.

The term “twitcher,” is reserved for those who travel long distances to see a rare bird that is then “ticked” off on a “list.” According to Wikipedia, the usage of the term twitcher began in the 1950s, originating from a phrase used to describe the nervous behaviour of Howard Medhurst, a British birdwatcher. Prior to that the term used for those who chased avian rarities was “pot-hunter,” “tally-hunter,” or “tick-hunter.”

My budding interest in birds pales in comparison to the extreme behaviour of hard-core birders. A couple of years ago, the appearance of a rare type of turtle dove drew a flood of twitchers to a remote island in the Orkney Islands. On the first day of the dove’s sighting there were 27 car-loads of birders on the ferry, charter flights from England and dozens on scheduled flights. In the space of 10 days around 1,000 twitchers came and went. Among the onlookers was Lee Evans, who earned himself a Guinness Book record entry for the number of bird species seen in Britain in a year (359 in 1990). When a reporter asked him why he does it, Evans said: “We’re sad gits, really. We’re misfits, anti-social obsessives, and I know I’m one of the worst because even the other birders say I’m mad. I’m quite prepared to admit it, but don’t ask me to stop because I can’t, even though I know I’m too old now to ever be number one.”

courtesy Kerry Banks

There are about 10,000 species of birds and only a small number of people have seen more than 7,000. Many birdwatchers have spent their entire lives trying to spot all the bird species of the world and some have lost their lives in the process. One of the most famous is Phoebe Snetsinger, a globe-trotting American woman who set off on an almost non-stop series of journeys to exotic locales after being diagnosed with malignant cancer. When her cancer went into remission, she continued travelling, surviving an attack and rape in New Guinea, before finally dying in a road accident in Madagascar in 1999. She observed as many as 8,400 species, a feat that no fellow twitcher is near to challenging.

Predictably, Great Britain produces some of the planet’s most fanatical twitchers. In 2008, Alan Davies and Ruth Miller, from North Wales, set a new world record by observing an amazing 4,327 different species during a year-long tour, easily exceeding the previous record of 3,662, set by an American spotter in 1995. In an interview, Davies, 47, said: “Birds are my passion, always have been. From a very early age, birds have been the focus of my life. They have been reason to suffer altitude sickness in the Andes to see an Ecuadorian Hillstar, trek across the Karoo desert in 45 degrees Celsius to glimpse a small grey Eremomela, empty my stomach over the side of a small boat with engine failure just to see an Isabelline Wheatear. To see birds in wonderful places is what I live for.”

courtesy Kerry Banks

The two ecccetrics sold their houses to fund the trip, which began in Arizona on January, and spanned British back gardens, Asian rainforests and Arctic ice floes, among other terrains. The adventure was not free from setbacks. While in Vancouver, in April, they had possessions stolen from their car, including a camera, mobile phone and video camera featuring footage of many of rare birds they had ticked off their list. After a brief return to their rented flat in Wales, the couple spent Christmas in the Ecuadorian jungle, where they proudly spotted such species as the Vermilion Tanager, Green Jay and Saffron-Crowned Tanager. On their blog, they wrote: “Highlights along this track included Bearded Guan, Black-and-Chestnut Eagle. A female Masked Trogon added a splash of colour. Leaving the park behind we headed for our lodgings at Madre Tierra at Vilcabamba (the Valley of Longevity) and had our Christmas supper of roast turkey.”

However (and this must be quite a blow), while the pair carefully documented their expedition through the blog, photographs and film, their achievement will not enter the record books, as they were not accompanied by an independent adjudicator.

Lead image by Kerry Banks

Boa Vista: One of the lesser-developed isles in the volcanic Cape Verde chain, Boa Vista is mainly suited to those whose interests lie in water sports and sun worship. With pristine sand dunes, magnificent, bone-white beaches, emerald-green seas and relaxed atmosphere, you can lounge all day in complete peace, absorbing the sunshine and spectacular panoramas. Or choose from a readily available range of activities, such as snorkelling, scuba diving, windsurfing, kayaking, game fishing, horse-riding, quad bikes and jeep treks. Boa Vista is the third most important loggerhead turtle nesting site in the world. See them nesting from June to September. At night, you can sample the traditional seafood restaurants and lively music bars in the capital of Sal Rei and its unique blend of African, Portuguese and Brazilian cultures.

courtesy flickr.com

Fakarava: Enveloped by a coral reef and blue lagoon waters, this gorgeous Polynesian atoll is so remote it is not found on most  maps. Fakarava’s environment is so pure that the isle has been designated as a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve for the preservation of rare species. Rich in natural fauna, it offers pink-sand beaches and is rife with rare aquatic life that includes loach, meru, and barracuda–not to mention hammerheads and tiger sharks. Not surprisingly, scuba diving is the island’s top draw, but other attractions include the ancient village of Tetamanu, where there is a Catholic church made of coral that dates back to 1874, and pearl farms, where rare black pearls are shelled.

Terre-de-Haut: Les Saintes, a spectacular cluster of eight islands situated just off the coast of Guadeloupe and accessible only by ferry or private yacht, is the very essence of French West Indies life-–without the crowds. Terre-de-Haut is the most appealing of all, with its attractive beaches, delicious Creole cuisine and laid-back French-speaking locals. It’s also the only Les Saintes island with overnight accommodations. Beachcombers will love the powdery white sands of the palm-lined Plage de Pompierre, while the spectacular underwater world of colourful reefs and exotic fish makes scuba diving and snorkelling another huge draw. Rent a golf cart to get around and visit a different beach at dawn, midday and dusk. Outside the village centre, a steep trail leads to 18th century Fort Napoleon, a fortress with barracks and prison cells, model ships and a botanical garden. There is also a nearby beach that attracts divers and nude sunbathers.

Lamu: The oldest living town in Kenya, Lamu was one of the original Swahili settlements along coastal East Africa. The port has existed for at least a thousand years. Lamu was on the main Arabian trading routes, and as a result, the population is largely Muslim. Due to the narrowness of the streets, automobiles are not allowed–the city is easily explored by foot, bicycle, or, as many locals favour, donkey. The island boasts golden sands fronting the Indian Ocean, tiny villages and a breezy, slow-moving pace of life. The rich atmosphere and history alone makes Lamu worth the trek, but so do its beaches and waters: Shela Beach offers the best swimming, while excursions to ruins and coral reefs could have you snorkelling alongside frolicking dolphins.

courtesy drewmeyerinsights.com

Cat Ba Island: The largest islet in Vietnam’s Cat Ba Archipelago, a series of 350 craggy limestone outcrops adjacent to scenic Halong Bay, Cat Ba Island is an undiscovered oasis. Starting from the Halong Bay Wharf, it takes four hours to reach the island by boat, with stopovers for swimming and eating fresh seafood. With an area of 356 square kilometres, Cat Ba encompasses forested zones, coastal mangroves, freshwater swamps, beaches, caves and cascading waterfalls. In 1986, the northeast side of the island was designated a National Park and includes a protected marine zone. The best way to see it is by motorbike. Cat Ba Island supports a population of over 20,000 inhabitants most of whom live off fishing or farming in and around Cat Ba Town. The town is small and ancient, with clusters of fishing boats. It’s a short hike from the through a tunnel to Cat Co Beach where mountains form a throne-like frame around a stunning sandy coast.

Vis: Aside from intrepid travellers, wealthy yachties and Croatians in the know, Vis remains relatively undiscovered by tourists. While the Greeks, Romans, Byzantines, Slavs, Venetians, Austrians, French and British have all taken turns occupying the strategically positioned island, Vis has now reverted back to something of a Mediterranean hidden gem. With its secluded beaches, crystal-blue waters strewn with sunken shipwrecks, vineyard-covered mountains, historic ruins and some of the best fish restaurants in the Adriatic, it’s no wonder Conde Nast Traveller has billed Vis as “Capri before the tourists.” The island also offers some great hiking opportunities and from the top of Mount Hum (587 metres) it is possible to see Italy.

Lead image courtesy fabuloussavers.com

The price of admission includes an optional tour with a guide. It’s highly advisable, as Dali’s work is complicated. Our guide, Tom, is an enthusiastic fellow who produces an alarming amount of saliva when he talks. Originally from Virginia, he has a thick southern accent, and it takes some time to adjust to the sound of his honeysuckle drawl as he discusses Dali’s fascination with Sigmund Freud’s theories of the unconscious. But the effort is worth it. A far more complex impression of Dali emerges during our tour than I remember from the 1960s, when the wild-eyed Spaniard was regarded as another wigged-out pop star, roaming the globe in a purple cape with a black ivory cane and his twitching Count of Monte Cristo moustache.

courtesy gravitando.wordpress.com

Out tour begins with a painting entitled Daddy Longlegs of the Evening–Hope! In addition to the obligatory spider, there is a limp airplane oozing out of a cannon and a desiccated body draped over a tree, its head flattened into a fish-eye silhouette. The figure is holding a violin while ants dine on its skull. According to Tom, this 1940 piece predicts the key role that air power would play in the Second World War. The work is also significant because its history explains the museum’s creation.

The painting was purchased at an auction in 1943 by a Cleveland plastics engineeer named Reynolds Morse, and his wife Eleanor, for $600. The Morses met Dali to complete the transaction over cocktails at the St. Regis Hotel in New York City. Dali, demonstrating his business acumen, regretfully informed them he could not sell the painting without its original frame. The cost of the frame was $700.

Rather than being soured by the experience, the Morses continued to buy Dali’s work. The conservative couple’s infatuation with the flamboyant artist puzzled their friends, but they persevered, braving the insults tossed at them by Dali’s domineering wife, Gala, and paying for expensive dinners that Dali presided over in chic Manhattan restaurants. Eventually, the two couples developed a friendship that included taking vacations together and collaborating on lectures and exhibitions.

courtesy worldgallery.co.uk

In 1971, Morse began to exhibit his Dali pieces in a wing of his company’s headquarters in suburban Cleveland. The collection soon outgrew its surroundings and in 1980 he began to search for a permanent home. St. Petersburg won the bid for collection under the condition that it be kept intact and accessible to the public. The Florida legislature raised $2 million to convert a vacant warehouse into a museum and establish foundations to maintain and display the collection, which is now valued at more than $350 million.

Those who only associate Dali with his surrealist canvasses will be surprised by the museum’s examples of the more conventional paintings that he did in his youth. One, in particular, the 1926 still life Basket of Bread, glows with the translucent warmth of the great Dutch masters. Eighty-three years after its creation, the bread still looks like it just emerged fresh from the oven. There are also a number of rarely exhibited items, including a drawing for a movie entitled Giraffes on Horseback Salad that Dali intended to make with the Marx Brothers. Sadly, Dali’s script was rejected by MGM as too weird.

Thankfully, the museum has plenty of examples of Dali’s stunning hallucinatory visions, the ones populated with melting watches, bleeding eggs, lobster telephones, insect-legged elephants and tilting crutches that caused many to conclude that the artist was either insane or on drugs. Dali denied the latter charge, declaring, “I don’t do drugs. I am drugs.”

courtesy artknowledgenews.com

These powerful and macabre 1930s paintings, pulsing with sex and paranoia, established Dali as the most famous of the surrealists, an art movement from which he was expelled in 1934 because of his right-wing political views. But the Catalonian’s photographic realism clearly stamped him as a modernist. As writer J.G. Ballard observed: “Fitted with a disquieting light that is more electric than solar, his paintings are like stills from some elegant but unsentimental newsreel filmed inside our heads.”
Dali had a mischievous wit, evident in some of his titles: The Pharmacist of Ampurdan Seeking Absolutely Nothing, Eggs on a Plate without the Plate, and Aphrodisiac Dinner Jacket. The latter is a sculpture composed of dozens of shot glasses filled with creme de menthe that are attached like monstrous sequins to a jacket from under which a white brassiere peeps out. As the Spaniard noted, “It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself.”

Out tour culminates in a long, tall gallery devoted to six of what Dali immodestly called his “masterworks”: massive, religiously inspired paintings, crowded with mind-boggling detail and double images, all produced between 1948 and 1970. In order to paint these behemoths, he had part of his studio floor removed so that a canvas could be raised and lowered by ropes, keeping the part he was working on at eye level. The most famous of these epics, The Hallucinogenic Toreador, took almost four years to complete.

courtesy fotos.org

Head buzzing, I exit the gallery wondering what Dali would have thought of all this. He planned to attend the museum’s opening in 1982, but cancelled when Gala fell ill. After her death that year, his own health went into decline and he made no more trans-Atlantic trips before his own death in 1989. One suspects that Dali would have been pleased by the museum, especially its fabulous gift shop, whose assorted temptations artfully empty the pockets of visitors.

The shop’s array of books, T-shirts, posters, calendars and fridge magnets is supplemented by baseball caps, umbrellas, jewellery and silk ties imprinted with Daliesque grasshoppers, ants and rippling birds. There are Dali-designed tarot cards, functional melting clocks, martini glasses, jigsaw puzzles, finger puppets, and bumper stickers and coffee mugs emblazoned wth one of Dali’s most enduring and revealing statements: “The only difference between myself and a madman is that I am not mad.”

Lead image courtesy iatwm.com

by Jim Sutherland

The wind is howling and there’s a chill in the air. What a great day for golf. The course is splattered with what appear to be blown-out sand dunes and there are hardly any ponds. Fantastic!  A forest fire raged through the area a few years back so there aren’t a lot of trees. Beautiful! We are carrying our clubs and there’s not a golf cart to be seen. Bravo! The putting surfaces are a greyish green and so firm a perfectly struck six-iron bounces off the back into some sort of hay. God, could it get any better?

Just another day in golf nirvana – a.k.a. Tetherow, in Bend, Oregon, some 300 kilometres southeast of Portland. The course with the odd name opened just last July. But despite the aforementioned description of play here, devotees of the game nodded knowingly when Travel & Leisure Golf subsequently named it the fifth best course to open worldwide in 2008. Along with a trio of courses on the Oregon coast at Bandon, a track called Chambers Bay in Tacoma, Washington, and another called Sagebrush Golf and Sporting Club, near Merritt, B.C., Tetherow is a premier example of minimalist golf design – the hottest thing to hit the game since Sansabelt slacks.

__________________________

The game’s hottest new courses are

making all the Play Before You Die

lists – and for all the right reasons.”

__________________________

Western Canada certainly doesn’t need to apologize for its golf courses. Still, we have never been at, or even near, the game’s epicentre – until now. This is our moment, a time when it is possible to drive, not fly, to the game’s hottest new courses: beautiful, challenging, inspiring tracks that are making all the Top 100, Best New and Play Before You Die lists, and for all the right reasons.

They’re more fun to play and easier on the environment. And from Bend, the intrepid golfer need merely head west a few hours to the Oregon coast, back through the Seattle area, then up the Coquihalla to plead his or her case (probably a futile effort, but still) at annual-members-only Sagebrush.

courtesy Kings Links by the Sea

The Scottish links-inspired minimalist trend is only a decade or so old, but for the most part its application has been conveniently concentrated in the western states of the U.S. Generally the courses share an unmanicured look and feel, with creased and crinkly surfaces that lead to unexpected bounces and rolls. Often the fairways – and even the greens – are seeded to fescues rather than the common blue and bent grasses, so they require less water and fertilization, feel more natural and play much more firmly. Women and high handicappers like the way their balls go farther and the fact that hazards are all but nonexistent (except for the dreaded bunkers); better players are challenged by strategic considerations and unexpected bounces. And everyone soon appreciates the illusion of walking through meadows instead of chugging about a suburban park (carts are usually banned or discouraged). Avid golfers will have noticed elements of the new minimalism showing up on many courses built in the past 10 years or so, but the 18s on this tour are the models, the ideals, the visions of perfection that designers of more mainstream efforts would create if only developers would let them.

_________________________

Among their many benefits,

minimalist golf courses help protect

wildlife habitats, improve water

quality of nearby waterways and

rehabilitate degraded landscapes.

_________________________

Here in Oregon, for instance, it’s not a coincidence that Tetherow and the Bandon courses are only a few hours apart. David McLay Kidd, the young Scottish designer responsible for turning Bandon Dunes into the most influential course of the late 20th century, recently relocated his design firm to Bend to work on Tetherow and other minimalist courses worldwide (including one, now years in development, near Fernie). Kidd is the son of legendary Scottish greens- keeper Jimmy Kidd and was tapped to design the new links that just opened at, of all places, St. Andrews, so there’s no disputing that the Old Country style has hugely influenced his approach.

Tetherow is one of about two dozen golf courses in the Bend area of central Oregon, a recreational Shangri-La already noted for fishing, hiking, caving and mountaineering – not to mention its five microbreweries. Today, though, the hot pursuit is definitely golf.

I’m out with club pro Martin Chuck, a Toronto native who once played professionally on the Canadian Tour and who can’t believe his luck at having landed in such a place.

Testing the back tees at 7,400 yards, though, he’s having a hard time keeping his drives from drawing too far left while, from the 6,600-yard middle tees (there are five sets), I’m hitting the driver nice and straight. But on approach shots, the pro takes over: striking low, piercing irons that tumble down in front of the green and roll on – even as the lazy moon shots that serve me well on the more receptive greens back home bounce wildly astray or catch gusts of wind, landing my ball in scary bunkers and gnarly rough. If there’s any consolation here, it’s that I get to closely study these annoyances, which at first glance seem to be naturally occurring but obviously cannot be given their diabolical placement. In fact, while minimalist designers pride themselves on moving very little dirt and disdaining such showy features as island greens and artificial waterfalls (and often eschewing water hazards completely), they compensate with rough-edged hazards so aesthetically appealing they seem to follow from the Japanese concept of wabi sabi, or finding beauty in imperfection. If only I’d journeyed here as a photo stylist rather than as a would-be golfer.

The eye tends to focus on such details at Tetherow because the course, though rolling, provides few outward vistas and the surrounding forest is mostly a sparse remnant. That’s certainly not the case at Bandon, where two of the three courses front directly onto the wild, blue Pacific and almost every hole is a postcard waiting to happen. Here, designers Kidd, Tom Doak (Pacific Dunes) and Bill Coore and Ben Crenshaw (Bandon Trails) seem to have had an easier time of it, simply letting the holes unfurl across a pastoral landscape that already featured open meadow, stands of picturesque trees and even clumps of gorse, a thorny Scottish staple imported to the area by an early farmer, much to the chagrin of his descendants.

The spot was chosen for a golf course after years of searching by Chicagoan Mike Keiser, who made a fortune back in the ’70s with a line of humorous greeting cards printed on recycled paper. Having played in the British Isles, Keiser had come to believe that great golf courses are largely a function of great sites, a complete reversal of the modern North American view that excellence can be achieved anywhere if one moves enough dirt, pools enough water and landscapes with sufficient vim. Keiser finally found his spot in Bandon, leaving critics to scoff that, sure, Bandon Dunes was a charming track, but no one would journey to an isolated, down-at-the-heels fishing village just to play it. Wrong. From year one it has been a huge hit, and now, joined by two other courses and with a fourth on the way, the Bandon Dunes complex is considered by most authorities the top golf destination in the U.S. – besting such established capitals as Palm Springs, Myrtle Beach and even the Monterey Peninsula and its astronomically priced Pebble Beach.

Playing Bandon with my wife, I can understand why. The firm turf adds a good 20 yards to her drives, and the big fescue greens (so firm golfers are allowed to pull their carts across them) favour the lower-trajectory game that many women and higher handicappers tend to play. Meanwhile, there is a surprise around every corner, whether it’s a stunning view of the ocean or a pot bunker that –  darn it all – we hadn’t figured on. Outside of Scotland, there isn’t a spot in the world with three courses that delivers comparable quantities of pure delight.

________________________________

“Chambers Bay has a similarly raw, Scottish feel,

and takes just as much advantage of its location.”

________________________________

Chambers Bay, courtesy Aidan Bradley

Up in Tacoma, a few minutes from Arthur Erickson’s Museum of Glass, Chambers Bay both does and very much does not follow the same playbook. It has a similarly raw, Scottish feel, and takes just as much advantage of its location, on the shores of Puget Sound. On the other hand, it’s a muni, owned and operated by Pierce County, which must be feeling pretty proud of its achievement – given that Chambers Bay was named America’s best new course in 2007 and has since been chosen to host both the U.S. Amateur (2010) and Open (2015). Designer Robert Trent Jones II didn’t exactly start with a made-for-golf site, either. In fact, the course is layered on top of an old gravel quarry, so the hyper-natural aura is, in fact, completely artificial. (There’s an additional irony to this in that Jones’s father, Robert Trent Jones, is often cited by the new minimalists as one of the chief villains behind North America’s post-World War II stock of crafted-from-nothing suburban-style courses.)

_______________________________

“Crazy bounces and funhouse greens

make playing Sagebrush a hoot. . . . Please,

let this be a model for future courses.”

_______________________________

courtesy Aidan Bradley

But even if Chambers Bay’s minimalism was created only by moving a lot of dirt at enormous expense (more than $20 million in construction costs), that fact doesn’t detract from the experience. Crazy bounces and funhouse greens make playing it a hoot. And while there is no water on the course and precisely one tree, the designers saw fit to leave behind concrete ruins from the old quarry site, which contribute to an ambience that is anything but country club. Please, let this be a model for future courses built by the prolific Jones family.

Finally this epic roadtrip returns to Canada –  though not to one of B.C.’s hot golf destinations but to Merritt, a place where only the summertime temperatures can be so described. Not that the site of ex-PGA Tour player Richard Zokol’s brand-new Sagebrush is anything less than exquisite: it occupies a bench adjacent to the tiny village of Quilchena, overlooking beautiful Nicola Lake. But before whetting appetites any further, a sad disclaimer: not only is Sagebrush private, with only a few dozen annual-fee members, but the road runs below the property so you can’t even ogle it. Indeed, you’re probably wise to skip the futile roadtrip and trust me when I say it will be every bit as influential on our side of the border as Bandon Dunes has been in the U.S.

Sagebrush came about when, back in the early 1990s, Zokol fell under the spell of fellow Tour player Ben Crenshaw, whose Sand Dunes in Nebraska is generally considered the first of the minimalist tracks. With his playing career winding down, the White Rock-based golfer decided he wanted to build a course along similar lines, and, fatefully, Crenshaw suggested he get in touch with Ponoka, Alberta-based Rod Whitman, who may be the best golf course designer no one has ever heard of.

Whitman is unusual in the golf design world: he doesn’t work from plans in a faraway office but rather moves right onto the construction site, personally driving the mini-dozer used to shape the fairways and greens. As a result, he isn’t exactly prolific – but the few courses with his name attached sure are good ones. His collaboration with Zokol is the first to religiously follow the minimalist creed, with big, firm greens, lots of rough-edged bunkers and fescue fairways that meld gracefully with the natural sagebrush-dominated vegetation. Trees are few in the near-desert environment, and a well-sheltered trout pond comes into play on only one hole.

As with Tetherow, Bandon and Chambers Bay, Sagebrush’s true strength is the fun quotient it delivers for golfers of all abilities. But the difference is that here, the fun is being had by – wait for it – maybe 20 or 30 golfers per day. Zokol likes to use the term “perfect moments” to describe the effect he has tried to create for those lucky bastards, and I’m sure they’re having a lot of them, whether the wind is howling or not.

6 More Rugged Good Links

It’s an annoying irony that the first wave of minimalist courses have been expensive to build (those ideal sites; that insane attention to detail) and are in high demand, a combination that renders them expensive to play or, worse, inaccessible to all but private members. Fortunately, there are others that, if not quite the full minimal, give a taste of what the style is like:

1. Shuksan, Bellingham, Washington, U.S.A.
Traditionalist designers are wary of overly hilly terrain because too much earth-moving is required and severe elevation changes make walking difficult. But perhaps because he had the links style in mind and a limited budget to work with, designer Rick Dvorak turned out a modest proto-minimalist marvel with this up-and-down Bellingham-area track from the early 1990s.

2. King’s Links, Ladner, B.C.
Although it lacks the fine detail of the full-blown minimalist courses, King’s Links (pictured), just outside Vancouver, is certainly a spiritual brethren. Original owner Bob Ahoy designed and built it on a shoestring with Scottish courses in mind. Though there’s a little too much artificial water about, the greens are crinkled, the turf is firm, trees are virtually absent and the sea winds blow hard, making it a more elemental experience than most North American-style courses.

3. Wolf Creek and Blackhawk, Edmonton area, Alberta
Rod Whitman, Richard Zokol’s design partner at Sagebrush, is developing a global cult following for his naturalistic approach and incredible skills as a green and fairway shaper — evident at two courses near his home base: Wolf Creek, near Ponoka, and Blackhawk, near Edmonton.

courtesy Dakota Dunes

4. Dakota Dunes, Saskatoon, Saskatchewan

Were the surfaces a little firmer and the edges a little rougher, Graham Cooke’s landmark Dakota Dunes near Saskatoon would almost qualify as minimalist. The dunes-land course is a delight to play, in any case.

5. Arthur Vernon Macan courses, Vancouver, Chilliwack, Nanaimo, the Okanagan, B.C.
The interwar period is known as golf’s Golden Age of course design, and eastern designers such as Donald Ross and Stanley Thompson are legendary. Victoria-based Arthur Vernon Macan, however, never achieved his contemporaries’ profile. But he should have. Fortunately, many of his best courses can still be played, including Kelowna Golf and Country Club, Chilliwack Golf and Country Club, Nanaimo Golf Club and Vancouver’s University (plus Stanley Park’s delightful pitch-and-putt).

6. Stanley Thompson & Donald Ross courses
Banff, Jasper, Waterton, Waskesiu, West Vancouver, Winnipeg
Speaking of the golden age, there are also a few Thompson and Ross courses sprinkled around. Thompson was responsible for national park courses at Alberta’s Banff, Jasper, Waterton and Saskatchewan’s Waskesiu, as well as Falcon Lake in Manitoba and B.C.’s private Capilano. The only western Canadian examples from Ross, the Scottish-American legend responsible for Pinehurst No. 2, Oakland Hills and 600 others, are in Winnipeg, but Pine Ridge Golf Club, Elmhurst Golf and Country Club and St. Charles Golf Club are all private. Incidentally, the latter sports nine holes by Alister MacKenzie of Cypress Point and Augusta National fame.

• ADDITIONAL INTEL The best way to promote more sustainable golf? Reassure operators that you don’t mind clover (or even, gasp, weeds) mixed in with the grass, and you prefer your fairways firm and fast — and thus not overwatered.

• CRITICAL READING The best introduction to golf’s new (and very old) wave is online. Golfclubatlas.com features some 1,500 contributors detailing the intricacies of their favourite courses.  —J.S.

Lead image courtesy Dakota Dunes

courtesy Loving Earth; flickr.com

The long-dead gunslinger is also a big tourist draw in New Mexico, the state where he spent most of his life. Each year, New Mexico stages a Billy the Kid Pageant in Lincoln from August 7 to 9. And to meet the needs of Wild West aficionados who can’t make the trip, the New Mexico Tourism Department recently created a new website, (www.newmexico.org/billythekid) featuring biographical information and maps and tours of Billy the Kid territory that allow visitors to retrace his history.

Judging by the only authenticated photo of him, Billy the Kid did not resemble Paul Newman, Val Kilmer, Kris Kristofferson or any of the other actors who have portrayed him in the movies. That photo, a two-by-three-inch ferrotype or tintype, taken outside Beaver Smith’s Saloon in Fort Sumner, in late 1879 or early 1880, depicts the Kid at age 20. An earlier version published in 1907 in the first volume of G. B. Anderson’s History of New Mexico: Its Resources & People, remains unaccounted for; speculation endures that it may have been lost in a fire.

Billy the Kid; courtesy wikimedia.org

The image reveals, as the Las Vegas Gazette reported on December 28, 1880, “… a young man about five feet eight or nine inches tall, slightly built and lithe, weighing about 140; a frank and open countenance, looking like a school boy, with the traditional silky fuzz on his upper lip; clear, blue eyes, with a roguish snap about them; light hair and complexion. He is, in all, quite a handsome looking fellow, the only imperfection being two prominent front teeth slightly protruding like squirrel’s teeth.” 

Tintypes are reverse images. Unfortunately, publisher after publisher of countless books, magazines and newspapers over the decades produced copies of the halftone from the Anderson book without telling readers that they were seeing a reverse image. As publication of the reversed image multiplied, it created the myth of the Kid as a left-handed gun. That fallacy is only one of many about Billy the Kid. 

According to the popular legend, Billy was a homicidal maniac who killed 21 men, one for each of his 21 years. In truth, he shot four by himself and perhaps five others in concert with others, and each of his killings was either committed in self-defence or as an act of war. Rather than a cold-blooded killer, he seems to have been a product of his times. New Mexico was a violent place in 1880: the state’s murder rate was 47 times higher than the national average.

He was also not named Billy, though he did assume the alias of William H. Bonney. His real name was Henry McCarty and he was born in 1859 in New York City, the son of  Irish immigrants. His father vanished from his life at an early age and Henry moved west with his mother, first to Indiana, then to New Mexico, where she remarried and died of tuberculosis in 1874. Abandoned by his stepfather, the teen drifted into petty crime before moving to Arizona and getting involved in cattle rustling. 

The saga of Billy the Kid emerged from the debris of the Lincoln County War, a complex and bloody feud that erupted in New Mexico in 1878, pitting the area’s ranchers against the town merchants. Billy fought on the side of the ranchers, who lost the conflict, and was later charged with murdering Lincoln County sheriff William Brady, even though Brady died in a hail of bullets fired by numerous gunmen. Many found it strange that the Kid was the only one tried for the murder, and most agree it was a crooked trial. In fact, the Kid was the only person successfully charged with a crime as a result of the Lincoln County War. 

Lincoln County jail; courtesy wikimedia.org

Billy was eventually captured by Sheriff Pat Garrett and jailed in the town of Mesilla. His trial was held in a building that still stands at 2385 Calle de Guadalupe, and is now called the Billy the Kid Gift Shop. Here, on April 9, 1881, Billy was found guilty of murder and  sentenced to death by hanging. But on April 28, 1881, after being returned to the Lincoln County jail, he escaped custody by slipping out of his handcuffs and shooting two of Garrett’s deputies. A few months later, Garrett tracked down his nemesis and killed him, ambushing Billy at a ranch near Fort Sumner on July 14, 1881.

Pat Garrett; courtesy wikimedia.org

Ironically, Billy the Kid was not a well-known figure during his life. He was catapulted to legendary status after his death by the publication of a rash of dime-store novels and Pat Garrett’s own sensational book, The Authentic Life of Billy the Kid: The Noted Desperado of the Southwest, Whose Deeds of Daring and Blood Have Made His Name a Terror in New Mexico, Arizona, and Northern New Mexico by Pat F. Garrett, Sheriff of Lincoln County, N. Mex. By whom He was Finally Hunted Down and Captured by Killing Him.

His legend got another boost in 1926, when author Walter N. Burns published his bestselling novel The Saga of Billy the Kid, heralding the rebirth of the boy as America’s own Robin Hood. Adding further weight to the renaissance was the emergence of several old men claiming to be the real Kid, having survived Garrett’s bullets. The controversy would ultimately result in a 2004 court battle to exhume the remains of Billy and his mother to extract DNA to compare with that taken from the corpses of two of the men who purported to be Billy. This challenge was successfully opposed by the mayors of Fort Sumner and Silver City, who realized that the result had the potential to dry up a major source of tourism revenue.

Maybe the Kid can now finally rest in peace, wherever he is buried.

(Lead image by Shanissinha; flickr.com)

by Brady Clarke

I turn on the boat’s VHF radio and tune in to the latest marine forecast. Last night the buoys were showing a significant, long-period swell, with the winds predicted to blow offshore at our “secret” reef break up the B.C. coast. But things change fast out on the Pacific northwest of Tofino, with big tides, unpredictable wind shifts and quick swell changes. The first few hours beyond the sandbars, kelp beds and rocks littering the inner waters of Clayoquot Sound are in sheltered seas, but the last third of our trek is an exposed, open-ocean sprint up an isolated stretch of coastline. Fortunately the forecast still looks good.

courtesy Kerry Banks

We weave around the commercial crab traps spread over every sandbar in the sound, before slipping between a barely submerged rock on the portside and two feet of water over a sandbar on the starboard. There’s just enough room to squeeze through, but I have to trust the landmarks to navigate rather than the GPS that can be up to three metres off. Even after hundreds of passes through this shortcut, I still hold my breath at the crucial moment.

“I wouldn’t be the first, or the last, to hit this unnamed rock that has claimed more propellers than I care to count.”

Rounding the point, we’re then met head on with gale force winds. It’s going to be a rough ride from here on. Still, we’re happy: the wind is directly offshore at the reef break we’re heading to. We cut the engine to put on the cruiser suits that serve as life preservers and element protectors, then slog into the one-metre chop with a rolling swell underneath.

The boat-in route isn’t the only option when surfing this coast, but other than being dropped off by seaplane, camping and waiting for the weather to be clear enough for a pickup, it’s the only way to access the quality surf up-island. Unlike the user-friendly beach breaks off Tofino, however, surfing these wilderness waves can have serious consequences. One mistake could be our last. The combination of isolation, wild Pacific weather and hypothermia-inducing cold make surfing here a balance between calculated risk and outright luck. There are many stories of close calls: overturned boats, engine failure, anchors dislodging and boats drifting out to sea.

courtesy Kerry Banks

The few surfers who have the knowledge, resources and cojones to surf up here are a relatively close-knit crew who, on occasion, have saved each others’ lives. Finding the gems – the high-quality surfable waves on a coast this jagged – is next to impossible without someone in the know passing along the coveted coordinates and landmarks. Those secrets are then held close, even within a community where most know one another.  A few Luckys at the pub won’t unlock the vault. And without intimate knowledge of this coast, its coveted waves elude even the most persistent searches. Even with the exact locales highlighted on the chart and flagged on the GPS, the conditions needed to produce both good surf and safe-enough boating conditions are rare.

We pound our way up the coast, rattling every bone in our bodies the whole way. Just when our kidneys have had enough, we spot big white plumes of spray blowing perfectly shaped overhead waves. There’s already another boat anchored in the channel, where we slowly cruise up to the break and set the anchor. I tie the stern line to a strong piece of bull kelp, then wait for a couple of sets with long, long lulls between, to ensure the anchor is holding. If we lose our boat out here we’re done for. While we wait, I pull on a five-mm wetsuit, boots and gloves.

Finally, there’s just the surf to contend with: serious, unhindered, powerful waves that rise abruptly from deep water and explode on shallow rock shelves. We jump over the gunwale and start paddling toward a perfect set of waves, the racing thoughts of how far we are from help inevitable.

“I calculate the time needed to get within VHF radio range, never mind the distance to the nearest hospital. Wave selection becomes critical.  Each drop is a heart-in-throat leap of faith.”

courtesy Kerry Banks

We paddle into the lineup as the two other surfers start the long paddle to their boat. The anticipation builds. A lump shows on the horizon – an approaching set. I’m too far inside, so I paddle hard for the outside. This is easily the biggest set we’ve seen. My pulse quickens, my heart drops. I’m in the worst possible place. I redouble my efforts, taking long, deep, efficient strokes in a race to the edge of the reef. If I make it before the wave I’ll be home free. If not I’ll be pinned to the rocks and will take the rest of the set on the head.

The wave touches bottom and rises, the lip feathering, pitching out toward shore, millions of tiny droplets suspended momentarily, then blown seaward by the offshore winds. I’ve lost the race. The wave trips over itself. Suddenly it’s bearing down on me with menace. I grip the rails of my board as tightly as I can, push my knee into the deck and sink it as deep as it will go, then begin a valiant but hopeless duck dive. Looking up into the guts of the wave about to obliterate me, I’m oddly mesmerized by its beauty. I take a deep breath and brace myself.

“The lip explodes right in front of my face. For a moment there is nothing but whiteness and the sensation of being struck by a freight train, followed by chaos. I’m somersaulting and cartwheeling, limbs akimbo.”

I cover my head. My shoulder slams into the reef, then my knee. Water rushes above me and I’m pinned to the rocks. I know not to fight it, there’s no point. The air in my lungs burns. Each second is an eternity. Finally the violence above me subsides. I kick off the reef toward the surface, now a frothy, boiling cauldron of whitewater.

So why take such risks? Because there is no way to describe what it’s like to sit 45 metres off a reef, miles and miles from even the remotest community, absolute wilderness in every direction – no evidence that the world has been touched by the hand of man. No tourists, no towns, no traffic, no houses, no power lines – hell, not even a fishing trawler puttering back to the shelter of Tofino, just me and my friends sharing perfect waves alone. Surfing becomes something else entirely – a life-altering adventure far removed from the Waikiki and southern California scene. Self-reliance is a necessity; knowledge, skill and experience far more valuable than getting more waves at the local beach. The thousands of hours, the years, spent bobbing in the sea, the money spent on gear, the jobs and relationships sacrificed, all seem worthwhile – even necessary – to snatch these fleeting moments out here in the wilderness, in the surf.

courtesy Kerry Banks

With a nod toward the channel, we start our own long paddle back to the boat. Near the anchorage, the kelp beds thicken, making paddling all the more difficult. The bull kelp grabs at our legs and leashes – it feels as if we’re paddling in porridge. Three hours in the water, and we’re exhausted, cold and hungry. Thankfully the anchor has held, despite the strong ebb tide. I undo my leash and gently place my board in the boat, leaving barely enough energy to haul myself back over the gunwale. We de-suit and pull on dry, warm clothes and cruiser suits. My hands are numb, even with the five-mm wetsuit gloves I’ve been wearing, but I manage to turn the key and the outboard comes to life. We breathe a small sigh of relief. The campsite and protected anchorage is still half an hour away and the seas are building and the wind is rising. If all goes well, we’ll be able to set up camp before dark. We cruise without speaking, with only the drone of the outboard and the slap of the boat as it falls into each wave’s trough to disrupt the silence. After what feels like an eternity, we pull into a sheltered bay with a rocky cobblestone beach that drops off abruptly. Cold, damp wetsuits are put back on; dry bags are packed and unloaded, and all of the camp gear paddled to shore. After a brief scouting of the campsite, we pitch tents and hang the food in a nearby spruce. We’ll probably have a few late-night visits from black bears, and we don’t want them eating our supplies. It’s also not uncommon to wake and find wolf prints around the tent. Thankfully, when we’re out here, we’re usually too exhausted to lose too much sleep over the wildlife.

We hang wetsuits over some driftwood; there’s not enough light left in the day for them to dry, but with any luck they won’t be frosty in the morning. I quickly turn on the handheld VHF radio to check the battery and listen to the marine forecast. It sounds as if tomorrow should be as good as today. I’m sure to double-check that I’ve turned it off. The radio is our only connection to safety and help should we need it.

We get a good fire going – even in this coastal rainforest environment, the driftwood burns well. We heat up the salmon caught earlier and wash it down with cold beer. The sun dips below the horizon somewhere out over the vast Pacific, and suddenly the sky turns on the night lights. There are more stars out here than I remember seeing. A couple of steps into the forest, though, and I’m surrounded by absolute darkness. This is a vast and primordial wilderness and it’s very much alive. There is more biomass here per square foot than anywhere else on earth: gigantic old-growth Sitka spruce, hemlock and western red cedars, the ground spongy, green and alive, not an inch without something growing or decomposing.

“It’s not difficult to imagine we’ve stepped back in time a couple of thousand years.”

courtesy Kerry Banks

Back by the fire, the smoke is blowing offshore – if it keeps up the waves will be perfect tomorrow.  Conversation flows easily as the night grows older. We talk the way surfers do, of travel, waves, love and adventure.  Not much is said about the day, not much is needed. These moments, as brief and as rare as they are, as difficult as they are to obtain, are what it’s all about. They’re the moments we’ll reflect on for the rest of our years.

Photographs: Kerry Banks.

Janice in the forest; courtesy Tom Ryan

Our final day in the East Kootenays begins with a hike through an old-growth forest. Not a difficult hike, mind you. Our guide, Steve Kuijt, operations manager at Island Lake Lodge, assures us it is “a leisurely jaunt.” Of course, Steve is impossibly fit, just like just about everyone on the staff here, most of whom happen to be female. “Fernie mountain girls,” is the way that Tom describes them. “They are a special breed,” he says.

I am still pondering that remark as we ramble into the woods. At least there is not much chance of getting lost. Steve is a certified mountain guide, which means he is proficient in all things involving the outdoors. Apparently it takes anywhere from five to 10 years to complete the program, and mountain guides have to work in several locations to receive their accreditation.

Steve Kuijt; courtesy Tom Ryan

The trail leads through a shadowy world of towering 800-year-old Western Red Cedars. Light filters down through the canopy in celestial shafts and everything smells like has been bathed in air freshener. This pristine forest, which was never logged, has also miraculously escaped the wrath of forest fires. It’s one of the natural gems of the lodge’s 7,000-acre property.

As we plod along, Steve relates some of the local history. Many people, he says, believe this trail was the same one used by the legendary Sam Steele when he came though the area with Division D of the Northwest Mounted Police in 1887. His mission:  to establish the site of what would be the NWMP’s first permanent post west of the Rocky Mountains, and to diffuse tensions between white settlers and the Ktunaxa tribe. Steele, who was front and centre in a number of pivotal historical events in the opening of Canada’s west, including the battle with Big Bear at Saskatchewan’s Loon Lake, and the Klondike Gold Rush, settled the dispute with typical efficiency.

Sam Steele; courtesy wikimedia.org

And what is the evidence that the famous Mountie rode this path? Trees along the trail have been marked with hatchet slashes, and beside one of theses Steve shows us where the name “Steele,” has been carved into the wood.

An hour later, we are back at the lodge. Janice tells Joe and myself that we have a couple of options for the rest of the day. We can join her and Andre on a six-hour hike up into the Lizard Range, or we can stay behind and hang out and have a massage in the spa. Gee, tough choice.

My massage, administered by one of the lodge’s attractive young mountain girls, is very relaxing – so relaxing, in fact, that midway through it I notice that I am drooling. We discuss travel and she tells me, “Wow, iIt sounds like you have a fascinating life.” Afterwards, feeling pretty good about myself, I enyoy lunch on the outdoor patio. Tom drops by to join me.  Joe, however, is nowhere to be found. “He said he had some work to do,” says Tom. “He has to file a story today about his trip.”

“Ah yes, the spectre of the deadline rears it ugly head. I wonder what he’s going to write about?” 

“Probably about how everything out here is not quite as tall as the CN Tower,” says Tom.

Early in the evening I meet up with Janice and André, who have returned from the heavens with sunburned faces. The pair excitedly recount their ascent. The words “steep,” “slippery” and “snow-covered” are mentioned repeatedly. André proclaims it to be “the best day of hiking I’ve ever had.” 

I figured that was the case,” says Janice, “because when we got near the top, he kept stopping, and looking around and saying, “Merde!”

Just as our pre-dinner cocktails are being served, Joe re-surfaces wearing a brown blazer and a blue-and-yellow striped tie.

________________________________________

“Hey, did you get your massage?” I ask him.

“Yeah,” he says. “But to tell you the truth,

it was one of the most difficult things I’ve done.”

____________________________________

“You’ve got to be joking?”

“No, I’m serious. The whole time I was on the table it was like I was on a roller coaster. It felt like I was going to fly over the edge. The masseuse kept saying, “Your body is really tight.”

Tight is right. It sounds like Joe needs 10 massages.

As the conversation veers into the latest methods of avalanche control, Joe suddenly decides that he has to get a picture of the mama moose that everybody else has seen. He gulps down a tumbler of scotch and charges out the door, heading to the lake with his tiny camera. The sun is starting to slip behind the mountains and so Steve scrambles after him.

They return 40 minutes later. Joe proudly proclaims that he not only got a photo of the moose, but also of her young calf. He then goes on to boast that he was the first to spot the wild beasts and not the accredited mountain guide. “I saw them first, right Steve?” he says.

Steve  just smiles.

Part 6

Part 5

Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

(Lead image by qyd; wikimedia.org)

by Jennifer Patterson

The boreal forest stretches out beneath us, broken only by the occasional sinkhole lake, as we leave Fort Simpson and the Mackenzie River behind. The Twin Otter floatplane lifts west, into the sun – still high in the northern sky – and over the Nahanni National Park Reserve, a 4,766-square-kilometre slice of N.W.T. wilderness near the Yukon-B.C. border and the headwaters of the South Nahanni River. Save for the roar of the engine and wind, our group travels in silence. We have waited all day for this flight; some of us have waited our entire lives to raft the South Nahanni – a Canadian Heritage River that moved Pierre Elliot Trudeau to make it a national park reserve in 1976. Two years later, the area became  the first natural region in the world to be designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

We fly over the canyons and karstlands of the Ram Plateau in the Mackenzie Mountains, where every ripple of rock is lit golden in the evening sun. Shafts of sunlight burst through the clouds and we catch our first glimpse of the Nahanni, its Fourth Canyon and – with a collective gasp – Virginia Falls. In The Dangerous River, my grandfather’s 1954 account of his N.W.T. explorations, he  writes about feeling the vibration of the “Falls of the Nahanni” from 20 miles away. One week later, on August 25, 1927, Grandpop snapped the earliest photographs of the then-unnamed falls, accompanied by Minnesota prospector Albert Faille. Now a lifetime, two days and four flights later, my father, brother, sister and I touch down in the heart of the Nahanni wilderness, as our plane scuds to a stop on the wide and silty river near the campsite above Virginia Falls. My heart skips a beat. This is where my family’s love affair with Canada began.

R.M. Patterson, courtesy Albert Faille

It was my brother, Jeremy, who planted the seed of this family expedition – to mark the 80th anniversary of Grandpop’s 1927-to-1929 paddle up the South Nahanni. Soon I was calling my sister, Sam, in Victoria, and urging her to join us. Her only reservation: our easy raft float downriver wouldn’t compare to Grandpop’s adventures navigating rapids in a loaded canoe, surviving sub-zero temperatures and living off the occasional kill of wild game – epic stories he recounted in five books, numerous magazine articles and over Sunday dinners at the Victoria home he shared with our grandmother. Raymond Murray Patterson was one of Canada’s foremost adventure writers. A legendary figure in our family, he also inspired a generation of Canadian adventurers, many of whom to this day attempt to replicate his journeys into the wild. His first book received rave reviews: The New York Herald Tribune described The Dangerous River as “an emotion of the north . . . recorded, it is not too much to say, in a mixture of Thoreau and Jack London.” The New Yorker called it “truly enchanting,” while The New York Times said its modest writing “betrays no indication that Mr. Patterson realizes what a remarkable man he is.”

Day Two: Virginia Falls to Strawberry Island

Nothing beats the Canadian North for bringing diverse groups of people together – my grandfather and Faille 80 years ago and now the Patterson clan: me, the writer, my father, a retired B.C. Supreme Court master, businessman brother Jeremy and architect sister Sam. Then there’s the rest of our 15-member group: Wall Street fund managers Jen and Laura; Corin, an amateur photographer; real estate mogul James and his 14-year-old nephew Jacob; journalist Michael and wife Vivien; guides Rob, Kaj, Jamie and Bhreagh.

Awoken early the next day by the camp bustle, we are anxious to pack up the tents and follow the wooden boardwalk through Jack pines and black spruce to Virginia Falls. The black-and-white photographs I’ve seen in Grandpop’s heavy, leather-bound albums soon come alive in full sound and colour: the Sluice Box Rapids, now a roar of whitewater, and just ahead, Virginia Falls, plunging 92 metres into the river’s Fourth Canyon. And at its base, dwarfed by limestone cliffs: the three sky-blue inflatable rafts that will transport us 200 km downriver over five days. From here, they are the size of jellybeans. My 71-year-old father and I stand for a moment, spellbound. Over the din of the rushing water, I ask how long he has waited for this moment. His eyes are fixed on the river ahead. “Forever,” he responds.

We could spend hours here, but the river waits. We strap bags to backs for the 1.2-km portage to lower ground through rosemary-like Labrador tea, northern starflowers and kinnikinnick. A dirt trail descends in a steep series of switchbacks, where the waters’ gentle mist falls on us like fresh dew. Southerners James and Jacob are already lounging on a log below, dressed in camouflage gear. They will spend the better part of this trip waiting for the rest of us.

courtesy R.M. Patterson

The Nahanni is the stuff of legends – tales of gold and adventure, trappers and prospectors, of the indigenous Nahanni and those European adventurers, my English grandfather included, drawn here in the quest for freedom and fortune. After the Klondike Gold Rush, placer gold was rumoured to have been found up the Flat River, a tributary of the South Nahanni. But men stayed away, fearful of the unforgiving terrain and the numbers of dead or missing that led to tales of “head-hunting Nahanni.” In reality, the string of murders and deaths by starvation, accident or misfortune along the river were more likely the result of gold, greed or poor planning – in the wake of the frenzied and lawless gold rush. Even when Grandpop and Faille set off from Fort Simpson in 1925, their dream of paddling north up the Nahanni was considered pure suicide.

From a rocky launching point on the beach, we don wet-weather gear: sou’westers, Patagonia rain pants, rubber boots and life jackets. Packs loaded and secured in the 18-foot Moravia rafts, we then settle in, five to a craft, a guide at the helm. The dramatic rust-coloured Fourth Canyon is the first of four to come. At their greatest height, these sheer rock faces – which escaped the last ice age – rise steeply to 1,200 metres, then curve into natural amphitheatres of dolomite, limestone and layers of sedimentary rock that rival the Grand Canyon.

In one of the other rafts, Jeremy and Sam swap old jokes, leaving me, the baby of the family, alone with Dad. I feel privileged, keen to experience the river through his eyes as he trades anecdotes about Grandpop and the river with the guides. His face lights up as he sees for the first time the landscape he has until now only heard about. “The cliffs and this marvellous, calm water flowing through here – it’s just extraordinary.” He points to the shore: “That’s the sort of spot where Grandpop would have camped, on that grassy bank, with a place to beach a canoe.” Further downstream is Marengo Creek, which Grandpop named after Napolean’s favourite horse.

But it isn’t long before the clouds roll in. And just a few hours later, at a rocky camp on Strawberry Island, I lie in my tent and listen to the rolling thunder echoing off the canyons and mountains like bursts of gunfire.

Day Three: Strawberry Island to The Gate

A light mist rises off the river as we launch the inflatables and head downstream toward the Figure 8 Rapids, a stretch of whirlpools, boils and eddies that Grandpop and Faille, remarkably, navigated without portaging. High water has since changed these rapids – now categorized as class III-plus in difficulty. But by canoe, says Rob, the Nahanni has always been an incredibly challenging river to run, so “you can imagine what it was like for your grandfather and Faille to canoe upstream. That’s why The Dangerous River is so talked about now, because it would have been tough to paddle up. It’s too deep to pole, and in these canyons there are no beaches for tracking a canoe.”

courtesy R.M. Patterson

Travelling downriver at about 10 klicks, we soon pass the Flat River and the site of Faille’s cabin, where in 1927 Grandpop stopped on his way to the falls. Faille spent decades on the river, prospecting for gold and trapping furs. But large quantities of gold were never found.

We fall into a rhythm: awaken early, breakfast and break camp. The guides buzz about, prepping the rafts for another day on the river and, in a place where time is meaningless and cannot be gauged by the sun’s position in the sky,  preparing meals that provide the day’s structure. Pancakes and sausages one morning, eggs Benedict the next. Lunches are eaten  en route – pita stuffed with tabbouleh or caribou smokies roasted over the fire. Dinners feature smoked arctic char and asparagus soup starters, main courses of pork tenderloin, chicken curry or lamb kebabs on a bed of couscous. Later, we perch on camp stools, sip tea and talk well into the evening as Michael shares stories of life in Africa and the guides tease Jen and Laura about Sex and the City. But always, the focus comes back to the river and Grandpop’s books. Vivien encourages my father to read from The Dangerous River while Michael takes notes. Jamie, the son of bush pilots, who now studies at Oxford, observes, “What’s most compelling about these stories is the legend that was R.M. Patterson himself. He’s a great writer, but he was also out there living life in a really big, amazing way.”

Day Four: The Gate to Headless Creek

Rob and Kaj, courtesy Jennifer Patterson

The rafting life is making some of us restless. Keen to climb mountains in search of Dall’s sheep, eight of us scramble to the top of The Gate, a narrow limestone passage with 460-metre-high walls, for a view of Pulpit Rock and downriver toward Big Bend, a 90-degree hairpin turn in the river. At the summit, Corin snaps photos and a shirtless Jamie salutes the sun in a yoga pose. I study the almost-bonsai twists of stunted trees and tundra plants, brittle reindeer lichen and low-lying shrubs laden with crimson berries, thinking of Grandpop and the “dreamy afternoons” he spent hiking here, where “the river was a distant murmur through the warm scent of pines.”

We soon pass through the foreboding Funeral Range to the Headless Range and Headless Creek, so named for two brothers whose decapitated skeletons were discovered tied to trees here in 1908, or so the legend goes. In 1927, strangers again warned Grandpop against setting out on another expedition: “Men vanish in that country,” one cautioned. “Down the river, they say it’s a damned good country to keep clear of . . . a country lorded over by Wild Mountain Men . . . the river fast and bad.” The MacLeod brothers’ murder was but one of hundreds of dark stories about the Nahanni. From 1908 to 1945, many more men disappeared, starved to death or died here mysteriously.

Fittingly, that evening on a river-rock beach under blue and pink brush strokes of cloud, Dad reads a passage about Willie and Frank MacLeod from The Dangerous River – ghost stories in a haunted valley.

Day Five: Headless Creek to Lafferty Creek

We paddle past Headless Creek and through Deadmen Valley, stopping at Sheaf Creek. We’re looking for the site of the cabin where Grandpop and the English trapper  Gordon Matthews, his companion on his second Nahanni trek, overwintered in 1928-1929. We pull the rafts onto the beach, and while Vivien and Jamie investigate wolf, bear and raptor tracks in the sand, Sam stumbles upon a rusted stovepipe and a conspicuous clearing in the trees. Further upstream is the likely site of the men’s food cache, where foodstuffs and fur pelts were stored on high wooden platforms to deter animals. We examine sunken cabin beams and the remnants of a makeshift stove, fashioned from an old oil drum, with the enthusiasm of amateur archaeologists. Kaj is certain we have found the site, exactly as Grandpop described it, in a clearing in the trees. Dad’s chest puffs with pride as photos are snapped for posterity. Even Rob and the guides make a note of the find for future trips downriver.

We lunch at Dry Canyon Creek, ride the high-standing waves of the Cache Rapids where Matthews almost drowned after falling overboard in 1928 and enter the dramatic First Canyon, its towering limestone walls the highest yet. Later, at our Lafferty Creek camp, Dad reads from Grandpop’s journals, written in the form of a letter home to his mother in England and published posthumously as the Nahanni Journals.

Day Six: Lafferty Creek to The Splits, a.k.a. “Bug Hell Island”

It is the last full day on the river and we slip into swimsuits in preparation for the hot springs ahead. From here on, we’re at the mercy of the infamous mosquitoes of the North; Rob warns us to keep bug shirts at the ready. Soon enough we reach Kraus Hot Springs, greeted by the sulphur stench of rotten eggs. The rocks in the pool overlooking the river are covered in a brown sludge, the water warm and brackish. Kaj slathers his face with mud, a Nahanni tradition, as a light river breeze keeps the bugs at bay.

We camp on what Bhreagh dubs “Bug Hell Island” in The Splits, where the Nahanni widens as it braids and weaves in myriad directions. Bug shirts are the preferred dinner attire, as dragonflies dive-bomb our heads, hunting for insects. We bat the bugs away from one another. But when the hordes reach class-IV-plus we escape to the sanctuary of the tents, diving in and quickly zipping up the fly. But I still count – and kill – more than 60 mosquitoes that have somehow followed us inside.

Day Seven: To Nahanni Butte and Fort Simpson

It is with mixed feelings that we leave the river behind. Jeremy, in particular, is heartbroken that the trip is almost over. And all of us feel humbled by the epic journey made so many years ago by Grandpop, without the security of experienced guides or their gourmet meals. Soon we are returning by plane from Nahanni Butte to Fort Simpson, where roads replace rivers and hot showers, flush toilets and bed linens await. The group scatters, to B&Bs and frontier hotels, with promises to meet up for a last supper at the only restaurant in town. But like Grandpop, after months of sleeping in the open air, I cannot bring myself to stay indoors. Instead I lie in a hammock in the B&B’s garden, reading and rereading passages from his books in an attempt to prolong the euphoria of being on the river. Later, unable to sleep, I lie staring at the ceiling fan, plotting my return – this time for two weeks,
in a canoe.

Getting There Yourself

• THE OPERATOR Nahanni River Adventures/Canadian River Expeditions (1-800-297-6927). Cost: $5,022.20 per person for seven-day expedition.
• GEAR Quick-dry clothes, hiking boots, rain gear, insect repellent. Checklist at nahanni.com.
• TO LEARN MORE The Canadian Parks and Wilderness Society (CPAWS) works to protect the 40,000-square-kilometre Nahanni watershed from mining and to expand the park’s boundaries.
• CRITICAL READING The Dangerous River: Adventure on the Nahanni by R.M. Patterson (TouchWood Editions, 2009; $19.95); Nahanni Journals: R.M. Patterson’s 1927-1929 Journals/ed. Richard C. Davis (University of Alberta Press, 2008; $29.95).
• ON SCREEN Nahanni (1962), a short National Film Board classic, following Albert Faille upriver to Virginia Falls. nfb.ca/film/Nahanni l

Lead image courtesy Jennifer Patterson

by  Andrew Findlay

Ian McAllister and I  drop anchor and lower the Zodiac, then aim for where a tea-coloured torrent spills into the azure waters of the bay. Misty drizzle falls from a sky as grey as the granite ramparts looming above the inlet. Ancient red cedars, like foreboding old men, exchange whispers of wind. As we nudge ashore on alluvial flats and tether the dinghy to a chunk of driftwood, that avian trickster of First Nations legend, the raven, squawks disapprovingly from a nearby cedar-snag perch. We are the only humans at the head of this forgotten inlet in B.C.’s Fiordland Conservancy. But the vast coastal wilderness hums with life, and it’s here we’ll begin our search for that most elusive of wild creatures, the wolf.

courtesy Ian McAllister/pacificwild.org

Our gumboots make loud sucking sounds in the mud along the shoreline, where McAllister, the man Time magazine named one of the “Environmental Leaders for the 21st Century” in the late ’90s, kneels to examine a pugmark – signs of a wolf. But the prints are poorly defined, like smudged pencil markings, suggesting the tide has come and gone since the animal sauntered this way. A few steps further, crammed into a square-foot patch of rich earth: the mingled prints of another wolf and a deer – predator and prey. Clambering up the bank, we enter a field of knee-deep Lyngby’s sedge, cow parsnip and brilliant purple lupines, with a circle of trampled grass where a grizzly has flopped to rest. Bears are opportunistic omnivores that carve chaotic swaths through the estuary as they meander, digging for chocolate lilies and “rice root,” the latter coveted for its starchy bulbs. Wolves are strictly carnivorous and far more economical in their movements, treading purposeful, straight tracks through the grass between rainforest and water’s edge. Two hours slip by. “I’m getting antsy. I haven’t seen wolves for awhile,” says McAllister, his ginger hair damp from the rain, brow creased in lines of concentration – or frustration.

We pause next to the creek, imagining life as a wolf in these wild inlets, where the predator must kill or scavenge daily to survive, armed only with a cunning intellect, speed, agility and jaws that crush with a force of up to 680 kilograms. In a similar spot, McAllister once observed a black-tailed deer grazing within 50 metres of a wolf pack, hidden in the tall grass, that had gone days without a kill. Still, the wolves made no move. Clearly they’d calculated opportunity versus cost and the latter was too high.

I spot movement. “There’s a grizzly!”

McAllister raises his binoculars. “That’s not one grizzly, that’s two, and I think they’re mating.”

I practically tear the binoculars from his hands. Sure enough there are two: a massive boar and a much smaller sow engaged in an unexpected display of spring fever. The bears part and the female walks away, peering coyly at her ursine suitor over a shoulder rippling with muscle. They circle each other in slow, almost choreographed movements, a courtship that continues for a quarter of an hour until the bears suddenly disappear into unseen reaches of the estuary. We too head for the timber, where the acrid smell of carrion drifts on a light breeze, to follow a well-trod wildlife trail running parallel to a stream. McAllister crouches where the path narrows between two tightly spaced hemlocks and pinches a tuft of silver-grey hair – snagged by the rough bark of the trees – between his fingers. We’re travelling a wolf highway. I envision a silent pack of wild canines cantering single file, heading upstream to a den sequestered in the old growth. Walking on, muted light and flickering shadows trick my mind into perceiving movement everywhere. The woods are eerily silent, and I sense why, for many cultures, they represent the dark, the foreboding and the unknown. Somewhere in this wild world, there are wolves.

courtesy Ian McAllister/pacificwild.org

Two days earlier in late June, the two of us had set sail aboard McAllister’s trimaran, Habitat, from Bella Bella on Campbell Island. Ahead of us, a loose eight-day itinerary: to explore and search for wolves among McAllister’s favourite inlets and islands of the Great Bear Rainforest.

An author,  photographer and determined conservationist, the 39-year-old McAllister and his wife Karen have been exploring the B.C. coast for the last two decades, tussling with loggers, government and sport hunters and playing a pioneering role in preserving one of the world’s most ecologically significant temperate rainforests – which 20 years ago was in imminent danger of wholesale industrial logging. The result, his 1997 award-winning work of photojournalism The Great Bear Rainforest: Canada‘s Forgotten Coast, has been credited as the centrepiece for Greenpeace International’s North American forest campaign; Robert Kennedy Jr. wrote the foreword. Yet when he first explored the Great Bear Rainforest, in the early 1990s, McAllister gave little thought to its wolf populations. But that all changed just over a decade ago, when he stumbled across a wolf den, a litter of grey pups bouncing around its entrance, looking confused yet curious. Surprisingly, the adults retreated into the trees and howled anxiously, disturbed by the human intrusion but unwilling to attack.  “If a bear, cougar or any other species had infiltrated a den site it would have been efficiently attacked and likely killed,“ says McAllister. “So the question that immediately came to mind, and that I continue to ponder, is when and where did these wolves learn to not consider humans as prey?” And in the years following, the more he encountered wolves on the coast, the more he was intrigued.

Meanwhile, groundbreaking research by biologists Paul Paquet and Chris Darimont was revealing that the genetic diversity of the grey wolves inhabiting B.C.’s central coast is far greater than that of their interior and northern brethren. So much so that McAllister, along with Darimont and Paquet, became convinced that the wolves are genetically distinct, and that the  biological richness of the temperate rainforest drives this diversity. In a relatively small geographic area, for example, “you can find island-hopping wolf packs eating seals and shellfish, and then just 20 km away,” says McAllister, “another pack subsisting on salmon or tiny sitka deer.”

But something far less tangible than wolf genetics also fascinated McAllister: the fact that B.C.’s coastal canines seem to have no collective memory of the persecution experienced by wolves elsewhere in the province, including indiscriminate shootings by ranchers to protect livestock and by hunters to protect game, as well as government- sanctioned culls aimed at recovering such threatened species as the mountain caribou and Vancouver Island marmot. He read every wolf study he could find, diligently  recorded his own sightings and observations and found inspiration in the writings of author Barry Lopez, who, in Of Wolves and Men, suggests that we know far less about the reality of the wolf and far more about “what we imagine the wolf to be.” And finally, in 2007, after a decade of research, McAllister published his own critically acclaimed work, The Last Wild Wolves.

Yet McAllister’s journey into the world of B.C.’s marine wolves is far from over. Though many environmentalists hailed it as a victory when the provincial government signed its Great Bear Rainforest Agreements in 2006, creating some 55 new land conservancies on the coast, McAllister remains a cautious voice. He believes the agreement falls short of adequately protecting a coastline so rich in biodiversity that American and Canadian philanthropic foundations have directed upward of $60 million toward conservation and sustainable economic opportunities for B.C.’s coastal First Nations. Why? The level of protection afforded wildlife in a conservancy is questionable, he says. Oil supertankers could soon ply the treacherous waters of the Inside Passage. High-grade logging of old-growth cedar continues in valleys and on islands still unprotected. Salmon farms in pristine central coast channels such as Sheep Passage are raising fears of sea-lice infestations among migrating wild salmon smolts. And industrial wind farms are being proposed for wild outer-coast islands that few British Columbians have heard of, but on which McAllister has spent weeks in solitary exploration, where wolves roam windswept beaches, feasting on barnacles and squid.

The diesel engine drones quietly as we leave the bay at dusk and retrace our route back down the inlet, most likely observed by wolves that choose not to be seen by us. McAllister takes the helm and stares fixedly ahead with the air of a man accustomed to spending weeks in the wilds, alone. I go below deck to brew coffee and thumb through sea charts of B.C.’s labyrinthine coast. The persistent, light drizzle  gives way to broken clouds and sunshine, and as the boat chugs slowly up Princess Royal Channel, I can see the trees onshore slipping by. But when we enter McKay Reach, the wind howls down Douglas Channel and wraps around Gribbell Island, transforming the sea from glassy smooth to something rough and recalcitrant. The boat rocks and rolls. Barely an hour later, rounding the northern tip of Princess Royal Island, the ocean is again placid.

The two-way radio crackles. Biologist Janie Wray and partner Hermann Meuter have been studying the whales of Camaaño Sound and recording their sweet voices and subtle communications for the past half-dozen years. Still, Wray’s voice over the radio is full of excitement: humpback whales are feeding near Ashdown Island in Whale Passage. We hurry – as much as is possible in a sailboat with a top motoring speed of six knots per hour – and, 30 minutes later, witness four humpbacks circling languorously, churning the water almost within arm’s reach of Wray’s powerboat. The great mammals exhale – puffs of breath that sound as if they are being forced through a giant snorkel – then dive, their barnacle-encrusted tail flukes slipping silently beneath the surface. Seconds later, one leviathan re-emerges in a burst of bubbling water, great baleen plates exposed, scooping up mouthfuls of krill and other small fish – some of which spill frantically from its jaws. Scientists call this bubble-net feeding: the deft corralling of schools of fish no longer than my baby finger – by a mammal that weighs more than 35 tonnes. It is astonishing to behold.

An hour later we are bucking the tide north up Principe Channel, flanked by two huge, uninhabited isles. Banks Island, to the west, is a brooding expanse of low, rounded hills and weathered trees contorted into bonsai. To the east rise the rugged snowy mountains of Pitt Island, a topography reminiscent of the mainland Coast Range.

“Check this out!” shouts McAllister, pointing off the Habitat’s bow. Killer whales are approaching from the north, a pod of seven led by a massive bull, its elegant dorsal fin proudly protruding two metres above the water line. The pod nears the boat, then divides, and three whales pass rapidly on the portside, four on the starboard, like commuters on a water highway – in pursuit of salmon, perhaps. These “wolves of the sea” are as adept at hunting beneath the waves as wolves are on land.

Two days later, we anchor in a secluded bay near the Tsimshian settlement of Kitkatla. Again the sky is a steely grey, the tide low, the scent of the sea pungent. On shore: a few decaying wooden houses that, along with some rusting farm implements, trucks and a system of dykes, are all that remain of one homesteader’s 1970s utopia.

McAllister is anxious to be ashore in this place where he has spotted wolves many times. Soon we are balancing on stones covered in rockweed, which pops underfoot like bubble wrap, then shadowing a crystalline stream deep into the rainforest past groves of centuries-old trees, their branches laden with witch’s hair and wolf lichen. Canine prints are everywhere; wolves have recently splashed across the stream bed and padded along its silky sandbars. Fresh scat containing bones marks a trail through shin-deep moss of an almost luminescent green. The forest is as peaceful as a monastery, yet I am convinced we are being watched. We lose track of time, until the fading light reminds us that evening is approaching and we are compelled to turn back. Reluctantly, I again resign myself to not seeing a wolf this day, though we have sensed their presence as viscerally as a salmon senses its natal river.

The next morning, the last of our journey, the sun warms the deck where I lie sprawled against the wheelhouse, savouring a coffee. McAllister picks up the binoculars and scans the tidal flats around the bay, then sets them down on the deck. A minute later, alerted by the croak of a raven, he scopes the bay again with keen eyes.

“I see a wolf – a female I think.” He points to a narrow isthmus of sand between brackish pools less than a half-kilometre distant.

It takes a few seconds to locate the  wild  wolf through the binoculars. Without movement she would be perfectly camouflaged against the palette of rocks and sand. She is smaller than the average domestic husky, and lean. Her coat – save for a patch of dark grey on each haunch and an artful white stripe down her nose – is a uniform tan colour, with the healthy sheen of an animal that has only recently shed its winter pelage. I hold my breath as she trots along the beach, charcoal snout pointed our way, until she plops down on a sandy flat. She stays there for half an hour, basking in the sun and observing us with canine curiosity. Then, as unexpectedly as she arrived, she saunters back toward the head of the bay and vanishes ghostlike into the darkness of the forest.

Getting There Yourself:

• Pick a reputable tour operator (all have been given the thumbs up by Ian McAllister):

Ocean Adventures
Maple Leaf Adventures
Mothership Adventures
Ocean Light II Adventures
Great Bear Adventure Tours
Bluewater Adventures
Tide Rip Grizzly Tours
Northern Lights Expeditions

• GEAR Check the above operator websites for requirements.
• UPDATES on Great Bear Rainforest conservation efforts: savethe greatbear.org; raincoast.org; pacificwild.org
• TO LEARN MORE about B.C.’s rainforest wolves and how to protect them: pacificwild.org
• CRITICAL READING The Last Wild Wolves: Ghosts of the Great Bear Rainforest (Greystone Books, 2007; $40/softcover 2009; $29.95);  The Great Bear Rainforest: Canada’s Forgotten Coast (Harbour Publishing, 1997; $40); The Wolf Almanac, by Robert H. Busch (Lyons Press, 2007; $19.95).
• ON SCREEN The BBC video Earth’s Great Events: The Great Salmon Run; National  Geographic’s Last Stand of the Great Bear and Search for the Coast Wolf; Ian McAllister’s “The Last Wild Wolves” video series on YouTube.

Lead image courtesy Ian McAllister/pacificwild.org

It is late afternoon when we arrive in Fernie, and the town’s brick buildings are bathed in a soft, golden glow. It is the perfect evening to see the Ghostrider. Many of B.C.’s frontier towns have legends attached to them, but none are more colourful than the “Fernie Curse.”

The tale begins with mining magnate William Fernie, the town’s founder. During one of his prospecting trips in the area, Fernie met a tribe of First Nations people, and  noticed that one of the chief’s daughters was wearing a necklace of shiny black stones. Knowing these stones were coal, Fernie asked about their source. The chief agreed to show Fernie where the stones had been found, with the condition that the prospector marry the princess. But, after learning the location of the coal deposits, Fernie reneged on the deal. The angry chief responded by putting a curse on the valley, saying it would suffer from fire, flood and famine. In April 1904, fire reduced Fernie’s wooden commercial district to smouldering rubble. Four years later, a second fire gutted the entire city. In 1916, more damage was done when the Elk River overflowed and flooded large sections of town. The near-famine conditions of the Great Depression made residents believe the curse would never end.

courtesy library; flickr.com

That’s the way the situation remained until August 15, 1964, when members of the Kootenay tribe, led by Chief Ambrose Gravelle (Red Eagle), assembled in Fernie for the ceremonial lifting of the curse. Mayor James White made amends for the wrong done by William Fernie by smoking the “pipe of peace” with Chief Red Eagle.

Though the curse has now been banished, the memory lingers. On sunny summer evenings a spectacular shadow appears on a rock-face high above the city that shows the form of the jilted princess sitting on a horse with her father, the chief, who is walking beside her. They call it the Ghostrider.

Fernie: Coolest Town in North America – According to Rolling Stone magazine

Today, of course, Fernie is more popularly known as a mecca for skiers, snowboarders, hikers and mountain bikers, and tourism is on the rise – thanks in part to some glowing media coverage. Rolling Stone magazine have dubbed Fernie the “Coolest Town in North America” and Outside magazine ranked it among its “Top 20 Dream Towns,” two points noted by British Columbia magazine when it did a 2006 cover story on the town, entitled “Coolest Fernie.” However, my first impression is that this is one of the sleepiest places I have ever been to. The downtown sidewalks are deserted and it’s so quiet you can hear yourself think. All that’s missing is a dog asleep in the middle of the main street. I dunno, maybe you have to see it in winter.

Joe finds a store that is actually open – a head shop – and begins interviewing the owner, an attractive woman who came here from somewhere else, which seems to be the secret to Joe’s heart. I wander off and end up in a saloon where I drink a beer and watch dust motes drifting in the air.

courtesy patrick 444; wikimedia.org

National Geographic Traveler 2009 Pick: Island Lake Lodge

A 10-kilometre drive up into the mountains gets us to Island Lake Lodge. Situated at the 1,400-metre level, the remote setting packs a visual punch: green-roofed wooden chalets dwarfed by the towering, grey mountains of the Lizard Range, and everywhere you look ramrod straight evergreens rising up out of a blanket of emerald green. There is a beautiful lake in front of the lodge, bald eagles circling overhead and jackrabbits in the parking lot. The air feels like it is composed of pure oxygen.

The lodge www.islandlakeresorts.com/ is famed for its powder snow and cat-skiing operations, but its summer pleasures – fine dining, fishing, hiking and a full spa – are also attracting a following. Recently, the travel magazine National Geographic Traveler published its “Stay List 2009 Guide,” an elite list of 129 hotels around the globe with a transcendent vision that goes beyond traditional hotel-keeping. Island Lake Lodge was one of only 13 Canadian hotels included on the list.

We have dinner on the lodge balcony. Head chef Kelly Attwells recommends the steak. He can personally vouch for the beef, because he bought it at auction. He means he bought the entire cow. “Her name is Midnight,” says Atwells. Hearing that, Janice decides to pass on the steak. She doesn’t want to eat anything that she knows the name of.

courtesy Tom Ryan

During dinner we learn that the area boasts one of the largest concentrations of grizzlies in the province. There is plenty of other wildlife as well. At the head of the trail that leads down to the lake a blackboard lists the latest animal sightings. Today the board reads, “Moose, bear, cougar spotted this week. Make noise on the trails! Keep dogs on leash.” The moose, a 1,000-pound female, is a local celebrity. Every year or two, she swims out to the little island on the lake and gives birth. She stays there until the calf is ready to get around on its own. Apparently, the cow has already has already had her baby this year.

Midnight is delicious and the wine is first-rate. It should be, considering that the lodge has 3,000 bottles in its wine library, ranging from $40 to $600 a bottle. Even so, I’m not sure how Joe can enjoy his. Beside the vino, he also has a glass of coca-cola, a beer and a scotch in front of him. And his foul-smelling cigars are back.

I stare out across the valley at the Lizard Range and its three most prominent peaks, popularly known as “the Three Bears.” A thought comes to mind. “Hey Joe,” I say, “standing out there are the three bears: Papa, Mama and Baby Bear. Which one are you?”

“Bears?” he says. “I don’t see any bears.”

(To be continued …)

Part 5

Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

Lead image by Island Lake Resorts

The empire’s last outpost stars staggering views, cute monkeys and dismal nightlife.

A symphony of sounds awaits you as Lonely Planet authors Verity Campbell and Virginia Maxwell take you on a wander through Istanbul.

How to get there and why you should venture beyond the Old City for legendary temples, the best massage and DIY BBQ.

Rob Crossan is in Tristan da Cunha, recording the intriguing sounds and voices of the world’s most remote island.

Viva What Vegas? Not content with blackjack and yards of margaritas, Janet and Jane go off-strip to discover The Other Vegas.

Listen to the magical mayhem of Galicia where markets hum, bagpipes skirl and oysters are shucked like castanets. Ben Curtis tours a market describing the sights & sounds of the journey.

courtesy chiloa; wikimedia.org

We are motoring south on Highway 95 and Tom is telling us that he once worked for Pierre Trudeau. “I used to have to get him a red rose for his lapel every day,” says Tom. I can’t say that I am buying this story, but I nod like I am. Joe, who is evidently not a Trudeau fan, mentions the one-finger salute that the prime minister gave to protesting strikers from his train car in Salmon Arm. ”Yes, but less widely remembered is that the protestors were shouting anti-French slogans at the train,” I note. “Still, all in all, another heart-warming piece of Canadiana.”

Continuing the Canadiana theme, at Joe’s urging we pull into a Tim Horton’s.  He returns a few minutes later carrying a coffee and a bag of donuts. “They don’t move like they do in Toronto,” he says, between mouthfuls.

Back on the road, Tom tells us about a recurring dream he has been having in which he is dating the Queen of England. “This is the queen as she looked in the 1950s,” he quickly points out. At any rate, Tom is waiting for the queen in his car. She gets in and says, “Tom, I can’t take it anymore. I want to leave the palace and hang out with you.”

But Tom replies stoically: “No Liz, you’re the queen and I’m just a little guy. It would never work out.”

None of us know quite what to make of this. I offer some helpful advice. “You know Tom, they say that all the characters in your dreams are parts of your own personality. Maybe you want to be the Queen, or maybe a queen.”

Any further probing of Tom’s subconscious is abandoned when Joe poses a football trivia question. “Which NFL player was Howard Cosell referring to on Monday Night Football when he said, “Look at that little monkey run.” Joe is disappointed that I know the answer. Cosell was referring to Washington Redskins receiver Alvin Garrett, who was black. That controversial 1983 remark ultimately caused Cosell to leave Monday Night Football a few months later.

Why Howard Cosell’s name has popped into Joe’s mind in the midst of the B.C. Kootenays is a mystery, but it provokes a round of sports trivia that causes Janice to groan in frustration. Tom laughs at her discomfort. “This isn’t turning out be much fun for you is it Janice?”

courtesy Hollylewi; wikimedia.org

Flanked by 3,000-metre snow-capped peaks, we roll through the Columbia Wetlands. Considered the last intact portion of the Pacific flyway, the 27,000-hectare expanse was designated a wetland of international importance in 2005. In spring and fall, the area attracts up to 60,000 mallards, 20,000 northern pintails, 10,000 swans, 15,000 sandhill cranes and 50,000 Canada geese.

We pull over to admire the panorama of the glittering green floodplain and get into a conversation with an aboriginal woman. She is wearing pigtails, a straw cowboy hat, a grey T-shirt, baggy, checkered purple shorts and pink Crocs. She is here trying to find some friends who are re-creating explorer David Thompson’s exploration of the region by canoe in the early 1800s. “They have one token white guy to play David Thompson,” she says. “He should be easy to spot.” She shakes her head and chuckles, “That David Thompson, he wouldn’t know where he was going. He would have had to ask his squaw wife.”

A bit of revisionist history? Well, Thompson was married to a Métis woman named Charlotte Small, and she did accompany him on some of his expeditions. Their marriage lasted 58 years, the longest Canadian pre-Confederation marriage known, and they had 13 children together, so this was definitely no summer fling. Still, during his many years of surveying, the man the Natives called “the Stargazer” mapped more than 3.9 million square kilometres of North America, so I’m guessing he must have had some sense of direction. Unfortunately, Canada’s greatest geographer died blind, penniless and in virtual obscurity in 1857 in Montreal.

Our final destination today is Island Lake Lodge near Fernie, but we have time to make a few stops along the way. The first is Radium Hot Springs. I’m not sure that naming your town after a radioactive element was a wise business decision, but the springs are popular. There are two large pools, one with hot water for soaking (usually around 39°C), the other a two-thirds-size Olympic swimming pool that is kept at about 29°C. There is also a hot-tub sized pool that has been dubbed the “Plunge Pool,” because the water can be hot – right from the source at 44°C – or cold, right from a creek running beneath the pools.

After we enter the complex, Joe pulls out his tape recorder, approaches one of the employees and says, “Well, the first question I have to ask is how many people have you saved?”

While he asks his questions, I wander off to check out a tourist shop that looks like it has been preserved in amber since the 1960s. Feeling nostalgic for the family road trips of my youth, I buy myself an Eskimo Pie.

Later, we stop for lunch in Invermere, which is also known as Calgary’s “Whistler.” The permanent population of the town is only 4,000, but on summer weekends it swells to 40,000. This may be why it takes us about an hour to be served lunch. Joe doesn’t appear to mind. Excited by the fact that so many of the people working in these parts are from southern Ontario, he is now interviewng everything that moves.

Hit man? courtesy Riley Banks

After eating, André and I don our sunglasses and walk off to explore, eventually ending up gazing at a statue of David and Charlotte Thompson. When we come back, Tom says, “Geezuz, everyone is staring at you guys. You look like a couple of hit men.” I’m wearing a green sports jacket, a black shirt and black slacks, while André is clad in a black track suit. I guess it doesn’t take much to stand out in Invermere.

(To be continued …)

Part 4

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

Lead image by sallylondon; flickr.com

So after a two-year hiatus,  I felt like it was about time for a visit, so I peeled myself off the couch and my eyes from the computer screen, and headed back to the buzz. It was Saturday and Robson was in full swing: jam packed with slow-moving tourists, giggly teenage girls taking Facebook pictures of themselves and muscled meat heads honking at skimpily dressed 20-somethings from their gas-guzzling SUVs.

The first place that caught my eye was The Candy Aisle. This brightly coloured sugar palace is childishly fun. I explored the shelves and shelves of gummy animal-shaped treats and those red ones shaped like lips and big feet. Yum. It really takes you back to your childhood, then reminds you of that trip to the dentist when they took that little screaming drill to your back molars… Ick. It was worth it? Right? Maybe not, but at least now you are a grown up now and can set alarms on your iPhone to remind you to brush your teeth.

Bang-On

Next, I trekked over to the massive disaster that is Granville Street. What a mess! It’s a minefield of rubble, wires, cement and construction debris. Next time I’ll wear boots and not flip flops. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Bang-On, an eclectic, retro, custom T-shirt shop packed to the rafters with funky tees, accessories and the friendliest store employees around. You can spend hours perusing Bang-On’s collection of rockin’ retro prints and picking the perfect tee to complement the print. There are also fabulous sunglasses, belts, caps and a very nerdy collection of vintage electronics. I may have swooned when I spotted a Commodore 64 in the middle of the store.

El Kartel

A few blocks down from Bang-On I found another cool clothing store, El Kartel. This hot spot isw definitely funky, perhaps a bit too funky for me and my wallet, but their 50 per cent-off sale rack had a few pieces I could manage, though maybe not the small, gold, sequined halter top I tried to squeeze myself into. Luckily, there was a DJ spinning hip hop beats, so no one heard my profanities when the zipper jammed and  I got stuck in said small, gold, sequined halter top.

Cupcakes

After wrestling with possessed halter tops, I was feeling bit peckish. My hunger radar lead me directly to the new Cupcakes shop on Robson and Thurlow. If you haven’t tried these delicious $3 bites of heaven yet, you haven’t lived! Diet Smiet, these are worth a few extra bulges in your bikini bottoms. Just suck it in, no one will know

I was almost done savouring my last bite of  the pink and sprinkled “Sweet 16″ cupcake, when I ran into a mob of Japanese exchange students taking pictures of their new monkey balloon hats. In front of me was a very happy Balloon Man (Robson and Bute), blowing up a dozen heart-shaped balloons and counting the stack of $20s in his hands. I’m not sure if he’s there every day, but if you see a large, slightly smug, balloon Elmo, poking his head above the crowd, you’ll you’ve struck gold.

Balloon Man

Candy, cupcakes, funky tees, DJs and balloon animals? Maybe Robson isn’t so bad… I’ll definitely come back for a gander and some sugary snacks this summer!

• the cover shot for BCAA’s 2010 Calendar
• featured in Westworld magazine (Winter 2009 edition)

You can make the thumbnails below larger by clicking, plus you can move through each shot using the arrows in the bottom corners of the photograph. Once you have decided Click here to cast your vote! and leave a comment below explaining why you liked it.

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courtesy Tom Ryan

Twin Falls is a sweet piece of eye candy: water spilling through two grooved chutes at the top of the chasm, falling through air, then merging into the same flow farther down, before crashing over the rocks and becoming a frothing cauldron. There is a bench that offers a head-on view of the show, so I sit down and soak it all in. Tom hauls out his camera and snaps some shots, including one of the three muskeeters.

Within seconds, a golden-mantled ground squirrel appears and stands on his hind legs peering up at me. I suppose he figures this is his turf and he is looking for an admission fee. Feeling rather good about having survived the hellish hike to Twin Falls, I open up my pack. ”Do you like pretzels, little guy?” Turns out he does. He takes one of the salted snacks and begins munching away, holding it aloft in his paws like a steering wheel. To complete the picture, he even has a pair of snazzy racing stripes.

courtesy damclean; flickr.com

Since our rodent pal is eating, we decide to follow his example, devouring the lunches that the lodge packed for us. The spray from the falls is having a soothing effect and I am starting to feel very relaxed. Janice, however, is disappointed that the tea house isn’t open. Yes, out here in the middle of nowhere there is a tea house that serves scones with jam. It’s a national historic site, built in stages by the CPR, beginning around 1908 with a one-storey cabin for patrons taking backcountry tours. In 1923, the company added a two-storey log structure to create a larger and more attractive chalet. A woman named Fran Drummond has owned and operated the place since 1964. Constructed from local spruce, the chalet now houses a main-floor kitchen and eating area with bedrooms on the second floor. The menu includes a selection of soups, sandwiches and desserts, which are served daily during the summer months.

Denied her chance at high tea, Janice decides that that we should start back. Man, the girl just can’t keep still. But the phrase “start back” comes as a jolt. It is an unpleasant reminder that we have only reached the midway point of our circular 17-kilometre hike. Janice also mentions that we will be taking a different return route.

My thinking is that this trail has to be much easier since we will now be descending. Once more I am proven wrong. Ten minutes into the return hike, things are already looking grim. There is no trail. Instead, we must traverse a moonscape of huge, jagged boulders on an upward diagonal. Why “up” I don’t know, but we are climbing again, and once again trying to keep pace with the long, machine-like strides of Janice and André.

This time, however, the pair lose interest in stopping to let us catch up. They vanish over the ridge, leaving Tom to deal with the stragglers. ”Would you take a cripple up these rocks?” asks Joe, a reference to Tom’s earlier anecdote about the Filipina journalist. The moraine is unforgiving stuff and it is not long before Joe, despite his trusty walking stick, begins to complain. He says that he has a bum leg and doesn’t think he is going to be able to make it.

courtesy Tom Ryan

Since we’re not equipped to camp, I wonder how feasible it might be to get a helicopter in here for an evacuation. Would the Toronto Sun foot the bill for that? Tom calmly urges Joe to continue, promising that this nasty section of rubble ends shortly, while steering the conversation away from the current situation. He also begins offering Joe pretzels as a reward for completing each new stretch of terrain. The pretzels work their magic and Joe, his lily-white knees glowing like headlamps in the afternoon sun, makes it through the moraine.

From there we descend through the forest, where I quickly remember that descending is no easier than climbing. I start gobbling ibuprofen tablets, but by the time we finallly make it back to the car my legs still feel like someone has been pounding on them with ball-pen hammers. Janice asks everyone what they thought was the highlight of the hike. I spoil a unanimous vote for Twin Falls by stating that I liked Takakkaw Falls best. “Of course, we saw that in the first five minutes,” I point out.

We dine that evening at Cilantro at Emerald Lake Lodge, overlooking the lake of the same name. The upscale resort attracts a large international clientele and, judging by the fleet of red canoes tied up at the dock, a healthy contingent of Japanese tourists. The restaurant’s location is stunning and everyone’s mood is upbeat. Even silent André has started talking, his tongue loosened by several glasses of fine Okanagan red.

Joe has made a miraculous recovery from his ordeal in the Yoho Valley, either that, or the experience has tipped his mind over the edge. He is still carrying his walking stick and he goes around the tables with it, chatting openly to total strangers. “I almost died today,” I hear him tell one couple in a happy voice. “I hiked for 55 kilometres.”

I must admit, the guy has a writer’s instincts. Never let the truth get in the way of a good story.

(To be continued …)

Part 5

Part 3

Part 2

Part 1

Takakkaw Falls, courtesy Xevi V; flickr.com

We are trudging up a forest trail somewhere in the Yoho Valley, just west of the Continental Divide. I am sweating buckets and gasping for air. We are on the hike that Tom and Janice earlier described as “pretty easy.” I now know that these two can’t be trusted. The lone consolation, and it isn’t much, is that Joe is having an even tougher time of it than me.

The hike might not be so bad if we didn’t have to keep up with the maniacal pace that Janice and André are setting. The duo appears to be competing to see who is fitter. As for Tom, a former college track athlete, he comes and goes, merrily firing off wisecracks and taking pictures along the way, and, hopefully, keeping watch for bears.

“Bears?” Joe repeats loudly when informed that some had been spotted recently in these parts. He seems genuinely astonished to learn that bears inhabit the wilds of B.C. I suppose he figured the big fellows only show up to beg for sandwiches along the roadside, like you see in the postcards. At any rate, the struggle to keep within eyeshot of the two marching metronomes has made it too difficult for him to talk, which is a blessing. But then again if he had enough wind to converse, we would have less reason to worry about bears. The booming sound of his voice would have sent them scurrying.

Admittedly, the trail started out promising enough– the first kilometre of it was paved. The route took us past thundering Takakkaw Falls, a long, narrow, horsetail-shaped slice of glacial melt water that makes a spectacular plunge down a narrow channel fed by the Daly Glacier. Takakkaw Falls has a height of 384 metres and a vertical drop of 254 metres, making it Canada’s second-highest waterfall after Della Falls at Della Lake, B.C., which has a vertical drop of 440 metres. In comparison, Niagara’s famed Horseshoe Falls drops a pitiful 57 metres, though it has a much greater volume of water.

The sight of Takakkaw Falls was certainly uplifting, but what I didn’t realize then was that “up” was going to be the operative word for the day. The trail we are on does nothing but climb. This might be fine if you run a few miles every day, not so good if you job keeps you chained to a desk. Thankfully, there is some beautiful scenery enroute to relieve the pain. The water at Laughing Falls, for example, was an amazing milky green colour. Even knowing that the hue is caused by silt deposits carried down from the glaciers didn’t detract from its magic.   

Our destination is yet another waterfall-–117-metre high Twin Falls. The view, according to Tom, is supposed to make the hard slog worth it, but then this is the guy who called this a “pretty easy hike.” Meanwhile, the sight of all this dazzling, glacier-fed water has stirred up a fresh obsession in Joe. He desperately wants to stick his feet in B.C. mountain water. “How cold will it be?” he asks. “Will I be able to stand it?”

“It will be this cold,” says Tom, making a tiny circle with his thumb and forefinger.

Kicking Horse River, courtesy Feffef; flickr.com

Another kilometre on, we cross a babbling creek and Joe indulges his wish, taking off his shoes and socks and jumping in. He then bends down and begins happily slurping handfuls of the stuff into his mouth. When Tom, who has paused to take some shots of a trio of pretty female hikers, catches up with us and spots Joe in the water, he says, “OK. Just tell me that you didn’t?”

“Didn’t what,” asks Joe.

“Didn’t take a drink.”

“Yeah, I did. Why?”

“I’m guessing you haven’t heard of ‘beaver fever,’” replies Tom, who promptly launches into a very detailed, gory and highly exaggerated description of the intestinal infection’s effects.

Joe’s exuberance over his mountain-water baptism is instantly swept away. “How long before I know if I’ve got it?”

“Could be a couple of hours. Could be a couple of days,” says Tom.

We plod on, eventually reaching the base of a series of steep switchbacks that lead up to Twin Falls. The climb is a killer. Halfway up, Joe drags a branch out of the brush and uses it as a walking stick. Dripping with perspiration and caked with dust, we finally make it to the top and stare out across the yawning gorge.

(To be continued …)

Part 1

Part 2

Lead image by Keith Young; wikimedia.org

//

Journey down the rabbit hole into Lewis Carroll’s zany, hallucinogenic fantasy world – Sunday July 15, when the Community Arts Workshop Society hosts its 14th annual Alice in Wonderland Festival at East Vancouver’s Trout Lake. Attendees are encouraged to dress up in their best Wonderland garb, joining forty-plus Community Arts players representing the book’s cast of characters. Challenge the Queen of Hearts to a croquet shootout, join the Mad Hatter for a cup of tea and dance the Lobster Quadrille – then pose for a photo with Lewis Carroll himself. 1-5 pm.www.communityartsworkshop.com/teaparty

Courtesy of {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/dm-set/3464173554/} dm-set on flickr{/link}

Got a competitive edge? On July 14, Alice aficionados around Vancouver will converge at English Bay to help set the world record for largest assembly of Alices in one location. 1:30pm. To register: www.aliceinwonderlandfestival.com/alices-everywhere-sign-up

• VICTORIA July 16 – 19: 1st Annual Festival of Food & Wine

This new foodie bash promises to be the event of the summer, with a culinary walking tour of the city’s cafe and teahouse gems, a chocaholics anonymous seminar (profiling the history of chocolate-making and ending with a spread of sinful treats) and the provocatively titled Pig and Pinot on the Patio, i.e., the perfect porker-pinot pairings. The festival kicks off with a gala dedicated to B.C. wines and cuisine, featuring top chefs dishing out insider tips (and nibbles) to the rhythms of live jazz. Events priced individually, with tickets from $10 and $169. www.victoriataste.com

• THROUGHOUT B.C.: July 31 – August 9

The perfect precursor to Whistler’s 2010 Olympics: the World Police and Fire Games, an international sporting bonanza that sees firefighters, police and customs officials from around the world flexing their athletic prowess. Held every two years (Adelaide, Australia showcased the 2007 WPFG event ), this year’s challenge will be hosted by B.C. with events throughout the province: including boxing, the Grouse Grind Mountain Race and the better-than-any-reality-show must-see, the Toughest Competitor Alive challenge. www.2009wpfg.ca/

• INTERNATIONAL SPOTLIGHT:  July 22

This date marks a historic world event: the 21st-century’s longest solar eclipse. Just over six minutes in duration, this kind of mega eclipse won’t be seen again until the year 2132. Best location for witnessing this astronomical rarity: northern India, eastern Nepal and northern Bangladesh. What better excuse to jet off to Southeast Asia http://eclipse.gsfc.nasa.gov/SEmono/TSE2009/TSE2009.html

Related Post: Fresh Tracks (summer 09)

Lead image courtesy a_seph

by Helena Zukowski

1. Royal Soil

It was in Paris in the Roaring Twenties that exiled Georgian prince Nicholas Abkhazi met and fell in love with Shanghai-born Peggy Pemberton-Carter, launching a romance that would span seven decades, three continents and one world war. Separated when Peggy spent two-and-a-half years in a Japanese internment camp and Nicholas was incarcerated as a POW, the couple reunited after World War II and married, beginning a new life in Victoria on an overgrown, weed-infested lot that, over the next 40 years, would become one of B.C.’s most important gardens. (In 1999, it was purchased by the non-profit Land Conservancy, which protects the province’s historical and culturally significant landmarks.) Today, the Abkhazi Garden is renowned for its harmonious use of site, including the glaciated rock outcroppings and Garry oak trees unique to the southern tip of Vancouver Island.

Major Plot Points:

The tearoom’s Royal Abkhazi blend, created in 2008 by Victoria’s Silk Road tea company, with homemade scones and local organic jam. • A Curious Life: The Biography of Princess Peggy (on-site gift shop). • May 17 Plantaholics Sale — independent growers’ unusual plant specimens. 250-598-8096; abkhazi.com

2. Rhodo-mania

Bryan Zimmerman was a Christmas tree farmer when, 30 years ago, as he was clearing 9.7 newly purchased hectares in Courtenay, he had a vision of “creating something lasting” — a unique woodland garden. So to avoid disturbing root systems, Zimmerman worked the land by hand, then took generous advantage of the island’s reputation as one of the best places in North America for rhodos. The result: the internationally acclaimed Kitty Coleman Woodland Gardens, where, serenaded by songbirds, visitors lounge in rustic gazebos or wander woodland paths skirting water features and 3,000- plus rhododendrons. (“Kitty” is the First Nations woman who paddled ashore here in the late 1800s and for whom a nearby creek is named.)

Major Plot Points:

On-site artisan festival, Labour Day weekend. 250- 338-6901; woodlandgardens.ca

Milner Gardens

3. A Touch Of Class

When Horatio “Ray” Milner purchased this 28-hectare Qualicum estate in 1937, he intended it to be a bucolic escape from his hectic professional life. The World War I veteran, lawyer, King’s counsel, philanthropist and Order of Canada recipient, along with wife Rina, found some time to start a garden. But it was the second         Mrs. Milner, Veronica, who was the true visionary behind today’s Milner Gardens and Woodland. A British aristocrat — related to Winston Churchill — and an accomplished artist, Veronica would spend 40-plus years nurturing a serene, unique escape that has drawn such famous visitors as Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, Princess Diana and Prince Charles. Along with many rare trees, the garden is renowned for its 500-plus rhododendrons and azaleas — anchoring an immense perennial garden.

Major Plot Points:

Art & Photography in the Garden, an artists-at-work event, July 18 to 19, including silent auction, live music and lectures. • Margaret Cadwaladr’s In Veronica’s Garden (on-site gift shop). 250-752- 8573; mala.ca/milnergardens

Ronning Gardens

4. Bernt Earth

In 1910, Norwegian homesteader Bernt Ronning settled a tract of North Island wilderness on a government promise that a road would be put through to Cape Scott. The thoroughfare never materialized, but hikers did — stopping in whenever the trapper, fisherman and camp cook was home to boogie on his hand-hewn “dance floor” and thump out songs on the pump organ. Ronning’s true love, though, was his two-hectare garden — laboriously fashioned out of the rainforest and planted with seeds and tree cuttings from around the world. After his death in 1963, the forest reclaimed the garden, but local horticultural angels intervened. And today the original rhodos in Ronning Gardens bloom alongside trees planted by its founder decades ago.

Major Plot Points:

Twin monkey puzzle trees, once among the oldest and rarest in B.C. (though one of the original pair has died, several others have grown in its place). • North America’s tallest monkey puzzle — 24-plus metres — is also here. 250-288-3724.

Shephard Gardens

5. Beds, Path & Beyond

The garden created by Bill and Marilyn Shephard is a veritable babe compared to Prime Picks one through four, but it has been nurtured with equal lashings of love. The 1.5-hectare property near Port McNeill was a horse farm before the Shephards purchased the land in 1991 and transformed it into the intimate extravaganza it is today — known particularly for its early summer bulbs and perennials (rhodos, azaleas, peonies, tree peonies, wisteria and globe flowers).

Major Plot Points:

Personal tours led by Marilyn or son Joe, with a hand- ful of fresh strawberries or raspberries from the garden. 250-956-4709; shephardsgarden.com

Lead image: Kitty Coleman Woodland Gardens

courtesy woodchuckiam; flickr.com

Now that his cellphone is no longer functioning, Joe is forced to converse. He begins tellling us about the celebrities that he has interviewed for his newspaper column, or, in the case of Ben Affleck, tried to interview. Joe collared Affleck at a Toronto Blue Jays’ game, but the actor blew him off, so Joe sat behind his subject and glared at him for nine innings while Affleck kept calling him nasty names.

We are all pumped to be in the B.C. Rockies. This is Joe and André’s first time in these mountains, and I was last here several decades ago, so the drive is stirring up some fond memories. Crossing the border through Yoho National Park  is a spectacular way to make an entry. Named for a Cree word that means “awesome,” Yoho was declared a UNESCO world Heritage Site in 1984. Despite having 28 peaks higher than 3,000 metres, several amazing waterfalls, including Takakkaw Falls, the third tallest in Canada, 400 kilometres of hiking trails and an array of green alpine lakes and roaring rivers, the park has a low profile. Despite its close proximity to Banff National Park, it attracts far less traffic than its famous counterpart, which draws about four million visitors a year, making it Alberta’s number one tourist destination.

courtesy meironke; flickr.com

Just inside Yoho, we pause to admire the Canadian Pacific Railway’s famous Spiral Tunnels, which were built to solve the problem of running trains up Big Hill. To complete the CPR as quickly as possible, a decision was made to delay blasting a 430-metre tunnel through Mount Stephen and instead build a temporary 13-klilometre line over it. That required scaling Big Hill, whose 4.5 percent grade was the steepest in North America.  Trains going up the hill required four extra engines to push, while several runaway spur lines greeted the trains on their way down. As one might guess, disasters were common. After 25 years, the Spiral Tunnels finally replaced the “temporary” route in 1909. This new route added 10 kilometres, but reduced the grade to 2.2 percent. Today, from a highway viewpoint you can watch a train disappear into Mt. Ogden. The train then exits the 890-metre circular tunnel, crosses under the highway and enters a 992-metre circular tunnel in Cathedral Crags.

Our next stop is the town of Field (population 300). No more than a few wooden houses, backed by an amphitheatre of sheer mountains, it looks like an old-world pioneer settlement, little changed from its 1884 origins as a railroad-construction camp. The town was named after Cyrus Field, an American financier who led the company that laid the first transatlantic communication cable in 1858. Field later invested heavily in railroads in New York, and evidently the CPR’s executives felt he might be inclined to the same in B.C. if they named a pioneer town after him. But Field didn’t invest, and so for no particular reason we have this tiny mountain town named after a Massachusetts entrepreneur.

Even though we are going to be dining in style at Cathedral Mountain Lodge, Joe appears to be concerned that he is not going to have enough to eat. At the general store in Field he buys an armload of junk food: twizzlers, ding dongs, Doritos, beef jerky, chocolate bars and a bag of cookies.

“Had your cholesterol count taken lately?” I ask him.

He chuckles. “I’m no health nut.”

Cathedral Mountain Lodge www.cathedralmountain.com/ has a rustic look, but it is high-end rustic. The resort’s 29 log cabins feature wood-burning or gas fireplaces and deep soaker tubs. The timber frame lodge was constructed of re-claimed Douglas fir posts and beams and was designed by Vancouver architect Brad Lamoureux. The dining room has an indoor/outdoor river rock fireplace, 24-foot vaulted ceiling and 18-foot high windows.

courtesy cathedralmountain.com

Our dinner, hosted by lodge owner Nancy Stibbard, is sensational. As we demolish the meal, she tells us about the various hiking options available in the area. We decide to make a trip tomorrow through Yoho Valley to Twin Falls. “After all this food I don’t think I’ll be able to hike very far,” says Joe.

“The hike is nothing too serious,” Janice assures him. 

As Janice polishes off the last of the chocolate-dipped strawberries, Tom tells us about a writer from the Philippines who he squired through the Rockies a couple of years ago.  She was writing  a piece on wheelchair accessibility. At one point in the trip she asked him, “Mr. Tom, what is another word for handicapped?” The story she later published in the Manila Bulletin was entitled “A Cripple Visits the Rockies.”

After dessert, Joe invites me to have a beer with him on the porch of his cabin, where he confesses, “You know I’m really having trouble with this cellphone blackout. I’m addicted to my cellphone.”

“You gotta relax, man,” I reply. “You’re not in Toronto anymore.”

The lodge is scenically situated beside the Kicking Horse River and directly beneath Cathedral Mountain. Joe looks up at the stony peak and asks his favourite question. “Do you think that mountain is taller than the CN Tower?”

“That mountain is 2,766 metres high,” I tell him. “The CN Tower is 553 metres. It’s no contest.”

“Maybe,” he says, “but it doesn’t look higher.”

I have to wonder about his bizarre attachment to the CN Tower. Is it just that he has no sense of scale, or is he having trouble accepting that Toronto doesn’t have all the biggest things in the country? We sit there gabbing for awhile until Joe’s next-door neighbour ambles over. He doesn’t speak a word, but simply stands there with a grimace on his face. Finally, he says, “Are you guys having a good time?” It’s only about 10 p.m., but then again Joe’s voice does pack quite a wallop. We decide to call it a night. I start dreaming as soon as my head hits the pillow.

(To be continued …)

Part 1

courtesy Lone Primate; flickr.com

“Do you think that mountain is taller than the CN Tower?” We all laugh, thinking that Joe is making a joke. But no, he is quite serious. In fact, he will pose this same question several more times as we drive through the Rockies, becoming increasingly convinced in his own mind that none of the soaring peaks around here are actually taller than Toronto’s phallic landmark.<!– fi

There are five of us in the van: Janice from Tourism BC, Tom, our driver and fixer, and three journalists – myself, André, from Montreal’s La Presse, and Joe, from the Toronto Sun. We are on a trip to southeastern B.C., but we have begun our journey in Calgary and are approaching our destination via Trans-Canada #1. The route winds through Banff National Park, where we make a stop so that Joe can take photos of some mountain goats that are grazing by the roadside.

courtesy kris247; flickr.com

Joe is a strange character; red-haired with a crew cut and freckles, he somehow manages the rare feat of  looking young and old at he same time. He stands on the shoulder of the road in a loud Hawaiian shirt, ill-fitting shorts and scabrous runners, trying to bring the goats into focus as 16-wheelers howl past only paces to his left. “Watch out for the trucks!” yells Tom, leaping out of the van and running over to make certain that we don’t have to witness a horrible accident.

Joe is a throwback, a guy who would be at home in one of those 1930s movies, screaming “Stop the presses!” The only thing that is missing is the cigar. At least that’s what I thought at first. But a half hour into the trip, I am stunned to see him smoking a stogie in the back seat. Thoughtfully, he is holding it out the window. Joe is also an urban creature. He used to write a column entitled “The Night Scrawler” for the Sun and admits that this is the farthest west he has ever travelled in Canada. Not only is B.C. virgin territory to him, this is also his first up-close glimpse of the Rockies. You would think then that he might be awe-struck by the scenery, but he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. Instead, he has spent most of the drive making and taking repeated calls on his cellphone.

As boisterous as Joe is, André, the Quebecer, is virtually silent. A big, broad-shouldered guy who bears a resemblance to Guy Lafleur, he is originally from Belgium. Although André seems to speak English fine, he claims to be uncomfortable with the language, so he usually only speaks if spoken to. Because he never removes his dark shades it is often difficult to tell if he is even awake.

courtesy Mike.in.NY; flickr.com

We make a brief stop at Lake Louise to admire the scenery. Just as Tom predicts there are Japanese tourists paddling around the lake in red canoes. “A red canoe on a blue-green lake – it’s the Japanese ideal of Canada,” he says. Down at the dock in front of the Chateau Lake Louise there are two newlyweds posing for their own personal photographer. The groom is wearing white pants with a pink tie and a pink vest. His bride, a blonde bombshell with a large tattoo on her shoulder, is clad in a tight, low-cut, wedding dress from which her breasts are threatening to burst out of.

Lake Louise may have more people with cameras per square kilometre than any other location in Canada, and within minutes every male with a lens has found his way to the dock to snap the bride with the jiggling bosom. Every male that is, except for Joe. We find him back at the van jabbering into his cellphone. He didn’t even make it down to the lake. I tell him about the scenic vista that he missed at the dock. He seems to think I’m putting him on.

We are headed for Cathedral Mountain Lodge in Yoho National Park. As we drive west through a gauntlet of glacier-topped peaks, Joe keeps asking Tom to stop the van so he can take photos of road signs. While he is outside lining up a shot, I tell Tom, “This cellphone stuff has to stop. The guy is driving me crazy.”

“Don’t worry,” he replies. “We’ll soon be in a cellphone dead zone.”

Tom is right on the money. After we cross Kicking Horse Pass and enter into B.C., Joe can’t get a signal. When he is informed that we are out of cellphone range and will remain that way for a few days, he has a mild panic attack. “What am I going to do?” he says. “My girlfriend is going to kill me.”

(To be continued …)

Courtesy of {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/mekin/} timekin on flickr{/link}

Jakarta, Indonesia: It is midnight and we have just arrived in the Indonesian capital. There is only one taxi in the airport parking lot. It is an aging black wreck, unadorned by any company logo. The doors are fastened shut with rope. The driver is asleep, his bare feet sticking out the window. His radio is playing a Pat Boone song: “Love Letters in the Sand.”

Yogyakarta: Watching a performance of Wayang Kulit, or shadow puppet theatre. Ethereal shapes slide across the cotton screen, flickering in the glow of the oil lamp. Two realms of existence. On the other side, ancestral spirits with nervous insect profiles, elaborate as lace, bow and fight and make love or grow to giant size or vanish.

Yogyakarta at night: Kerosene lanterns, clip clop of horse-drawn carriages, becak drivers pedal past, flags flapping in the wind. Gamelan music, street performers cracking whips, doing gymnastics. Skull mask lying in the street. Each passing westerner is like an alarm clock, waking all the slumbering becak drivers. “Hello. Hello. Where you go?”

Nandi, Fiji: Our taxi driver is giving us a free tour of town. We pass a wrecking yard. “Ladies driving school,” he says. We pass a McDonalds. “American High Commission,” he says. I ask him if there any poisonous creatures here. “No. All friendly and non-poisonous. But if you want to see poisonous snakes and spiders wait until November and I will take you to parliament and show you where they sit.”

There seem to be only two types of weather reports in Fiji. “Fine” or “Mostly fine.”

courtesy Fenst, flickr.com

Moscow: My guide tells me, “We have the unpredictable history. We have the unpredictable past.”

Inside Night Flight, a famous nightclub, I gain a flash of insight into what it is like to be an attractive woman. Night Flight is stocked with young prostitutes. I am sitting at a table surrounded by 12 of them. Twenty-four eyes trying to hook my attention. If you return their stares, then they look deeper.  There is a hunger there.

Quebec City: While eating at a toney restaurant, Diane mentions that she attended high school with Pamela Anderson in Courtney, B.C. “She had brown hair and brown eyes. And she had small breasts. I know because she was on the volleyball team and we shared the same change room.”

New York: Sign in a city taxi: “25 cents extra for an argument.”

Acapulco: The humidity is withering. It takes the starch out of anything you put in your pants pockets—matches, Kleenex, business cards all reduced to rubble in a matter of hours. Clothes stick to your body and turn dark and splotchy from sweat like you are leaking from bullet holes. My yogurt capsules are mutating.

Holland-America Cruise Ship to Vancouver: Riding the elevator: The electronic voice intones, “Going down.” The guy standing beside me says, “I hate to hear that phrase when I’m on a ship.”

The Norwegian captain makes his daily address. “We are now sailing past the beautiful sceneries of Juan de Fuca Strait. We have these beautiful sceneries every day.”

Williams Lake: At the Stampede Parade the floats and entertainers include The Rose Lake Miocene Swine Club and the Vernon Girls Trumpet Band. The Babine Lake Traditional Dancers are wearing Airwalk sneakers, high heels and sandals. Someone shouts, “Look at those chainsaws!” The Squaw Hall float is an old palisade with a country band performing inside. The float is followed by a bunch of Elvis impersonators. Walt Cobb, the local MLA, cruises past.  An onlooker shouts, “Hey Walt, hope it’s your last term. You idiot.” Cobb replies, “Where is my gun when I need it?”

Hong Kong: List of fish dishes in the Jumbo Floating Restaurant: Black Dragon, Spotted Grunt, Green Wrasse, Horse-Head, Pink Garoupa, Whelk, Silver Coat, Oil Crab.

Barcelona: Many of the women here ride motor scooters. Some ride them in slit skirts. Very formal. I saw one today with sheer black stockings that went down only as high as her ankles. A strange and exotic touch. How do I meet them? Something else … Most of them smoke.

Chichen Itza, Mexico: It is about 7 p.m., just after a rainstorm. Eerie yellowish light, wriggling lines of ants, and a metallic taste to the air. Thunder rumbles in the distance as we approach the old church. Three black vultures sitting on the white crosses rise up and flex their wings.

Holland: I am learning Dutch expressions. Take the phrase, “To rush headlong into something, to butt in.” In Dutch, this is expressed as Met de klompen op het ijs komen. “To go on the ice with wooden shoes.”

There are meat hooks affixed to the roof gables of the homes in Amsterdam. They use them to haul furniture to the upper floors because the stairways are too narrow. The house were built narrow because the amount you paid in taxes depended on wide your home was. The wider it was, the more you paid.

The Dutch public transport system sells special tickets for dogs.

Dunedin, Florida: I’m drinking beer at my hotel’s Tiki Bar. It is Happy Hour. The sunset is a simmering palette of magenta and orange, smudged with jet contrails. There is a woman sitting across from me with a “Bad Mama” tattoo. Her boyfriend has the words “Born to Lose” tattooed on his bicep. There other bikers crowded around with bandanas and tattoos. But none of them are riding choppers—they are riding bicycles, and raising money for charity. The tattoos are decals.

Kenya: A young guy leans in the car window and asks to bum a cigarette, “Share the cancer,” he says.

The frogs outside our hotel at night sound like a series of rusty drawbridges slowly being opened.

Rule of the land: Outside the game parks everyone walks. Inside the parks, no one walks.

courtesy digitalART2, flickr.com

Our guide, Mustafa, tells us about cheetahs. The adults have to teach the young to hunt. The mother will sometimes drag a crippled impala in for the young to play with. After the cubs make their first kill, the mother leaves them forever. Mustafa saw this happen once. The mother stared from a distance at the scene. When the deed was done, she tilted her head back, let out a loud wail, then loped off towards the far horizon.

Title image by retro traveler; flickr.com

by Kerry McPhedran

The moon is almost full. Each stroke of our paddles lifts and spi lls lime-green stars.We are stardust. No one speaks.

White talcum-powder beach, turquoise waters – this could be Fiji. Only we’re sun-kipping on tiny island 32, one of the more than 100 islands and islets that make up British Columbia’s world-famous Broken Group off the west coast of Vancouver Island. If there is a sea kayaker’s mecca, this is it. And island 32 is just our lunch stop.

My double-kayak partner, Jennifer, hangs sloth-like, suspended by her pink gumboots and arms off a cantilevered log tossed high by a storm. Guides Natalie and Liz, having packed the leftover guacamole, quesadillas and fruit salad, sprawl in their own sandstone “paradise recliners.” Fellow paddlers Nora, Condrea and Stan are beached in the unexpectedly hot September sun in various stages of digestive dozing, hands folded over bellies. Someone burps contentedly.

On the last day of our trip, I’m rerunning a slide show of trip highlights on the back of my eyelids.

Five days ago, we were seven strangers sizing one another up on board the coastal freighter MV Frances Barclay on her three-and-a-half-hour run down the Alberni Inlet to unload kayakers and their gear at historic Sechart. A whaling station in days gone by, Sechart is now the gateway for the Broken Group and week-long guided camping/ kayaking trips with Batstar Adventure Tours.

Batstar appealed to our phalanx of urbanites because of one key phrase on its website’s “Why Choose Batstar” page: “Unplug from the grid.” Owners Blake and Rhonda Johnson, who packed up professional careers and two kids in Calgary back in 2001 to follow their passion for kayaking, hiking and biking the west coast, understand that time is everyone’s most valuable asset. Seeing us off on the Frances Barclay that morning, Blake cryptically advised: “Forget the city – go to the Happy Place.” We weren’t sure what he meant, but we were willing to look.

Natalie and Liz, hard-core West Coast transplants from Montreal and New Brunswick, expertly loaded a week’s worth of food, drinking water and gear into the single and double Seaward kayaks at Sechart, and our flotilla headed across Sechart Channel to explore the now-protected wild places that make up one third of Canada’s Pacific Rim Park (along with the West Coast Trail and Long Beach). A leisurely hour-and-a-half paddle out of Sechart landed us on the tree-fringed sandy beach of Keith Island – Batstar’s ace in the hole when it comes to competing with the 11 other operators trolling the Broken Group (out of some 60 kayak operators in B.C.). Thanks to the historic 2005 agreement signed by the Johnsons with the Tseshaht Band to train and license Tseshaht youth as sea kayak guides, Batstar guests – never more than eight in a group – have exclusive use of the island as a “no trace” base camp. “There are more than 100 islands in the Broken Group,” explained Natalie, “but only eight have designated campsites and competition can be fierce – especially in summer when paddlers arrive from all over the world.” Not only private, but protected and central, Keith Island is the ideal paddling-off spot for daytrips to the Broken Group’s Inner and Outer Islands. We feel privileged to share this ancestral village site.

An hour after landing, we’d unloaded the week’s gear, hauled the kayaks above high tide and pitched our tents – the only work Natalie and Liz allowed us all week. Not a potato to be scrubbed, not a dish to be washed. I felt like a free-range kid all over again, with grown-ups who let us wander around if we don’t go too far from home, take us somewhere fun every day, teach us new skills and call us when meals are ready.

When Natalie and Liz aren’t planning the next day’s route, cleaning gear or checking weather on the VHF, they’re rappin’ and cookin’ under the white-and-yellow-striped tarp suspended between trees over a two-burner Coleman on a plank. Using local organic ingredients and “a lot of lovin,’ ” they set a folding table with such tasty dishes as curried chicken, basmati rice, wild greens, grilled salmon, even sushi rolls, chocolate cake and fresh-fruit flan. A jar of wildflowers or a sea urchin’s discarded shell decorates our table.

Camp couldn’t be cozier or more comfortable with roomy three-person tents for two, camp chairs around a nightly beach fire and a spotless and discreet cedar outhouse. Montreal-born “Nat” and Liz scamper about like deer shod in bright blue and yellow Holeys, but are amazingly strong, with an easy energy and cheerful friendship that sets the tone: happy campers all.

Each morning we woke to the wild, weird, rattling call of a kingfisher and his blue-winged flash; the smell of freshly brewed organic coffee; French toast and bacon, frittatas and bagels, or pancakes custom-shaped like starfish. At night we sipped wee drams in companionable silence around the campfire and watched sparks fly to the stars. Days ended with Liz handing out hot-out-of-the-pot cloths reminiscent of Japanese restaurants, to wash our hands and face – all part of the Batstar promise of “five-star service, billion-star view.”

But our guides’ true competency played out on the water that first day of paddling, when we opted to explore the outer rim of Effingham Island with its 100-metre-high cliffs and paddle through sea arches, only to find we’d slipped from sunshine into an unnerving wall of thick fog. Next landfall, Japan, and the Pacific swell was building. While the Broken Group’s great appeal is its protected waters for first-time paddlers and open ocean for veteran kayakers, the weather can change from calm to storm in less than an hour. I was grateful we were with guides. Natalie herded us into a tight pod and we made for more protected Dicebox, that day’s lunch spot – peering like Mr. Magoo, barely able to see our kayak’s bow let alone an island.

Once home to nine longhouses, Dicebox today draws kayakers to explore on foot the wave-swept cave whose ocean garden floors are thick with starfish, sea urchins and lipstick-pink lichens. The Tseshaht people called this beach A:ts’:a:tsophshil, meaning “when you’re there it’s so beautiful that you don’t want to leave.”

I wondered what the Tseshaht called Wower Channel, our afternoon paddle alongside a Steller and California sea lion haulout, where hundreds of giant pinnipeds – what Blake calls “eight-year-old bully boys” – weighing up to 900 kilos, groaned, roared, burped and barked fishy-breathed testosterone. “Don’t make eye contact,” I urged Jennifer, paddling in the bow seat.

“Wow! It doesn’t get much better than that,” Jennifer called back over her shoulder as we left the bully boys behind and paddled on into Coaster Channel and back toward camp. “Whale at 2 o’clock!” called Stan. A white flash of belly. Nothing. And then the telltale, heart-shaped spout of a 30-tonne great grey, spraying his valentine from two blowholes 12 metres into the sky. Some 25,000 grey whales migrate north to their summer home in Alaska, and the Broken islands lie smack in the middle of their route. Resident whales, like this one, are visible year-round.

Only Day One, and we were definitely off the grid.

For five glorious September days now, we’ve had the Broken Group almost to ourselves: lazy picnic lunches in sheltered coves, paddling into sea caves, beachcombing for breast-shaped moon-snail casings and hiking past shell middens into an ancient Sitka spruce forest. We’ve gunkholed along rocky shorelines in our kayaks, drifting above the intertidal world of burgundy and orange batstars, pink sunstars, apple green anemones and hermit crabs. Arctic loons, great blue herons, orange-footed oystercatchers and cormorants are just some of the 230 species here. Natalie’s silent raising of her paddle overhead is our cue to stop paddling, be silent and look.

It’s hard to believe the Broken Group was once home to more than 10,000 First Nations people. But the evidence is all around us, in shell middens, in tranquil lagoons where rock-walled fish traps line the shore, in burial caves – and in Ty Marshall, a handsome apprentice Tseshaht guide who joins us halfway through the trip and shares stories his people have passed down from father to son. Traditionally his people have gathered cod, salmon and sea mammals off Keith Island. The island’s timber was used for planks and canoes. Hermit crab shells still rattle from the clothing of Tseshaht dancers.

Natalie interrupts my mental slide show. It’s time to leave island 32 to paddle back to Keith Island for our last night. Magic time: the moon is almost full. Natalie promises bioluminescence – the startling flash of millions of tiny sea creatures always present but rarely visible. We slip into our kayaks and, in the shadow of a neighbouring island, each stroke of our paddles lifts and spills lime-green stars, our hulls cutting the wine-dark sea like laser beams. We are stardust. No one speaks. As we slowly paddle back to our campsite, Natalie breaks the silence. “This is what animals do: eat, travel and sleep.”

Early the next morning, ours is the last boat to slip off the beach. Only our skid marks show we have landed. There is not a ripple on the water. By a trick of light, there is no horizon. The white clouds and blue sky are now the sea. Paddling, I glance sideways at the other kayaks. All are suspended in the Happy Place.

piggy-back paddlers

Not a camper? Check out Mothership kayaking from historic Columbia III.

“The Columbia is coming!” was the welcome cry along B.C.’s coast early in the last century, when a series of stout ships operating under the Anglican church’s Columbia Coast Mission served isolated logging camps, lighthouses, floating homes and First Nations villages, bringing medical help, religious services, Christmas parties and cartoons (an enticement to visit the dentist). Today the cry still goes up, but from kayakers as they paddle around a remote rocky bluff to see the waiting Columbia III, a handsomely restored 21-metre vessel now operated by the Campbell family as Mothership Adventures.

Why this company: To explore the pristine wilderness destinations of Desolation Sound, Broughton Archipelego, Johnstone Strait and the Great Bear Rainforest from the comfort of a mothership, knowing that after a day’s kayaking there are hot showers, freshly brewed organic coffee, Fern’s gourmet dinners with wine in a cozy salon — and a dry bed in one’s own cabin.

Comfort and security for novice kayakers aside, a mothership also equals unique experiences for hard-core sea kayakers. The ship repositions daily for a greater variety of wilderness than camping kayakers can hope to cover. Columbia can also easily access remote stretches of rugged coastline and steep-sided, glacial-carved fiords expedition kayakers avoid (knowing there is nowhere to camp or haul out in an emergency). “We never backtrack,” says Ross Campbell, former coastal logging helicopter pilot and current owner/captain, who knows just where to position guests for their best chance to see pods of 30 orcas in the Broughton Archipelago or beachcombing bears in the seldom-visited Great Bear Rainforest. And while most guests want to paddle rain or shine, they can always opt to stay on board with a book from the ship’s well-stocked library, or to chat with Ross in the wheelhouse as he navigates the many islands and inlets, always remaining out of sight and hearing of the paddlers.

Details pay off: Personal kayaking gear is neatly stowed under cover on the aft deck; a mini-crane system quickly retrieves the double Necky kayaks from the roof; professional sea kayak guides Miray and her partner Luke, born and bred on the West Coast and passionate about their work, help guests embark off the broad stern swim grid — managing the tricky balance between professional service and relaxed informality just right. As one visitor put it: “First class people running a first class operation.”

Day trips can include paddles up river estuaries past lush grassy meadows, lake swims, walks to abandoned native villages, picnic lunches and fresh crab feasts. Wildlife is everywhere. Brightly coloured intertidal life clings to the surf-swept rocks; sea otters and seals play in the kelp beds; osprey and eagles laze overhead and, with luck, wolves or a grizzly lope along a beach. At night, a Celtic tune or two from Luke and Miray and much laughter at anchor in a remote cove, lulled by the cradle that is Columbia III.

Who should go: Beginners and up.

Tips: Book Vancouver to Bella Bella flight early — for cheaper fare (and to guarantee a seat). Take waterproof, not waterrepellant, rain gear; technical inner clothes wick sweat.

Basics: June to October, depending on destination (e.g., Great Bear Rainforest — August and September only). Departures from Campbell River, Port McNeill and Bella Bella. All-inclusive rates (gear, accommodation, guides, meals, wine) run from $1,900 for four nights to $2,850 for six. Themed tours (historical, photographic, natural history) run two, four or six nights ($690 to $2,850). 1-888-833-8887; www.mothershipadventures.com

island fix-you uppers

Why this company: Batstar sets the standard for B.C.’s kayak touring industry; co-owner Blake Johnson is past president of the Sea Kayaking Guides’ Alliance of B.C. Batstar uses the best gear, pays top wages and benefits and rotates staff to avoid burnout.

Details pay off: B&B overnights both before and after each trip allow guests to re-pack gear into supplied dry sacks. Chartering a water taxi back to Port Alberni at trip’s end cuts travel time in half. Only Batstar guests have exclusive use of Keith Island, ancestral site of the Tseshaht Band (a big plus in peak season with only eight campsites in Broken Group).

Who should go: Beginners and up

Tips: Pack everything on Batstar’s excellent gear list; all kayaking, camping and kitchen equipment is provided. September expeditions mean less fog and rain than in summer, fewer kayakers.

Basics: Weekly, May to October. $1,689/person; eight guests, two guides. 1-877-449-1230; www.batstar.com

courtesy of A Boy Named Hugh (flickr.com)

Yes, the Stanley Cup really gets around. In fact, the trophy has logged more than 400,000 miles during the past five years. As well as making the rounds with the members of the championship team, it also travels 250 days per year to charity events and NHL promotional activities. When the chalice is travelling, a replica takes its place in the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto. How can you tell the difference? The real Cup has about a dozen misspelled names, such as the name of goalie Jacques Plante, and the word Boston in the 1972 engraving. All the errors are corrected on the replica.

The Cup’s wanderings have grown increasingly exotic since European-born players began sipping champagne from it. In 1997, the Detroit Red Wings’ Russian stars Igor Larionov, Slava Fetisov and Slava Kozlov took the trophy to Moscow’s Red Square and tried to take it into Lenin’s Tomb. Josef Vasicek of the 2006 champion Carolina Hurricanes transported the Cup to Havlickuv Brod, a town of 25,000 in the Czech Republic. There, the chalice was driven to the Vasicek family home, then to the outdoor arena where he played as a teenager. In 2007, Anaheim Ducks sharpshooter Teemu Selanne’s trip with the Cup to his native Finland included a stop at a Helsinki sauna and a cooling dip in the Baltic Sea.

courtesy of wstera2 (flickr.com)

The ritual of spending 24 hours with the Cup began in 1995, as did the rule that it always be accompanied by white-gloved custodians. Before that the celebrated silverware was not always treated with such reverence. After the Ottawa Senators won it in 1927, the Cup spent much of the summer in King Clancy’s living room, where it served as a receptacle for everything, including letters, bills, chewing gum and cigar butts. When the New York Rangers won the Cup in 1940, some of the club’s executives reportedly celebrated by urinating in it. Winger Clark Gillies of the 1980 New York Islanders allowed his dog to eat from it. In his defence, Gillies noted, “He’s a nice dog.” Fellow Islander Bryan Trottier took the Cup with him to bed. He said, “I wanted to wake up and find it right beside me. I didn’t want to think I’d just dreamed of this happening.” In 1991, the Cup was found at the bottom of Pittsburgh Penguin Mario Lemieux’s swimming pool. In 1994, New York Rangers captain Mark Messier took the Cup to Scores, a famous strip joint. According to Scores spokesman Lonnie Hanover, “It was the first time I’d seen our customers eager to touch something besides our dancers.” And in 1996, Sylvain Lefebvre of the Colorado Avalanche had his newborn daughter baptized in it.

During its 105-year history, the Stanley Cup has been dented, dismantled, left in a snowbank, kicked into a canal and used as a flowerpot. It has also been stolen a couple of times, and in another memorable incident–nearly stolen. During the 1962 playoffs, a Montreal fan, unhappy that Stanley was in a glass case in the lobby of Chicago Stadium, opened the case, snatched the Cup, and headed for the exit before police apprehended him. The thief claimed he was merely “taking the Cup back to Montreal, where it belonged.”

Yet, despite such abuses, it perseveres; the oldest and most famous trophy competed for by professional athletes. So, after defeating the defending champion Detroit Red Wings, where will this year’s winners, the Pittsburgh Penguins, take old Stanley? Judging by the varied birthplaces–Kiev, Magnitogorsk, Pizen, Chelyabinsk–on the team’s roster, there will be is some international stops on its summer itinerary.

In fact, this year’s tour has already started. On JUne 14, a group of Penguins players took the Cup on an impromptu visit to several Pittsburgh nightclubs, causing a traffic jam as delighted fans called friends and urged them to rush down to see it. During the Cup’s evening on the town, some players ate hot wings from it–wings, get it?–and held it aloft from a second-storey balcony. The next day, they showed it off at PNC Park prior to a Pittsburgh Pirates–Detroit Tigers baseball game. Coincidentally, the Pirates were paying tribute to the 100-year anniversary of their 1909 World Series victory over Detroit, also decided by Game 7 in Detroit.

For Stanley, it seems, the party never ends.

What’s Geocaching?

Good question. According to the BC Geocaching Association, geocaching is an outdoor recreational sport in which geocachers hunt for treasures hidden around the world using only a GPS device. It certainly sounds like one of the more adventurous ways to explore the world!

In fact, in B.C. there are more than 11,000 treasures, or caches, awaiting discovery, with geocachers accountable for cache maintenance and responsible recreation in provincial parks and protected areas. For example, B.C.geocachers usually bring along cleanup materials (such as film canisters and plastic bags) to collect garbage in and around the areas they explore while searching out caches. And while geocachers typically head out either on their own or in small groups, several times a year a big event is organized, such as the CITO.

CITO: Recreation with a Cause

This June, the 4-Wheel Drive Association of BC hosted a CITO event at Stave Lake, with 65 volunteers (4WD enthusiasts and geocachers) spending a full day removing 4,000-plus kg of garbage and scrap metal (see here.for the full press release).

CITO crew, Stave Lake, B.C. – one of the most polluted recreational areas in the province (photo courtesy Kris Wheeler)

Given that Stave Lake is one of the most polluted recreational areas in B.C., “We have to take ownership of it,” says Wheeler. Which is why a number of local geocaching and four-wheel drive groups have adopted specific parks and lakes to clean and maintain.

Check out this video, shot and edited by Kris. It’s an inspiring little piece that illustrates the incredible impact a small group of caring and dedicated people can have. Its closing sentiment, “Make a difference: never pass a piece of trash, pick it up no matter where you are” is definitely a mantra to live by.

Lead photo courtesy Kris Wheeler

Pollan’s views moved me,  poignantly,  because I was personally struggling with this exact same issue. I was in the thick of my MBA studies and feeling discouraged because most of what I was learning about finance and strategy was in direct conflict with the subject matter in my classes on sustainability. Then, a few months later, the global economy was deeply shaken and (thankfully) the thinking in these fields, and most other areas of economic study, began to align. Today there is no argument: we need a new way of doing things, including a new way of approaching food in North America.

This June, sustainable food enthusiasts were treated to an engaging talk by Michael Pollan himself. The sustainable food guru was at Vancouver’s UBC Farm in B.C. to promote his latest book In Defense of Food and discuss North America’s cultural disconnect with the foods they eat. He calls ours a cultural eating disorder: an obsession with health that doesn’t actually lead to better health. For example, Pollan notes that since the ’80s launch of the States’ fat-free campaign (and subsequent fat-free obsession), Americans have never suffered more from obesity, diabetes and heart disease. Our health care systems have also been crippled by the fallout from these chronic medical conditions.

At Vancouver's UBC Farm: sustainable food enthusiasts line up to hear Michael Pollan's take on the issues.

It’s About What, How and Why We Eat

Culturally, says Pollan, we also need to reconsider what we purchase to eat and where we make those purchases. Do we know where our food comes from? Do we know how our food was processed before it became a meal on our plates? These are complex questions that go well beyond choosing local or organic – both are good choices, but one can be better than the other, depending on what you’re eating and where you live. Unfortunately, as consumers, we like things to be made as simple as possible for us; we don’t like making tough decisions, particularly when we are presented with limited information.

Each day we have at least three opportunities to vote with our forks. And every time we choose to eat from a sustainable food system (whether it’s fair trade coffee beans or herbs grown on Neil’s balcony), we’re adding to the groundswell of consumer demand for change. What does our demand support? Well, I have noticed that Choices Market recently opened a new store in Kelowna and that Overwaitea Foods has committed to a sustainable seafood policy. Then there’s the fact that more and more restaurants are getting onside with locally farmed and raised produce and products. (And all this despite an economic recession.)

Yet let’s not forget to reflect on the importance of why we eat. Yes, we eat primarily to satisfy our functional need for essential nutrients (another ‘symptom’ of our cultural eating disorder, according to Pollan), but we also eat to celebrate community, family and the soul. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the Food Network has seen a significant increase in viewer popularity in the last few years. It seems everyone is getting re-acquainted with their kitchens and cookbooks. And in the process we’re also getting reacquainted with  the value of sharing meals: how doing so nurtures relationships and community spirit. Culturally speaking, I can’t think of a better reason to eat.

Lead photo courtesy of Mark Andrew Boyer/ OrganicNation.tv

courtesy Laverrue (flickr.com)

They are opening the Lady up – all the way to the top. On July 4 this summer, the Statue of Liberty’s crown – off limits to the public since the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks – will again be available for touring. The museum gallery and observation deck at the landmark’s base were reopened in 2004, but the crown remained closed. The official reason given: “fire safety,” but many believe it was due to9 the previous American administration’s campaign to foster an ongoing climate of fear.

In a recent interview, Ken Salazar, the U.S. interior secretary, stated that the re-opening was a symbol of President Barrack Obama’s agenda for “a new beginning, restoring confidence in the American people, in their government, and in our place in the world.” Salazar also noted that a maximum of 10 visitors would be able to occupy the crown at any given time, allowing for 30 an hour, or 50,000 a year, in the initial phase of the crown’s re-opening.

A lottery will determine exactly who will be able to journey to the crown. After two years, the statue will then undergo a more significant “rehabilitation,” in the hope of increasing the number of such treks to about 200,000 a year. Visits to the Statue of Liberty have declined steadily since the crown’s closure – down to to 3.4 million in 2007 from a high of 5.5 million in 2002, according to the National Park Service.

How It All Began

The massive copper sculpture known officially as “Liberty Enlightening the World” was designed by French sculptor Frederic Auguste Bartholdi – to mark the 1876 centennial of the Declaration of Independence, with its construction funded completely by donations from the French people. Meanwhile, fundraising in America to build the pedestal for the monument was proceeding very slowly, so Joseph Pulitzer (noted for the Pulitzer Prize) opened up the editorial pages of his newspaper, The World, to support the fundraising efforts. Pulitzer proceeded to use his newspaper to criticize both the rich, who had failed to finance the pedestal construction, and the middle class, who were content to rely upon the wealthy to provide the funds. His campaign was successful in motivating Americans to donate $100,000.

After Bartholdi finalized the design in miniature, the statue itself was created using wooden moulds, a copper shell and an iron structure designed by Gustave Eiffel, who later built the Eiffel Tower. The statue was then shipped to the U.S. in 350 pieces aboard a French vessel, in June 1885, then re-assembled and unveiled on October 28, 1886. The day was declared a public holiday and more than a million people lined New York’s streets (draped with red, white and blue and French tricolour buntin) to watch a parade of more than 20,000 pass by. The New York Times reported that as the parade rolled past, the office boys “from a hundred windows began to unreel the spools of tape that record the fateful messages of the ‘ticker.’ In a moment the air was white with curling streamers.” And so the famous New York ticker-tape parade was born.

Interestingly, tourists were also once able to climb the inside of Lady Liberty’s arm to the top of her torch. But that also changed after another act of sabotage. On July 30, 1916, during World War I, German saboteurs ignited a cache of dynamite at a munitions depot on nearby Black Tom Wharf . Shrapnel from the explosion resulted in extensive structural damage to the buildings on Ellis Island and popped bolts out of the Statue of Liberty’s right arm. Officials shut down the monument for about a week, and, when it reopened, the arm was closed to tourists.

A few Things to Consider Before the Big Climb

A heads up: those eager to experience the majestic ocean view from the crown can’t be claustrophobic or have a weak heart. The only route is up, waaaay up, via an extremely narrow, almost-vertical staircase of 354 steps. Also worth noting: it’s best not to attempt to scale the crown on a windy day. The copper skin is no thicker than two pennies and in gales the statue sways by up to 7.5 centimetres;  her gilded torch can shift by up to  12.5 centimetres. As well, the torch, which stands 92 metres above the small island, or the equivalent of 22 floors, is pummelled and pitted by frequent lightning. And inside the head, temperatures can be sweltering and the 25 windows in the crown are merely tiny portholes.

But then, true democracy never is.

The portico lights of Spinnakers Brewpub’s 1884 guesthouse exude a rosy glow as we return from what in some circles is known as a night on the tiles. Our upstairs room, with its vaulted ceilings and sneak views of Victoria’s Inner Harbour, is made warmer still by the dozen or so exceptionally tasty microbrews I’ve sampled while traipsing along the city’s unofficial “ale trail.” Having limited myself to sampler-sized flights of these award-winning artisan beers, I’ve not been doing the staggered dance of a sailor on shore leave. Yet after lingering in the city’s quartet of world-class brewpubs over fine food and a succession of remarkable glasses of amber nectar, I’m clearly feeling no pain. “Hoppy and happy” are my final words to my bemused, rather less-soused wife as I slip into dreamland.

North America’s microbrew renaissance, a grassroots movement dating back a quarter century that reintroduced fresh, unpasteurized lagers and ales to a public weaned on the relatively tasteless suds churned out by the major breweries, can be traced directly to Pacific Northwest pioneers in Vancouver, Victoria, Portland and Seattle. Spinnakers, in fact, was Canada’s first purpose-built brewpub when it opened in 1984, jump-starting a trend that has seen real-ale temples established in urban centres across the country. Labatt and Molson Coors still dominate the $8-billion-per-year domestic business, but StatsCan reports that so-called “premium” beers have carved out a 15 per cent share of national sales. And while a portion of this niche belongs to Heineken and other imports, Canada’s feisty micro- breweries represent the one bullish segment of an industry that is otherwise experiencing slippage. (The venerable Molson, for instance, is down four percentage points since 2001 to a current 41 per cent share of the Canadian beer market.)

No statistics confirm it, but Victoria is without question a mecca for beer enthusiasts – a Beervana or Brewtopia by any other name. Case in point: The American Society of Beer Chemists, representing the brainiest, geekiest of brewmasters, returned here in June 2007 for its third convention in the last decade, talking shop and sampling no end of local brews. The Great Canadian Beer Festival draws legions of hopheads to Victoria’s Royal Athletic Park each Labour Day weekend. And, best of all, fans of the amber throat charmer can make a night of it anytime by booking a room, parking the car and undertaking a scenic crawl from one classy brewpub to the next; all four are centrally located near or on the waterfront and separated by no more than a gentle 20-minute stroll. In this time zone, only Portland’s riot of brewpubs tops the B.C. capital for liquid variety and walkable accessibility.

Just as regional organic produce defines Vancouver Island’s burgeoning foodie culture, the same “slow food” philosophy applies to its handcrafted beer. From summery Hefeweizens and a growing array of fruit and spice-infused tipples to heavier stouts, bitters and Belgian-style ales, the house products served at Spinnakers, the Canoe Brewpub, Swans and Hugo’s Brewhouse are produced mere paces from each of their gleaming tapheads. “The whole point of craft ale is that it’s fresh, pure, nutritious and local,” explains Andrew Tessier, the amiable beer guru at Swans who brewed up for the first time as a teenager, refined his talents with a group of friends dubbed “the Raging Grainies” and last year won four golds at the Canadian Brewing Awards in Toronto. In the early afternoon of my big night out, the 35-year-old Victoria native is showing off the brew room where, outfitted in overalls and black rubber boots, he has just finished transferring a batch of his bestselling Arctic Ale into stainless-steel fermentation tanks. “West Coasters demand a bit more flavour and taste than you get in the bland, straw-coloured beer traditionally produced for the mass market. We’ve got some great brewers in this town combined with educated drinkers who appreciate their work.”

Since the mid-1800s, when the province was first settled by non-aboriginals, Victoria has been at the forefront of brewing in Canada. (Next year marks the 150th anniversary of beermaking not just here but in all of Western Canada.) First on the scene was William Steinberger, one of thousands of adventurers lured to the West Coast during the early days of the gold rush. In 1858, the native of Cologne, Germany, opened the Victoria Brewing Company – the first commercial plant west of the Great Lakes. As Steinberger soon discovered, satiating thirsts was an honourable profession at a time when bread and ale were staples of every diet. Beer historian Greg Evans, executive director of B.C.’s Maritime Museum, cites Colonial Breweries owner Arthur Bunster as a notable case in point: An Irishman and outspoken critic of the temperance movement, Bunster served as a provincial and federal member of Parliament. Reputations remained solid for the simple reason that Victoria’s breweries were producing liquid gold. Thomas and Robert Carter’s operation in the 500 block of Herald Street (the Vancouver Ale, Porter & Steam Beer Brewery), for example, won medals at the Paris Exposition of 1889. Such was the city’s reputation a century ago, says Evans, that local ales were being exported to California, the Yukon and even Hong Kong, Shanghai and the Dutch East Indies.

With the mono- polistic rise of the giant beer corps in the first half of the 20th century, however, the arcane and ancient arts of handcrafted ales were lost in a tsunami of stubby brown bottles. The industry would not turn around until June 1982, when John Mitchell, widely known as the grandfather of North America’s craft brewing scene, battled reluctant liquor board authorities for permission to serve two kinds of craft ales at the Troller Pub in Horseshoe Bay, just northwest of Vancouver. Returning from a U.K. fact-finding trip with 14 different beers, Mitchell subsequently hosted a tasting session for friends and ale aficionados. Spinnakers owner Paul Hadfield, then an architect based on Granville Island, was among them. “I was fascinated by the diversity of flavours that we Canadians never got to experience,” he says. “And the homebrews made by John were the best of the bunch. I saw the opportunity right then.”

As the sun drops below the yardarm, Hadfield and his young brewmaster Rob Monk, a fresh-faced new-generation artisan who learned his trade in the Far North, pour samples of their latest concoctions – among them Mon Cherie Ale, a cherry-infused seduction brewed specially for the Victoria Erotica Festival, and a series of bold Belgian-style ales. Sommelier Brian Storen steps up with trays of chocolate and cheese – the former made in-house by a pastry chef with the delightful name of Crystal Duck, the cheeses sourced from the Cowichan Valley and Salt Spring Island. Food and beer pairings are all the rage these days in many foodie hotspots, not just upscale brewpubs. That’s no surprise: In its multitude of incarnations – sweet, bitter, dry, tart, sour, hoppy, fruity, grainy – beer delivers more flavour profiles than wine. While it may sound odd, there’s nothing quite like the taste of a wasabi-white-chocolate truffle washed down with Iceberg Pale Ale, a crisp seasonal brew created for the Royal BC Museum’s recent “Titanic” exhibit.

courtesy Canoe Brewpub

Pleasantly buzzed, my wife and I amble along the seawall as floatplanes make their last runs of the day and local residents take their Jack Russells out for a walkie. Crossing the blue Johnston Street bridge, we veer into Chinatown, descend back to water level and snag two barstools at the Canoe Brewpub. Packed as ever with the after-work crowd, the heritage warehouse space delivers an impressive west-coast fusion menu (check out the B.L.A.T., a supercharged BLT served on flatbread) and a range of traditional lagers, bitters and ales. Like his brethren, affable brew-master Sean Hoyne has an abiding respect for Bavaria’s Beer Brewing Purity Act of 1516, which dictates that “real ale” is made strictly from water, malted barley and hops. Quality was an issue in the early days of the craft-beer revival, admits Hoyne, a fixture at the Canoe since it opened a decade ago and who can often be found sharing a glass with the pub’s regulars. Some of those early batches were no better than “whatever Uncle Harry was fermenting in the basement.” Not so today.

“We now have a generation of experienced brewers backed by state-of-the-art equipment,” says Hoyne, tapping a gauge in his cozy brew room behind the bar. “The craft hasn’t changed in centuries, but today we have all the bells and whistles to make consistently superb beer.” The result is new-breed brews that are appealing to a much broader range of tipplers than ever before. “Our demographic cuts across all age groups and socio-economic backgrounds. Once you taste a craft ale, there’s no turning back. This industry is definitely not a fad.”

While Victoria is clearly B.C.’s beer capital, there has never been a shortage of quaint, English-style pubs dotted across Vancouver Island – some in particularly scenic locations, among them the Crow & Gate (not far from Ladysmith), the Rocking Horse (Nanoose Bay) and the Stonehouse (a short hike from the Swartz Bay ferry terminal). Now, to the delight of real-ale advocates, the brewpub phenomenon is also spreading up-island from Victoria. On the northern fringe of Nanaimo, brewmaster Harley Smith serves up a constantly changing menu of seasonal beers to augment the fine west coast cuisine served at Longwood Brew Pub & Restaurant. (Longwood publican Barry Ladell is the father of former Spinnakers brewer Lon Ladell, who currently operates Fuse Waterfront Grill in Sooke and has plans to open the town’s first brewpub some day in the future.) The Merecroft Village Pub in Campbell River is also now brewing its own. And in the picturesque heart of old-town Duncan, Chris Gress offers pints of his Cowichan Bay Lager and Arbutus Ale at the lively Craig Street Brew Pub, where locals socialize amid a fine collection of paintings by the late E.J. Hughes, the nationally renowned Cowichan Valley artist.

Though publicans and brewmasters alike are a friendly bunch with a deep respect for one another and the craft of brewing, the ale industry nonetheless remains a competitive business. But the rivalry isn’t hurting anyone’s profit margins. As in Victoria, each of the up-island brewpubs also does a booming business in takeaway sales, with various house brands bottled with designer labels in a variety of containers (from old-school stubbies to half-gallon glass “growlers” with clamp-down top.) Indeed, string all these establishments together, and the Island has the makings of a genuine, multi-city “ale trail.” That particular terminology, in fact, was used in the Island’s short-lived brewpub marketing strategy of 2000/01, which earned raves from The New York Times, no less.

Back in Victoria on an evening that is growing increasingly fuzzy at the edges, we walk the few hundred metres from the Canoe Brewpub to its nearby neighbour, Swans. A trio is pumping out blues chestnuts as we huddle with the locals at the gleaming wooden bar, gingerly nursing tasters as everyone else pounds back pints of Andrew Tessier’s finest. An hour later, it’s the Super G Ginger Ginseng Ale that knocks us out at Hugo’s Brewhouse. A stone’s throw from the Empress Hotel in the downtown core, Hugo’s is populated at this late hour by young, hip-shaking partiers. Benjamin Schottle’s current set of brews prove to be a fine nightcap as the DJ spins vintage funk and soul. Armed with a degree in biochemical engineering from the University of Western Ontario, Schottle realized he could combine his studies with what he laughingly tells me was “extensive research” during his student years going through his share of 24-packs. After a stint in Whistler, he moved to Victoria in 1994 and quickly became known for his recipes.

The Super G is Schottle’s signature ale, but lately he has been experimenting with fruit-infused Hefeweizens – notably a mandarin varietal that is popular on summer evenings. With the late great James Brown exhorting us to get on up from our comfortable perch on Hugo’s brown leather sofas, it’s clear that Victoria, and Vancouver Island as a whole, has become one superb place to get down with the best of the microbrews.

the macro view of microbrews

Augmenting Vancouver Island’s brewpub scene are an assortment of first-rate microbreweries — defined as relatively large-scale operations that produce less than 12,500 hectolitres (15,000 barrels) of beer annually.

A snapshot guide to Island brews available in many liquor stores:

Fat Cat Brewery
Nanaimo. Six varieties of “beer made from scratch.” Bestseller: Fat Head India Pale Ale.

Phillips Brewing Co.
Victoria. Founded by one-time Spinnakers brewer Matt Phillips and reigning B.C. Brewery of the Year (as judged by the hardcore enthusiasts who belong to CAMRA, the Campaign for Real Ale). Bestseller: Blue Truck Ale.

Lighthouse Brewing
Victoria. Brewer Paul Hoyne is the brother of the Canoe Club’s resident beer man Sean Hoyne. Bestseller: Race Rocks Amber.

Vancouver Island Brewery
Victoria. Launched in 1984, shortly after Canada’s first micro-brewery, Vancouver’s Granville Island Brewery, opened. Bestseller: Pipers Pale Ale.

a four-step guide
Victoria’s brewpub crawl (and where to sleep it off)

Hugo’s Brewhouse
Brewpub by day morphs into a nightclub after 9 p.m.
Drink this: The full-bodied Voodoo Porter weaves its magic with scents of chocolate and coffee.
Crashpad: Next door in the lush confines of the Magnolia Hotel (which also houses the Asian fusion restaurant Sanuk, where Ben Schottle’s beers are also served). Hugo’s: 250-920-4844; 625 Courtney St. The Magnolia: 1-877-624-6654; 623 Courtenay St.;

Spinnaker’s Gastro Brewpub
Trendsetting slow-food menu, a lively upstairs pub and postcard views of the Inner Harbour.
Drink this: Fogfighter, a strong Belgian ale to navigate the foulest autumn weather.
Crashpad: Either the Victorian-era guesthouse or the contemporary garden suites — both steps from the pub itself. 250-384-6613; 308 Catherine St.

Swans Brewpub
Victoria landmark and the reigning National Brewpub of the Year.
Drink this: Legacy Ale, a barley wine-style strong beer dedicated to the hotel’s late founder, the renowned entrepreneur Michael Williams. Crashpad: Upstairs in one of 29 uniquely decorated, art-strewn studios and suites. 250-361-3310; 506 Pandora Ave.

Canoe Brewpub Marina & Restaurant
Built in 1894, this heritage warehouse’s brick and timber bones look smashing after a $6-million facelift.
Drink this: Beaver Brown Ale, dark and smooth with hints of chocolate and maple.
Crashpad: No on-site accommodation, but the Bedford Regency Hotel (604-384-6835) in nearby Bastion Square offers boutique rooms at reasonable rates. Canoe: 250-361-1940; 450 Swift St.

Lead photo courtesy of sashafatcat.

Sighs of contentment rise and fall in steady waves as one score and 10 fortunate souls tuck into the fruits of the Cowichan Valley. A collection of leading chefs from this rapidly emerging culinary region has pooled its talents to raise funds for Providence Farm, a 160-hectare spread in the Vancouver Island countryside east of Duncan. For a century, the historic property was run as a boarding school by the Sisters of St. Ann. Today it serves as a therapeutic retreat for those with physical and mental disabilities, where a central part of community life is horticultural therapy. The organic produce sold at the Duncan Farmer’s Market and Providence’s on-site store is the result of willing hands sunk deep into healing soil. In fact, the crisp greens that follow the appetizer platters of Denman Island oysters were plucked from the ground here minutes earlier. As one wag at our convivial table puts it, the salad is a classic example of the “100-metre” diet.

Chef, cookbook author and master of ceremonies Bill Jones interrupts the luncheon to toast Providence’s worthy activities and applaud the largesse of its paying customers. He then turns to the half-dozen chefs in starched whites arrayed beside him. Brad Boisvert of AmusBistro in the village of Shawnigan Lake takes a bow for the rabbit terrine now being served. The roasted butternut squash soup in the on-deck circle is courtesy of Matt Horn, chef at Cowichan Bay landmark The Masthead. Fatima Da Silva from Bistro 161 in Duncan smiles briefly at the mention of her name, then vanishes back into the kitchen to continue preparing her contribution – seared duck breast with blackberry demi-glaze. Welcome, in other words, to a high-end slow-food Cowichan feast. All the ingredients are harvested locally from land and sea and paired with wines from such fine valley vineyards as Averill Creek and Blue Grouse. Glasses are clinked and laughter bubbles up freely, but our attention remains squarely on the white china plates before us.

At the Forefront of the Island’s Culinary & Agritourism Trend

In the burgeoning world of culinary and agritourism, the Cowichan – tucked between Victoria and Nanaimo in the fertile lands on either side of the Trans-Canada – is an upstart newcomer coming on like gangbusters. While retaining its blue-collar, dirt-under-fingernail roots, this region has undergone a shift in the last 20 years as the forestry and fishing industries flounder and a new wave of farmers, restaurateurs, vintners and foodies reinvent what has traditionally been a pit stop for fast food and gasoline. A generation of daytrippers weaned on the Food Channel and equipped with discriminating palates now detours off the highway here to track down fresh-from-the-field veggies, artisan-baked goods, free-range meats and top-notch wine and cider in such pocket-sized communities as Cobble Hill, Cowichan Bay, Chemainus and Glenora.

Beautiful Fanny Bay Oysters (courtesy Edible BC)

“Bring your own shopping bags and an empty car trunk,” advises Kathy McAree, organizer of B.C.’s first culinary tourism conference early this year and a driving force in marketing local foods and wines through her Victoria-based Travel with Taste epicurean tours. “British Columbians are realizing how lucky they are. Rather than travelling to France or Italy, they’re now taking advantage of the amazing food scenes right in their own backyard.”

Fresh farmgate eggs and seasonal produce are available around many Cowichan corners, if not quite every one just yet. In the north of the valley near Ladysmith, herb-laced jellies can be purchased at Hazelwood Herb Farm and berry-laden marmalade at Yellow Point Cranberries. At the Victoria end of the Cowichan, in Cobble Hill, the tasting bar at Merridale Estate Cidery is routinely jammed with tipplers, while antibiotic-free turkey is on the takeaway menu at Mill Bay’s Stonefield Farm. The hub of the region is Duncan, and there’s nowhere better to take the local pulse than at its award-winning farmers’ market, fractured by small-town politics but thriving nonetheless on Saturday mornings in two locations: one in Duncan’s revitalized downtown core, the other up the highway at the Forestry Discovery Centre.

Certainly the Cowichan isn’t the only food-centric region in B.C. – not with emerging slow-food scenes in Pemberton, Vanderhoof, Nelson, the Gulf Islands and other pockets of the Island (notably the Comox Valley and Saanich Peninsula). But this fertile valley, protected by a horseshoe of mountains from the storms that batter the far West Coast, is both easily accessible to the province’s largest population centres and unique in its concentration of producers, chefs and culinary visionaries. “The Cowichan has the most disproportionate number of food-aware people of anywhere in Canada,” states Heidi Noble, one of the new-breed cooks and vintners making an international name for herself in the southern Okanagan. “We’ve got some amazing gems out here, but everyone’s spread out across the great divide between Osoyoos and the Shuswap. By comparison, the Cowichan is incredibly compact. It’s a great place to vacation if you want to sample amazing food and wine right from the source without piling on the mileage.”

The Pioneers

Wineries have been key to the Cowichan’s character since Zanatta bottled its first harvests in 1990. With 10 vineyards now in production, the valley has been dubbed “the new Napa” by excitable tourism reps and headline writers – just like the Okanagan, Ontario’s Niagara Peninsula, Quebec’s Eastern Townships and practically every other emergent grape-growing region north of California. Yet the Cowichan stands alone as “Canada’s Provence,” a widely quoted epithet coined by the late James Barber, the beloved food writer and ebullient host of television’s The Urban Peasant who passed away last December at his Cowichan farm with a pot of chicken stock bubbling on the stove.

As with chefs Mara Jernigan and Bill Jones before him and writer/CBC broadcaster Don Genova shortly after, Barber was among an influx of influential food mavens drawn to the Cowichan by its charm, upside potential and the fact that a small farm holding could then be purchased for not much more than a two-bedroom Vancouver condo. Shortly after planting his first garlic bulbs here in 2001, Barber coined his catchphrase for the valley in a newspaper column, and it has stuck as the area continues to grapple for a marketable identity.

“It’s the only region in Canada with what the meteorologists call a ‘maritime Mediterranean climate,’ ” explains Jones, a French-trained gourmet chef with a quick wit who leads cooking workshops at his Deerholme Farm. Like the fabled southeast region of France, the Cowichan enjoys the kind of dry summers and mild, wet winters ideal for a year-round growing season. Cowichan itself is a Coast Salish word meaning “the warm land” or “land warmed by the sun.” Lavender, sage, rosemary and basil winter nicely here, notes Jones, just as they do in Provence.

Not everyone is fond of the comparison. Jernigan is a pioneer in the West Coast Slow Food movement who, a decade ago, kick-started the Vancouver Island edition of Feast of Fields – the leading foodfest among a growing number of local seasonal events. She feels the ‘P’ word creates unduly high expectations. “I don’t think we need to be imitative,” she says from her kitchen at Fairburn Farm, where she teaches her “field to table” cooking philosophy (read: fresh, local, sustainable, seasonal and organic) during popular culinary boot camps that range from a few hours to five days. “Besides,” Jernigan adds with a laugh, “I haven’t noticed any olive trees around here lately.”

Sinclair Philip, a champion of culinary tourism locally and co-owner of the internationally celebrated Sooke Harbour House, doesn’t like the comparison game either. “We live in a beautiful part of the world with its own character and charm. We don’t have the history or culture of Provence, but then again we’re not overrun with tourists either. We need to develop our own reputation and personality. Every new farmgate and restaurant serving local food is testament to the fact that it’s happening.”

Hilary’s Cheese Co., True Grains Breads & the Udder Guy’s Ice Cream Parlour, Cowichan Bay

Postcard-perfect Cowichan Bay is a good starting point for understanding the valley both historically and in terms of what rates – by my rather proletarian, non-foodie standards – as superior comfort food: chewy ciabatta, other- worldly ginger cookies, cheese so runny it “gallops” (again citing the words of James Barber) and real-deal homemade ice cream. A rainbow arches above wind-lashed waves as the cheesemaking Abbotts hold court in their waterfront lunch spot, Hilary’s Cheese Company, renowned for its homemade soup and rich assortment of creamy, blue-veined cheeses. “Not long ago this little community was in major decline,” says Patty Abbott, a former banker and landscaper who was pulled irresistibly into the cheese business when her husband, Hilary, mastered the fine art of transforming goat and cow’s milk into thick rounds of aromatic fromage. Storefronts were boarded up. The hotel at the top of the hill was closed and the marina was in disrepair. “Now the challenge is to retain the charm of the place without it being overrun with cars and parking issues.”

Today, Cowichan Bay’s colourful main street bustles with life and retail activity as visitors and locals browse the shops and stroll the boardwalk. The renaissance can be credited in large part to Hilary’s Cheese Co., True Grain Breads and the Udder Guy’s Ice Cream Parlour. “I think we’re giving people in the Cowichan and beyond good reason to visit on a regular and even daily basis,” says True Grain’s Jonathan Knight as he expertly shapes raw dough into plump rolls ready for the ovens of his natural organic bakery. After clocking his apprenticeship in North Vancouver, Knight, 33, cycled across Canada and ran a bakery on the northern tip of Cape Breton Island before setting up shop here in May 2004. Most mornings he and a trio of fellow bakers are submerged in fragrant heat and clouds of flour by 5 a.m.; the first baguettes are steaming fresh when his doors open three hours later. Knight currently grinds heirloom Red Fife wheat imported from Saskatchewan. In keeping with his dedication to locally sourced ingredients, however, he is encouraging Island farmers such as Metchosin’s Tom Henry to experiment with crops of their own. A house special called the 30 Mile Loaf uses Henry’s first batch of wheat from last summer, and a Three Mile Loaf will be a blackboard favourite if Providence Farm follows through on its plans to grow wheat.

Artisan Breads for an Al Fresco Feast (courtesy Edible BC)

True Grain is on the site of what was once “Cow” Bay’s general store at the close of the Victorian era. The deep-water port was one of the first landfalls in the area for European settlers in the 1850s, reports Kathryn Gagnon, curator of the Cowichan Valley Museum and Archives. One of the earliest local farmers, William Chalmers Duncan, arrived on the H.M.S. Hecate in August 1862 with a group of men who came to the valley in hopes of taming the wilderness. Though the task of clearing the thickly forested land proved too arduous for most, a few pioneering families with the names Dougan, Drink- water, Chisholm, Bell and Alexander did build cabins and plant crops to feed themselves and their cattle. The local population grew in earnest with the arrival of the Esquimalt & Nanaimo rail line in the 1880s. Experiments with tobacco crops failed, but dairy farming took hold. The Cowichan Creamery was producing award-winning butter by the turn of the century, and milk shipped from Duncan’s Station (as Duncan was  then known) to Victoria and Nanaimo was considered superior to any supplied by other regions because of the Cow- ichan’s lush grass and mild climate, says  Gagnon.

Mara Jenigan & the Archers, Fairburn Farm; Lyle Young, Cowichan Bay Farm

A handful of those pioneering farms are also pillars in today’s slow-food scene. Mara Jernigan’s culinary guesthouse is located on 53-hectare Fairburn Farm, a circa-1884 spread where owners Darryl and Anthea Archer operate Canada’s only water-buffalo dairy despite a rough early ride from the Canadian Food Inspection Agency (which dictated that the couple’s first 18 buffalo be destroyed for fear of mad-cow disease). It’s also possible to step back into history while negotiating the rutted road into Cowichan Bay Farm. Poultry farmer Lyle Young’s grandparents first settled the acreage in the 1920s, and the past is charmingly visible in its vintage barns and farmhouse, rusted tools nailed to the sides of outbuildings and classic automobiles housed in open-door garages. Sheep browse in the close-cropped fields and mud-spackled geese honk loudly as visitors pull up to the self-serve farm store to purchase frozen chickens and homemade sausages.

Young’s pasture-raised meat is also routinely served in the valley’s finer restaurants, most of which have hung out their shingles in recent years. Bill Jones isn’t kidding when he says burgers and below-par Chinese food were effectively the only local dine-out options back in the 1990s. Now there’s a consistently packed brewpub in downtown Duncan (the Craig Street Brew Pub) and such further-afield gems as the waterfront Genoa Bay Caf elegant Steeples Restaurant (in the former home of the Shawnigan Lake United Church) and little-known Old Road Inn, a B&B on the road to Cowichan Lake that serves “splendid, market-fresh meals,” according to Hilary Abbott.

Christophe Letard, Castro Boateng & Brother Michael, the Aerie; Dick & Georgie Clement, Hummingbird Haven Farm

The area’s one Relais & Cheaux hotel, the Aerie, has long utilized local food under its former executive chef Christophe Letard. His successor, Castro Boateng, is equally committed to all things fresh and seasonal. “Food is an art and an adventure for chefs, but we are indebted to our suppliers – they are the real heroes,” Boateng tells me one evening in the hotel’s restaurant, before serving a six-course repast that begins with a crab salad topped with basil foam and ends several dazzling hours later with a slow-poached apple from Hummingbird Haven Farm. The farm, a few minutes south on the Malahat from the hotel, was once a hobby for former auto mechanic Dick Clement and his wife, Georgie. Now, like other ambitious retirees in the region, the couple are busier than ever with a .8-hectare garden in which they grow spinach, chard, parsnips, beans, onions and heirloom tomatoes. For his part, Boateng particularly enjoys trekking into the forest with Brother Michael, a Benedictine monk at the nearby Sole Dao Monastery with an uncanny nose for chanterelle, pine, hedgehog and lobster mushrooms. Hotel guests can forage alongside the fungi specialists, then learn how to prepare their finds with lessons from the chef back at the Aerie.

Sinclair Philip, Sooke Harbour House

The other hotel on southern Vancouver Island routinely cited in the pages of CondNast Traveler is located just outside the Cowichan. But most food critics in the know cite the Sooke Harbour House’s Sinclair Philip as the regional scene’s prime mover for the past quarter-century. “Sinclair and [his wife] Frique have supported local producers from the get-go, purchased local wines in volume and generally brought credence and an international profile to the region,” is how Jernigan puts it.

Seated beside a crackling fireplace in his Sooke House art-strewn restaurant, the BC Restaurant Hall of Famer with a Ph.D in political science and an omnivore’s passion for everything from fine wine to karate serves up an hour of rapid-fire home truths. “Good things are happening here, no question, but there are growing pains,” says Philip, wrapped snugly in a jacket he picked up at Feast of Fields a few years back. “The salmon runs are drastically diminished. The dairy industry is in serious decline. Our aging farmers are wondering why they should keep working 70-hour weeks when they can sell their land to a developer and become overnight millionaires. Ten years ago we produced 10 per cent of the food we ate on Vancouver Island; today it’s six per cent. So I’m both optimistic and pessimistic about the future. I’d be a lot more positive if the government stopped focusing on promoting single crops and began to genuinely support independent small-scale farmers.”

But when the conversation shifts to food, Philip waxes poetic about what’s emerging from the Cowichan, Salt Spring Island and southern Vancouver Island as a whole. (Right outside his doors, in fact, is Whiffin Spit, where seaweed diva Diane Bernard harvests the ocean for unusual ingredients.) “The difference between 15 years ago and today is that you’ll find local food served and promoted in many top-end restaurants, such as Zambri’s and Brasserie L’ole in Victoria,” he says. “There’s a growing cachet about the word ‘Cowichan.’ And the reputation is solid because a large, enthusiastic group of dedicated people are working incredibly hard to establish slow food as a way of life in this province.”

Pulling apart one of Jonathan Knight’s crusty rolls  at the Providence Farm chef’s luncheon brings back images of the young baker hefting large sacks of grain to his mill – hard, physical labour in pursuit of artisan delights that require little effort to devour. We’re having the kind of grand, bubbly time that is commonplace when the valley’s epicurean set gathers in one place, and as plates and glasses appear and vanish in seamless succession, a warm glow suffuses the room. Local food served with skill and love from field to table with creativity, skill and a profound love of the earth. It may be more than just a recipe for a green and leafy organic future.

IF YOU GO

Self-guided roadtrip: Vancouver Island Tourism (vancouverisland. travel); Tourism Victoria (tourismvictoria. com); Cowichan Tourism (cowichan.net/visit/ index.htm); BC Culinary Tourism Society (bcculinarytourism.com).

Guided roadtrip: Travel with Taste Tours (250-385-1527; travel withtaste.com).

Contact info for events, accommodations and producers in this article: bcaa.com/cowichan.

More info: Contemplate & Serve An Edible Journey: Exploring the Island’s Fine Food, Farms & Vineyards, by Elizabeth Levinson (TouchWood Editions, 2003; $23.95).

Lead photo: Gourmet Kayaking Weekended Wine Line-up (courtesy Edible BC).

Jaunt: North Saanich to Cowichan Valley, B.C.
Distance: Approx. 200 km
Fuel: 1/2 tank Duration: 2 days
Prime Time: Spring, summer and fall
Tunes: Mixed CD featuring versions of “Red, Red Wine,” recorded by Neil Diamond, UB40, Gregory Isaac, Tony Tribe and Jimmy James and the Vagabonds

Highway travel subverts the charm of southern Vancouver Island in a blur of heavy traffic and high-speed glimpses of mountain, forest and ocean. Wine aficionados, however, can escape such freeway madness by traipsing along scenic back roads from one charming vineyard to the next on the Saanich Peninsula and in the Cowichan Valley.

A glass of red...

Two options: either wing it by following the plentiful burgundy “Wine Tour” road signs, or plot your course according to this slow-paced, two-day sojourn. Note: each winery cited has its own tasting room and retail outlet, open from spring to fall, with “open by chance” the relaxed rule at boutique operations in the off-season (appointments can generally be made by phoning ahead).

Leg One
Saanich Peninsula
(approx. 100 km)

Whether arriving from Vancouver via BC Ferries or driving from Victoria, begin this tour on Lands End Road near the Swartz Bay terminal at the Peninsula’s northern tip. The coastline-hugging road ambles past million-dollar waterfront homes with full-frontal views of Salt Spring Island and onward to the residential village of Deep Cove. Stop for a leg stretch on the rocky foreshore or make your first stop at the Chalet Estate Vineyard (open Tuesdays to Sundays, 11 a.m. to 5 p.m; 250-656-2552). This delightful farmgate is located directly across the road from the Deep Cove Chalet – every gourmand’s first choice for local dining. Organic wines are a specialty here, which means pesticide-free grapes and no added sulfites. Pick to sip: The award-winning Orange Muscat.

Bottles tucked in the trunk, head south on West Saanich Road past Victoria International Airport and Patricia Bay, where sun-baked harbour seals bask on the pier jutting westward from the Institute of Oceanic Sciences. Hang a left on Mount Newton Cross Road, then be prepared to dawdle: with its dazzling views of the Saanich Inlet, the narrow road is routinely championed as one of the most scenic in Canada. Fine valley prospects can be enjoyed from the parking lot at Marley Farm Winery, where the unearthly quiet is disturbed only by the bleating of sheep wandering amid the vines (open daily 11 a.m. to 6 p.m., May through September, with shortened hours in winter; 250-652-8667). Owned by a second cousin of the reggae legend, Marley Farm is known for its fruit wines: blackberry, rhubarb, quince and kiwi included. Pick to sip: An “irie blend” dubbed Rastaberry.

Sea Cider tasting room

With lunch beckoning, continue on to nearby Saanichton, where decent pub grub is available at the circa-1859 Prairie Inn. Or keep driving east on Mount Newton toward the Pat Bay Highway to the area’s newest draw, Sea Cider Farm & Ciderhouse (open Wednesdays to Sundays, 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.; 250-544-4824). Offering a panorama that sweeps over the orchard to the Haro Strait beyond, the tasting room pairs a half-dozen diverse ciders with cheese, preserves and dark chocolate. Pick to sip: Kings & Spies, a sparkling cider made with local heritage apples.

Track back to the West Saanich Road, then south through Brentwood Bay. At the turnoff for Butchart Gardens sits Vancouver Island’s largest winery, Church & State Wines (open daily 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.; 250-652-2671). Behind its imposing gates is an Okanagan-style big-league enterprise that produces 14,000 cases annually. Pick to sip: The Church Mouse lines of Merlot and Pinot Noir.

Detouring even farther south onto the shaded and serpentine Old West Saanich Road (yes, the nomenclature in these parts can be tricky) introduces two more farmgate gems. Winchester Cellars produces organic wine from its Barking Dog vineyard. The barn-style tasting room is guarded by a fierce stone image of Dionysus, the Greek god of the grape, and is set amid a cultivated garden dotted with amusing wrought-iron sculptures. (Open weekends 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.; 250-544-8217.) Pick to sip: The Ortega/Bacchus, Van Isle’s only certified organic wine.

Starling Lane Winery

Five minutes of hairpin twists and turns brings the Starling Lane Winery into view (open weekends noon to 5 p.m., May through September; 250-881-7422). The vineyard is worth a visit even when closed; park roadside and stroll down Starling Lane to visit with the farmyard turkeys, sheep and chickens. Pick to sip: The Wild Blackberry Dessert Wine. Good sleeps: Only a few hundred metres back down the road from Starling Lane is the five-star Tudor-style Gazebo B&B (1-877-211-2288). Or get a jump on day two of this circuit by nesting spa-style at the Brentwood Bay Lodge and Spa, voted the province’s leading boutique hotel at 2007’s World Travel Awards (1-888-544-2079). Good eats: The Blue’s Bayou Café’s Cajun-style seafood and jambalaya, served dockside (250-544-1194).

Leg Two
Brentwood Bay to Duncan
(approx. 100 km)

Billed as “British Columbia’s most beautiful shortcut,” the Mill Bay ferry zips travellers across the Saanich Inlet and eliminates the Malahat from a jaunt up-Island. (Travel is first-come, first-served, and the crew accepts only cash or traveller’s cheques.)

Back on terra firma, take Shawnigan-Mill Bay Road up the hill to Hwy. 1; after a brief taste of the six-lane tarmac, swing left at the stoplight and follow the signs to Merridale Estate Cidery (open daily 10:30 a.m. to 5 p.m.; 1-800-998-9908). Here, wander the rolling hillside property, take a self-guided tour, lunch in the restaurant and sample the scrumpy at the elegant tasting bar. Pick to sip: A traditional cider good enough to win medals in Somerset, England. Next, detour for a dip in nearby Shawnigan Lake or travel onward past green swathes of field and forest to the village of Cobble Hill, just beyond which – on Cobble Hill Road – are a pair of boutique wineries. Glenterra Vineyards draws kudos for its Thistles Café lunches, mere metres from the tangled vines. (Open daily, except Tuesdays, 11:30 a.m. to 5:00 p.m.; 250-743-2330.) Pick to sip: The best-selling Vivace blend. Silverside Farm & Winery boasts an art gallery, gift shop and tasty selection of berry-based wines. (Phone ahead in shoulder season. Open Saturdays 11 a.m. to 4 p.m.; 250-743-9149.) Pick to sip: The raspberry port-style wine.

Ramping it up to 80 klicks per hour on Hwy. 1 brings the Venturi-Schulze Vineyards within sipping distance (by appointment only; 250-743-5630). This pioneering winery began capitalizing on the region’s mild climate back in 1987 and is today known as much for its balsamic vinegar as its Pinot Noir. Pick to sip: Limited edition vintages are the norm here, so sip whatever’s available.

Back on the highway, descend into Duncan past the shopaholic allure of Whippletree Junction (home to handcrafted furniture, decadent fudge and top local hangout Black Coffee and Other Delights, then turn left at Miller Road (adjacent to the Old Farm Market and its trademark covered wagon). Jog right on Koksilah Road, then immediately back onto Miller as the pocket wine-growing region of Glenora unfolds. Zanatta Winery, near the village of Glenora’s central junction, has a solid reputation for sparkling wines that add a festive zing to rustic lunches at the in-house Vinoteca wine bar. (Open Wednesdays to Sundays, noon to 4:30 p.m.; 250-748-2338.) Pick to sip: Glenora Fantasia Brut, an apple-scented sparkling wine. Farther down Marshall Road at the end of a long, bumpy driveway is Godfrey-Brownell Vineyards (open daily noon to 5 p.m.; 250-715-0504). Tastings are beside the fireplace in proprietor Dave Godfrey’s home or on a patio where jazz trios entertain on summer weekends. Pick to sip: The 2002 Scarlatti Sisters blended red, with its delightful label designed by Victoria artist Isa Sevrain. The neighbouring Echo Valley Vineyards sells vino by the glass; travellers are invited to bring their own picnic spreads (Tastings by appointment; 250-748-1470.) Pick to sip: The 2005 Sylvaner.

Next up: An hour or two exploring Duncan’s revitalized downtown core. Must-see: the Duncan Garage, a heritage warehouse near the old train station with a fine bookstore and the organically inclined Community Farm Store. Then, head north on the Trans-Canada to the Cowichan’s northernmost winery, Averill Creek Vineyard, high on the face of Mount Prevost where paragliders take flight (open Wednesdays to Sundays, 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.; 250-709-9986). Pick to sip: A Pinot Gris that won the gold medal in 2006’s All Canadian Wine Tasting championship. From here, follow Hwy. 18 (a.k.a. Herd Road) eastbound, then south on Maple Bay and Tzouhalem Roads to reach the lovely village of Cowichan Bay. Stock up on edibles at Hilary’s Cheese Co. and True Grain Bread before hitting the Udder Guy’s Ice Cream Parlour for its intoxicating Red Wine Grape confection.

Circling back toward Cobble Hill delivers two more first-rate wineries. Founded in 1990 by Wayne and Helen Ulrich, Cherry Point Vineyards has the feel of a Napa winery with its manicured grounds, restaurant and tasting room. (Open daily 10 a.m. to 5 p.m.; 250-743-1272.) Regularly scheduled tours take visitors backstage in the winemaking process. Pick to sip: The rich, sweet Cowichan Blackberry fruit wine. After crossing over the Trans-Canada one last time, the trail ends at Blue Grouse Vineyards, a one-time hobby start-up in a peaceful green valley. (Open Wednesdays to Saturdays, 11 a.m. to 5 p.m.; 250-743-3834.) Pick to sip: A series of German-style white wines led by the 2006 Müller-Thurgau. Good sleeps: Near the Arbutus Ridge golf course in Cobble Hill, Damali Lavender Farm offers a trio of sweetly scented rooms overlooking purple fields (250-743-4100). Good eats: Foodies rave about Amusé Bistro (250-743-3667) in the town of Shawnigan Lake; local delights are also a specialty at Duncan’s Bistro 161 (250-746-6466) and Cowichan Bay’s Masthead (250-748-3714).

Lead photo courtesy of sashafatcat.

• ambience (whether my room is a bure on a Fijian beach or rustic backcountry escape)
• the uniqueness factor: what sets the hotel apart from its peers, and surprises and delights?
• a sense of ease, comfort and lack of pretension
• staff or owners skilled in the art of making everyone feel immediately at home, without fuss, and who go well beyond the expected in terms of hospitality
• a certain flair and attention to detail in design, decor and presentation
• value for money
• great location

Victoria’s Magnolia Hotel & Spa won me over immediately – on all counts.

Built in 1998 by developers Rourke Group Design as a labour of love, and classed as a four-diamond city boutique hotel that Conde Nast Traveler readers consistently rank as one of the top hotels in Canada, the seven-floor, 64-room Magnolia on Courtney Street is conveniently tucked amidst downtown Victoria hot spots. Floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the Inner Harbour, classic-but-relaxed decor by Vancouver-based award-winning BBA Design, Aveda toiletries (including fabulous, daily “bath bombs”), a newly reopened onsite spa, a new, independently owned restaurant off the lobby, gas fireplaces in many rooms and feather pillows so plump I’m currently scheming how to beg, borrow or steal six for at home . . . and it only gets better. Because, ultimately, what makes everything in a hotel mesh, no matter how polished its separate components, is something rather intangible….that feeling….of being at home, of feeling welcomed without the perception that it’s business as usual or a bit of a front. In other words, staff who are interesting, interested individuals and not PR clones or, worse, indifferent.

Anne and Jana at Magnolia's grand spa opening and restaurant launch

As with any business, I believe good staff are honed by the leadership at the top, and in this case that’s general manager Jana Cornelius. Jana has that rare ability to imbue any encounter

with a naturalness and quiet charm, making those she is speaking with feel like they’re the most important person in the room. And she’s the reason, I believe, that before Christmas when my teen missed the last ferry home to Vancouver from Victoria, and I phoned another hotel we’ve stayed at over the years and was told “No,” they couldn’t give my daughter a room because they didn’t have my credit card imprint (nor, apparently, any suggested alternatives), I phoned the night desk at the Magnolia.

Markus came on the line immediately: discreet, calm, the epitome of class. Yes, perhaps I was the editor of a travel magazine and website who had stayed at the hotel recently. Perhaps not. More important, I was a mother with a young teen stranded in the city at midnight. There was no “I’m sorry, ma’am, that’s the hotel’s policy.” No “I’m sorry, the manager has gone home for the day.” Just a good human being on the end of the line who took my credit card number on faith . And I’ll be forever grateful he did, as will a certain tough-but-still-sometimes-scared teenager.

The Other Victoria

I confess, I used to consider Victoria a tad staid. What a mistake! The capital’s hoppin’ these days, with one of the best microbrewery scenes in the Pacific Northwest; funky, artsy shopping, including the Lower Jo, for starters, where even the teens at our house can find something cool (a small miracle in itself); the island’s Cowichan and Comox valley foodie enclaves barely a half-hour drive away; winery tours; Travel with Taste foodie tours with Kathy McAree; the only tea-tasting bar in North America, Silk Road and Spa (book ahead for a green-tea facial); the Royal B.C. Museum, a world-class museum doing nifty things year-round, including this summer’s Treasures: the World’s Cultures from the British Museum (a global journey charting the development of civilization through art and artifacts); and the list goes on (www.tourismvictoria.com/gettinghere; www.tourismvictoria.com/vacationguide;
www.tourismvictoria.com/events; www.tourismvictoria.com/videos)

Not Your Average Steakhouse

Chef Bruce Batty: Where were you when I needed you most?

I’d have been a better mother if Bill Almeida had opened his pride and joy 10 years ago. As in, my kid would have been begging, yes, begging, for vegetables versus picking off “all those green things.” Instead, I’ve been trapped in the kitchen with the pickiest eater on the planet, pureeing veggies into soups and conniving with my own mom over chocolate cake recipes surreptitiously stuffed with zucchini. Where were you then, chef Bruce Batty? Because Prime, though ironically billed as a steakhouse (and yes, beef-lovers, its lovingly tended servings of High River, Alberta beef are superb, too), performs wonders with those “green things.” I’ll put it this way: since raving over the four side-dishes of vegetables I had at the restaurant’s Grand Opening (after two days of events I was desperate for something light), I’ve been indulging daily at home with my own makeshift version of Batty’s beefsteak tomatoes, even at breakfast. But my versions just haven’t had quite the same panache. So finally I broke down and begged for the recipe posted below. Now if I can just nab the secret behind the chef’s magic touch with asparagus — sea salt, olive oil and ?? (which I’m thinking might do wonders for green beans, too.)

Then there’s the Magnolia’s just-opened redesigned Aveda spa…already hailed as “the best spa in Victoria” by locals in-the-know. Soaring old-world ceilings, seabreeze-aqua walls – now that the weather’s finally turned Mediterranean the plan is to drag he-who-can’t-stand-his- feet-touched over the local pond for a pedicure, along with my online tech partner who apparently has a similar phobia re: anyone laying hands on his hair. (Us wives are dying to have fun with this, but more about that when we have the video in hand). I mean, hey, why should other women have all the fun - and they are having fun, with 33% of leisure travellers flocking to hotel spas in droves,  and boyfriends and husbands accounting for some 29% per cent of those spa visits annually.

Meanwhile, laptop fired up, fire on, a view of the harbour framed in the rainy background and that first succulent forkful of blue-cheese-dotted greens and gourmet “hamburger” (sans bun) giving a whole new meaning to the term “room service,” I’m already feeling spoiled rotten despite the five hours of work ahead.

***
Batty’s Beefsteak Tomatoes
2 large beefsteak tomatoes (one per person)
Sweetest onion you can get your hands on (red or white; tripiline is good), shaved super fine (use mandoline)
Blue cheese (Rosenberg or Salt Spring Island’s Blossom Blue by Moonstruck)

Dressing (makes enough for 6 tomatoes):
1 tbsp dijon
1 oz rice wine vinegar
1 oz lemon juice
pinch salt
pinch pepper
pinch of sugar
1/2 sweet onion
Blend, then slowly blend in 1/2 cup canola oil, 1/2 cup olive oil)

To prepare:
1. Slice tomatoes 1/4″ thick and fan on plate
2. Arrange arulula in middle of tomatoes and top with shaved sweet onion
3. Drizzle with dressing
4. Top with blue cheese