“Why Featherstone?” Joe asked. “Is that your hippy name?”
Well, Joe, I suppose in a way, it is. I’ve reached a point in my life where I need to follow what the quiet voice inside has been trying to tell me for years. I need to let go and be who I was meant to be all along. The name Featherstone reminds me that it is possible to be grounded and still able to fly.
Inside these pages you will find poetry, photography and a few random thoughts. I hope you enjoy your visit.
My friend, Lee, made up his mind at the age of thirteen who he was going to be. Not what he was going to do for a living – that’s only a fraction of who we are – but who he was going to BE. And true to his vision, he became that person. At the time of this revelation, although I never voiced it aloud, I was critical. His thirteen-year-old plan didn’t account for any changes in his life, no room for growth.
I owe Lee an apology.
In my judgment of him, I failed to realize that I, too, knew the person I wanted to be, by about age twelve. The difference is, I allowed myself to be distracted, thrown off-course, and it hasn’t been since the last five years of growing into the person I want to be I realized it was the same person I wanted to be at twelve.
There were certainly a few changes made along the way, and some lessons hard learned. But I am closer now to my twelve-year-old self than I’ve ever been.
It was with a sense of elation I set out on Sunday to do what I wanted to do, be who I wanted to be.
The air was hot and thick, and there was no way for me to predict what would happen, as the sky seemed to hold clouds of every colour, but I was determined to have an adventure, and see what there was to see. Maybe if I looked at rocks, I would find some BC jade.
As I headed into the mountains, the air was sweet with sage and Ponderosa pine. I could hear crickets and watched as the gentle breeze bowed light golden grasses. But once I turned onto McCulloch Road, it didn’t take long for the scenery to begin to change. Sandstone cliffs turned into rock walls, Ponderosa pine made way for Lodgepole pine and Cedar.
The aroma of trees and wildflowers filled the air. There wasn’t enough of a breeze to blow through the Chev, and I found myself sticking my head out the window as I puttered along at 23 km/h, trying to inhale as much of the forest as possible.
The heart of the wildflower season doesn’t begin for another month or two, but there were still plenty to look at.
Wild Roses shouted deep pink from the roadside.
Cinquefoil, canary yellow in the shade.
I even saw what I think are cherry blossoms out in the middle of nowhere. Tiny Wild Strawberry blossoms were everywhere.
Butterflies rose from the road in front of me. Tiger Swallowtails, Mourning Cloaks, Painted Ladies, and the disappointingly named Orange Tip.
But wait a second! Was that a bear ahead? Or was it a cow? I’ve made that mistake before, and with my eyes in their current condition, I couldn’t tell for sure. I stopped the car and grabbed my camera, using the lens to zoom in. It was a bear! He was gorgeous, cinnamon coloured with four black feet and a black stripe across his nose. Before I could press the shutter, he turned and headed back into the deep forest. I was left with a fuzzy photo of bear butt. Or a photo of a fuzzy bear butt, depending on how you look at it.
I pulled forward to where he disappeared into the woods, but he had vanished, as if he had never existed at all. I waited for a while, engine off, to see if he would re-emerge further along the road, Alas, he did not.
This journey had become a creature feature and I forgot all about looking for jade.
Instead, I admired the stink bug that crawled onto my foot as I was trying to take a photo of the rushing creek, stepped away from the pile of deadfall when I noticed it was crawling with spiders. Shared space with pollinators as we competed for the same flowers.
I nearly won an inadvertent game of chicken with a red squirrel who came out of freaking nowhere!
Of course, there were birds, yet I didn’t get a single photograph. I thought I did. I thought I found a strange new woodpecker I had never seen before. Did I mention I’m still struggling with my eyesight? Learning to take photos with my left eye?
That is not a woodpecker.
I watched from a high ledge as an eagle circled the tops of the trees in the valley below me. I didn’t even try to get a photo. It was one of those moments I just had to feel, rather than capture. (You’ve seen The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, right?)
My god, I felt so alive! How lucky I am to be in the midst of such beauty.
I made my way to my de facto destination – Browne Lake.
The water sparkled blue in the sunlight. Other than a couple of guys fishing out on the lake, no one was around. I sat for a while, absorbing my surroundings, and then walked to the marsh edge of the lake to look at the lilypads floating on the shallow surface, glimmering like jewels over the shoals.
Hot, sweaty, and totally fulfilled, I made the journey home.
I know now why Lee was always so positive about his life. The closer I move to the person I always wanted to be, the less I have to complain about.
“Are you awake?” From behind the closed door, I heard Santana reply cheerfully. I eased the door open a crack.
“I think I want to go out for a drive today. Do you want to come along?”
Santana tilted his head, a slight frown on his face.
“I thought you weren’t comfortable with the idea of driving?”
“On the highway, no. But I’d be okay with one of the forestry roads.”
“What brought this on?”
“I figured if I am going to lose my sight, I’d like to get out at least one more time first.”
“That’s morbid,” Santana said, as he swung his legs out of bed. “But sure. I’m in.”
Morbid, maybe. But also a very real possibility.
It happened on Thursday afternoon, at the very worst possible time. I was at the sink, filling up a water bottle, when suddenly, I lost vision in my right eye. Immediately, I was off-balance. I found a chair and sat down, waiting for the dizziness to pass, for my sight to return. But my sight didn’t return. Instead, all I could see were purple snowflakes made of yellow lightning bolts. Maybe I just needed to lie down for a minute. I was still suffering the aftereffects of a nasty fall two weeks earlier. I felt my way down the hallway to my bedroom and lay down. Nothing changed. I could feel panic, rising in my chest.
Reaching for my phone, I called the health line. I don’t know what I expected. I guess I was hoping the nurse would tell me to put a warm facecloth over my eye or something. I wasn’t expecting her to tell me to get to the hospital immediately.
So that is how I ended up missing the launch of my very first book.
When it became clear I wasn’t going to be released in time to make it to the event I had organized for National Poetry Month and the debut of my first collection, Santana went in my place. He, along with my very good friends, Michele and Jaki, ensured the event went off without a hitch, even going so far as to get on stage and read a couple of my poems.
In the meantime, I was learning the probable cause for my loss of vision was an “eye-stroke.” I had undergone eye tests, ultrasound, a CT scan, and bloodwork. My vision had fluctuated between the purple snowflakes, what looked like a photo negative, to bright outlines, to only seeing light and dark. I was told my vision may never return to normal. Oh, and there’s a small mass on my brain – probably nothing to worry about.
It wasn’t until the next morning over coffee I found myself weeping, feeling sorry for myself, and wondering what I must have done in my last life to deserve everything I’d had to endure in this one. (Yes, I am a closet drama-queen.)
But here’s the thing – you can only feel sorry for yourself for so long before it starts to feel forced. And at my age, I don’t have time for that. So, on Sunday morning, I was ready for a little forest therapy.
We headed up Lakeshore Drive, past where it turns back toward the lake, and on to the Gillard Forestry Road. My eyesight was almost completely normal when we started out, although I was finding the brightness of the day a little painful.
Being Sunday, there was lots of traffic on a normally quiet road. Cyclists and off-road enthusiasts and their vehicles lined the gravel road in clusters, and every so often we’d come upon a group of people just hanging out having a beer in front of a campfire. There was plenty of dust in the air.
The higher we climbed, the less traffic there was, until it seemed we had outrun them all. We reached the turnoff to the Chute Lake Lodge, but it was obviously too early in the year to tackle the road without four-wheel drive.
After poking the nose of our vehicle down a couple of other roads to see what might lie beyond, we eventually decided we had gone as high as we could go and began the slow descent back down the mountain.
We hadn’t been out for more than a couple of hours, but already my neck and ribs were aching, and my right eye was starting to get a little wonky. It wasn’t too bad driving, but trying to see through the view finder on the camera was challenging.
That didn’t stop me from appreciating the flowering saskatoon bushes, the pair of red-tailed hawks, the forest, the rocks, and of course, the Columbia Ground Squirrels.
It was good to get out, to step away from myself, and just breathe the dust and the forest. I may end up losing my sight. But if it happens, I will still find a way to feel life as it happens. I will still find a way.
I stopped at Munson Pond the other day. No reason. I just needed a moment or two of quiet and the turnoff was right there. I was surprised to see the pond had no ice left on it. I didn’t stay long-just long enough to notice the Violet-Green swallows wheeling and diving in the air and the trees reflected in the stillness of the water.
I had planned to drive up into the mountains this week. I figured I’d drop Bear off at work and keep going. But when the time came, I looked at the mountains and all the snow clinging to the rocks and trees and thought, “Nope. Not today.”
Since I had my camera with me, and it was on the way home anyway, I returned to Munson Pond.
The air was still chilly. It was too early for the mercury to have risen above zero. Even the swallows, so prevalent the day before, must have decided it was too cold to be up that early. But there were plenty of other birds to see and appreciate.
I pushed my walker out onto the wooden platform, turned it around, and sat down. I had the whole place to myself. But it was far from quiet. There was the call of the geese, announcing their impending arrival, the distinctive quack of the Mallard, the cheerful song of some unidentified warblers, and the cooing of the Mourning Dove.
There’s not a lot of green yet – just the faintest blush of what’s to come, but the unadorned branches of the Weeping Willow seemed to explode like orange fireworks along the shore.
The sky was a brilliant blue, with wispy, white clouds, and the sunlight cast a snowy sheen on the feathers of the Mergansers.
I spent some time watching the Mergansers. There were four males, all circling one female. One of the males aggressively tried to chase the others away, but he couldn’t keep up, spinning back and forth in a flurry of feathers. The other males kept circling back, while the female floated on, occasionally pausing to preen, seemingly unconcerned with the fuss she was causing.
And I laughed.
I remember what it was like to be that female. Surrounded by boys, all trying to get my attention. From the age of about 14 to the age of 20, there were always boys. I kind of feel bad for the generations that follow mine – there’s almost too much caution. Boys are taught not to compliment girls, not to openly admire them, and certainly never try to kiss them. The nice boys respect those rules. The creepy ones do not. And so, girls are FORCED to be cautious. How on earth do they get to experience the thrill of sexual awakening?
I remember years ago, visiting the Movieland Wax Museum in California. Our tour group was about two steps ahead of the group behind us, and in that group was the most good-looking boy I had ever seen. Our eyes kept meeting in the moments between our group leaving an exhibit and his group approaching.
I dropped back from my group slightly. The next thing I knew, he had taken my hand, pulled me into a dark corner where we kissed madly. We never spoke a word, didn’t exchange names, and of course, I never saw him again. Too much information? Sorry about that.
But it saddens me to know that kind of encounter isn’t even possible anymore.
Of course, my mom always did say I was boy crazy. A few months ago, when I met my birth mother for the first time, I listened to the abbreviated story of her life. When she was done, there was a pause.
“Well,” I said, “my mom always said I was boy crazy. At least now I know where I got that from.”
She looked at me, stunned, and then began to laugh.
So, yes, watching the Mergansers gave me a chuckle and reminded me what it was like to be young. And even though I sometimes feel it would be nice to have a partner to talk to, to share a coffee with, I’m enjoying my life too much right now to be too concerned about it. It’s my time. If I want to spend it with Coots, Widgeons, and Robins, that’s my choice.
“Aki-Earth. I will walk her skin today, attuned to her heartbeat, the feel of her thrumming through the soles of my feet.”
-Richard Wagamese from “Embers”
I got dressed very carefully this morning. I started with a two-piece set of long underwear that hasn’t seen the light of day since I left Alberta. I topped that with a t-shirt, some comfy pants, and the only pair of socks I own thin enough to be worn with my mukluks. I even put on one of those neck thingies you can pull up to cover your ears and face. Finally, I borrowed a hooded jacket from Santana because I knew the cloth coat I’ve been wearing for the last 30 years wouldn’t be warm enough. Apparently, I’ve become acclimated to the Okanagan.
As I promised myself last month, I was going to try to spend less time driving and more time walking, both for my health and the environment. Even though the temperatures were hovering above zero and rain wasn’t forecast until later in the day, I wanted to be prepared.
This seemed like a good morning to visit Woodhaven Regional Park in Kelowna, just a short drive from my house and as yet, unvisited by me.
When I arrived at the park, I was greeted by a five-year old and his mother, who was dropping him off at the preschool on the edge of the park.
“There’s a whole family of deer living here!” he said.
“Is that right?” I knew the endangered Western Screech Owl nests in these woods, and I was hoping to spot one. But a family of deer would be nice, too.
His mother, watching me unload my walker from the car said, “Be really careful. The trails are icy. And the one coming back is steep. I wouldn’t try it unless you have cleats on.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate that. It’s unlikely that I’ll make it that far, but good to know, just in case.”
“And there’s a cougar out there,” the child said. He looked at me and frowned. “Don’t get lost.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
Funny… I’d just been thinking about the word lost. It came up as a prompt in this daily writing thing I’ve been doing.
I started out on the trail. It was mostly level, rising only slightly, but it was indeed icy. There were also rocks and roots to consider as I made my way down the main trail, stopping to lift my walker over obstacles.
I don’t remember a time in my life when I was truly lost, unless it happened way back in my childhood. It didn’t matter if it was an unfamiliar city or somewhere out in the hills—if I found I didn’t know exactly where I was, I was unshakeably confident I could find my way out, find my way back. I always did. I’m grateful for that.
The trail was winding it’s way through the woods until I could no longer hear the sounds from the street. I stopped often, to sit and rest, to take photos, or to try and feel the heartbeat of the earth.
No, for me, being lost is something that happens on an emotional level. Too many feelings at once leads me to feeling lost, overwhelmed, anxious. But what better way to triage my emotions than a walk in the woods and some quiet sitting.
I reached a clearing in the forest. There was a bench sitting there. I sat there for quite some time, taking stock of the moment. What was I seeing, feeling, hearing? Just outside the clearing were a pair of squirrels, playing…tag? The air was cool and prickly on my face, and in the distance, I could hear ducks and a crow. The air was sweet with the smell of bark, mud, and green growing things.
Mentally, I think feeling lost is one of the more underrated aspects of mental health, in part because if it isn’t dealt with, it can grow into even more complex mental issues. I need to develop the same confidence in finding my way back emotionally as I do physically. Luckily, I have tools an my disposal to help me learn how to do just that.
Not far past the bench, the trail took a steep upward turn and the sunlight filtering through to the forest floor glared brightly on its surface. I turned around and slowly began to make my way back.
I didn’t see the owl, or the deer. I didn’t see the cougar, although part of me wished I would have. Okay, most of me. I even carried my camera around my neck in the “on” position, just in case. I imagine it’s just as well. If I had seen the cougar, it most likely would have been the last thing I ever saw. But what a sight to go out on!
I don’t know for sure when it happened although, if I were to go through my old journals, I could probably pinpoint it. I only know things have changed. It wasn’t even a subtle shift—it was more like two pieces of a model railroad track snapping together with a click. It was the moment I changed from being a writer looking for credibility to a writer who had things to say. It is a welcome change. I’m still dealing with the dynamics of the shift. There are bits and pieces needing to be put away, organizing to be done, and more. But I’m not waiting for everything to be perfect. I’d be waiting the rest of my life. In fact, I’ve already started. I’ve been gathering resources, dipping my toes in the water, and trying to learn as much as I can.
I may have just sold my first, no second, piece of writing. In fact, the first piece I was commissioned to write might have been the catalyst. To discover I could be paid for my work. Or it might have been the end of my part-time casual job. I could look for a new job, or I could focus on writing, and see if I could earn enough to have the odd weekend adventure. Or it might have been signing the contract for my first book, as though I put a big checkmark next to “Get Published” and said, “Ok, now what?”
The thing is, I have time. A lot of time. And while it’s (almost) possible for me to survive on my disability check, a little extra cash makes for a nice cushion. My current situation gives me a little wiggle room. To explore. To change.
I’ve never been fond of change. I find myself clinging to the familiar. Maybe that’s why I stayed in my marriage as long as I did. God knows it was terrifying to walk away, not knowing what the future might bring. And maybe that is why I am so much more comfortable with change now. Change is an adventure.
I started the year by signing up for five different free on-line writing workshops, challenges, etc. The one I found most useful was a one-day workshop hosted by a friend of mine. Without going into too much detail, this is what I learned –
You don’t close the door on the year just past. Instead, you look at it critically. Make a list of the bad things that happened. Make a list of the good things that happened. The bad things are the lessons you learned. The good things are the memories you created. Instead of closing the door, you want to build on that.
I was surprised to find my memories were a longer list than my lessons. I want more. I want more memories, less lessons. I sat down and created my Live List—a list of all the things I’d like to do this year, no matter how impractical they might be. (Ziplining. Really?) Now, my goal is to find a way to achieve as many of them as possible in the coming year. I’m never going to get them all done. But I found my Live List contained a lot of things that could be accomplished, with a little effort and planning.
Whew! That’s a lot of preamble just to tell you one of my goals is to do at least one blog post per month. But this year is going to be a little different. My focus is going to be a little less on the backroads and a bit more on what is right in my own back yard. Oh, I’ll still be hitting the backroads on occasion. I have an addiction to road dust and wildflowers. But with high gas prices, I’m thinking it wouldn’t be a bad idea to visit some of the places I’ve heard of but never seen. I want to do a little walking, a little writing, and just exist in the moment.
Today seemed like a good day to start.
I didn’t go far—just to the beach across the street from the park I live in. While I have been walking daily, trying to build up my strength, I’m not far enough along to walk all the way there. No, I drove, parked, and used my energy to do my walking on the beach. I knew I wouldn’t be able to push my walker over snow, grass, and sand. So using just the steam of my own two legs, I went for a walk on the beach. Even though I wore full length pants, a shirt with sleeves, fingerless gloves, and the cloth coat I’ve owned for more than 30 years, it was freaking cold out there!
The wind off the lake went right through me, but the sun and clouds were playing tag over the water, and I didn’t give up. I walked right down to the water’s edge and parked myself on the sand. The mallards were having a spa day, splashing and preening both in the water and on the shore.
There were no geese in sight, but they left their distinctive three-toed tracks and piles of slimy green evidence to mark their territory.
There were also no people. I got back up and continued my walk down the beach, stopping to take pictures of whatever caught my eye.
Sun, cloud, waves, shore, the braided bark of the willow trees – there was plenty to keep me entertained. Even the sharp bite of wintery air on my face felt good. Damn good. Euphoric, even. My word of the year is Adventure. And my new motto:
Do More. Be More. Live More.
I don’t believe in having regrets. Everything that happened or didn’t happen in my life has led me to where I am, here and now. I can’t even regret the years of trauma I endured because without them, I wouldn’t have two beautiful children. They say at the end of your life the things you regret are the things you didn’t do. The closest thing I have to a regret is one of those things.
When I was 18 or 19, I had my heart broken. I decided I needed an escape, a change of scenery, time to rest and reflect. A friend of mine who lived in Kelowna invited me to come and stay with her for a couple of days. I boarded a train in Calgary.
Oh, what a tragic figure I painted! Girl travelling alone, tears streaming down her face, writing sad poetry in her journal. But riding through the Rockies, feeling the rumble of the train beneath me, watching the spectacular scenery pass by – I didn’t stay sad long. I was a bit of a drama queen and rather enjoyed playing out the role of the broken-hearted. Eventually, it began to get dark. It was, after all, early October. I moved from my seat by the window to the club car, which was nearly full. An old man waved me over and patted the empty seat next to him.
I settled in, ordered a vodka soda, and we began to talk. His wife had passed away just a few months earlier, and he was on his way to Vancouver to see his kids. For the next few hours, we talked and drank together, revealing things about ourselves that are sometimes easier to say to strangers than the people who love us. As the alcohol found a foothold, our conversation became lighter, filled with laughter and a comfortable companionship. A couple of hippy-looking dudes who didn’t speak English pulled out a guitar and began to play songs everyone seemed to know. Before long the entire club car was singing along. One of them beamed at me. My companion nudged me and said, “See that? Smiles, laughter, and music. That is the real language of love.”
I got off the train in Salmon Arm, smoked a joint with a couple of backpackers who were sleeping in the station and made my way over to a 24-hour coffee shop to wait out the four hours before I could catch a bus to Kelowna. During my coffee shop stay, I made friends with a young runaway. We talked for hours, exchanged poems, and just before my bus arrived, we used the payphone to call his mom. He hugged me before I boarded the bus, said he would always remember this night and the way I helped him find his way home again.
The rest of the trip didn’t matter. I learned the journey really was more important than the destination. I learned there were more people who wanted to help you than there were people who wanted to hurt you, and from there, the dream was born.
One day, I would ride the train from coast to coast. I would meet people, listen to their stories, and experience the whole of the country by rail.
But there was always some reason I couldn’t go. There were no cell phones back then, and I worried something might happen to someone in my family and no one would be able to reach me.
The truth is, I wasn’t bold enough. How different might my life have been if I had boarded that train?
Again, regrets are something I won’t allow myself. Maybe someday I will board that train and from there who knows what might happen?
In the nearby town of Summerland is the Kettle Valley Steam Train. It’s a 90-minute, round trip, scenic tour of the area. While it’s not the same as a cross-Canada journey, I thought it was something I should do anyway. Impulsively, I booked two tickets and dragged Santana along for the ride.
The valley was hazy from wildfires across the border, but the sun was shining, and the air smelled of autumn. I had booked an open-air carriage, wanting to experience this with all my senses. I wasn’t disappointed. The whistles and bells of the train, the stunning views of the valley, the way falling leaves would blow inside the carriage, and of course, the pure joy of being on a train again remembering that long-ago journey made the whole thing worthwhile.
The dream is still alive.
When my oldest child came to visit last month, instead of clothing, they filled their suitcase with old journals, rescued from our former home. These journals of mine dated back to 1981, when I was a young teenager. I took some time to arrange them in order by date, and slowly began to read them.
Going from 1981 to 2011, the journals were sporadic, some of them only a few pages long. I tended to only keep a journal until something bad happened, and rather than write about it, I would stop journalling altogether. You could pinpoint the dates of the trauma in my life.
I learned a lot from reading the words of my former self, watched myself change and grow. It wasn’t an easy read.
My memories of life before my second husband had been polished by time. I thought I was happy then, but the words I’d written belied that notion. It was sad and disturbing. My self-esteem was painfully low. I was an easy target for what came next. Reading through that era of my life was unsettling at best. I could feel myself experiencing those emotions all over again. I used men, many men, to determine my self-worth. I get a sour taste in my mouth just thinking about it.
I needed a minute to come back to myself. Taking camera and car, I escaped into the mountains and forest. I didn’t have much of a plan, just a need to make things right.
Bear Lake Main was hot and dusty, bone-rattling washboard, wildflowers choked with dust. But there on the side of the road I encountered what my friend Jaki refers to as “feral fruit.” There was an apple tree with small, red apples. Larger than crab apples, but smaller than apples from curated orchards. I stopped and picked just a few. It never hurts to have a snack on hand in case you run into trouble. I rubbed one of them clean and took a bite. It was tart, almost sour tasting, and took me back to a time, years before, when money was tight. There was a house in Inglewood with an apple tree just like this. I would go down the alley at night and pick the apples hanging over the fence – fruit for my children’s lunches.
Shaking my head as though I could shake off the past, I moved on.
I turned off Bear Lake Main to the Aspen Trail. From there, I simply chose one of the many side roads and turned upward.
As I wound up through the hills, I inevitably began to feel better. Driving slowly over deeply rutted roads, I was able to look out over forest and meadow, drink in the freshest of air, and feel calm settling over me like a fuzzy blanket.
It’s hard to stay sad when surrounded by such beauty. Even the dried grasses and flowers looked as though they’d been arranged by an artist.
Siberian Aster grew along the roadside, pre-formed bouquets of purple.
Deeper purple in the Canada Thistle that hadn’t yet gone to seed.
Fields of dried Mullein, some still sprouting yellow blossoms at their tips, looking more like they belong in a desert than a mountain meadow.
And of course, Fireweed, already turning to strands of tangled silk.
Bright spots of colour in a world slowly turning to browns and yellows.
The ruts turned to rocks and still I climbed until the road began to narrow and I could go no further. Turning around, I headed back down.
The day was still young. I could have chosen another road and continued, but the road had already given me what I needed. Instead, I headed into the Aspen Trail Recreation Site, found an open campsite, and parked. For some reason, I had thrown a book of poetry into my bag. Taking it out now, I sat at the picnic table and read, letting the words take me. The only sounds were a cricket and my own heartbeat.
I thought back to the journals and the words written there. In many ways, things haven’t changed much. I still want to lose weight, save money, and spend more time writing. But a lot has changed. I don’t need to be loved by a man to love myself. I’m slowly learning that how I look is only a tiny fraction of who I am. I may not be happy with my body or my smile, but who I am is more than that. Finally, I am loving the person I am becoming.
Sure, being alone has its downside, but until I was alone, I never had the chance to discover who I really was. I should have done it a long time ago.
A little taste of summer. That’s what I had in mind when I suggested to Bear we go for a drive. He works hard, and it seemed to me he hadn’t taken much time to enjoy the season. Go for a drive, maybe spend some time at the beach, have a picnic… anything to get him out of the house for a while. I was thinking about one of the local backroads, but Bear had a different idea.
“Can we go to Revelstoke?” he asked. Revelstoke? It wasn’t exactly the short drive I had in mind, but why not? I wasn’t sure what there was to do in Revelstoke. When I was a kid, it was just the place we stopped for gas on our way to Whispering Pines Resort, a most amazing family-friendly campground near Mara Lake. I have many fond memories of Whispering Pines – camp cookouts, movie nights, mini-golf, the pool. I learned to dive in that pool.
But Revelstoke….Hmmm. Could be fun.
“Sure,” I said. “A daytrip, or do you want to spend the night?”
“Let’s spend the night.”
I booked us a room using one of those websites like Expedia (remind me not to do that again) and looked up Things to Do in Revelstoke. Bear looked up Top Ten Places to Eat in Revelstoke.
With a vague and fuzzy plan, we got up early in the morning and headed out.
Once we were past Sicamous, it was new territory. I had never driven the Trans-Canada Highway, and Bear had never seen it. We stopped at the Enchanted Forest along the way, just to have a quick look. Bear is a little old for it, and I knew I wouldn’t be able to walk it. I haven’t been to the Enchanted Forest since I was 18. At the time, the exhibits were in a sad state of disrepair, fading and chipped paint, structures collapsing. It was wonderful to see everything has been fixed up. There is a second family fun park right next door for slightly older kids – an adventure park with numerous small zip lines, etc. The parking lot was crammed full of cars, dogs, and strollers. Knowing the Enchanted Forest would be around to enchant generations to come was strangely comforting.
Once we arrived in Revelstoke, our first order of business was lunch. We shared a large poutine at The Village Idiot. Of course, with a name like that, we had to eat there. The poutine was amazing, as was the atmosphere. When the cocktail menu was unfolded, we found a version of Snakes and Ladders, called Slopes and Lifts. Using coins as tokens and a site on my phone to roll a die, I kicked Bear’s butt three times before lunch arrived.
Even though it was after check in time, our room wasn’t ready when we arrived.
“Let’s drive to Golden,” I said.
“Okay.” Bear didn’t bother to ask why. He just agreed. I love that kid.
The Roger’s Pass stuck out in my memory as some of the most spectacular scenery I’d ever seen. I was excited to share it with Bear. It didn’t disappoint.
On our way into Golden we stopped at the Northern Lights Wolf Centre, arriving just in time for the last presentation of the day. As we were listening to the presentation, one of the wolves began to howl, and all the others joined in. It seemed to come from all sides – a haunting, yet exhilarating, symphony. The hair on my arms stood on end as the sound of the wolves filled my whole body. There was something so primal, so natural, even though this was the first time I heard wolves calling, I felt it had always been a part of me, and I had been a part of it. Calm settled over me, and the slight headache I had from driving all day vanished in that moment.
Bear took this picture.
Once we arrived in Golden, we found an ice cream truck and ate a cone. Then we drove back to Revelstoke. Well worth the trip. Mountains, wolves, and ice cream. I wanted a taste of summer, and I got one. But it wasn’t over yet.
Back in Revelstoke, live music was playing in the street, as there is every night during the summer. We couldn’t get a patio table at The Taco Club, but we did get another fine meal.
During the drive to Golden, or maybe on the drive back from Golden (who’s counting?) we agreed on a plan for the following morning. I made a phone call, and we were all set.
In the morning, we would embark on a white-water rafting trip.
When the alarm went off at 7:30 in the morning, I made my way to the bathroom and slipped on my bathing suit, which, for some reason, I had thrown into my bag at the last minute, not really expecting to need it. Then I woke Bear. The day was absolutely gorgeous, and even at 8:00 am, already starting to get hot. We opted to take the grab-and-go breakfast the motel provided – yogurt, a boiled egg, an apple, and a granola bar, instead of trying to find a restaurant.
After signing our waivers and being fitted for wet suits, neoprene socks, and borrowed sneakers, we boarded the bus for the ride to the drop-off point, some 25 minutes out of town. While on the bus, we were given instructions on what to do in all kinds of emergency situations. My heart began to beat faster. What had I signed up for? This rafting trip would last about two and a half hours and take us through both class 2 and 3 rapids. Was I ready for this?
At the drop-off point, we fitted ourselves with helmets and lifejackets and made our way down to the water. Even though I’m 75 pounds lighter than I was the last time we went white-water rafting, it was still a challenge to get down to, and board, the raft. Our guide, Luke, told me I didn’t have to paddle if I wasn’t up to it. Bear laughed out loud, knowing there’s nothing wrong with the upper half of my body. I’m not completely helpless yet.
(Apex, the rafting company we signed up with, takes photos of the trip from various points along the way, and gave us digital copies when the run was complete. The following photos are from the album taken by Apex.)
We pushed off, letting the swift current carry us to the first major rapid. The glacier-fed river is full of silt, making it a pale, Egyptian Blue. And it was cold. Both Bear and I had refused the fleece shirt and water jacket offered to us, as we both tend to run a little hot. Despite the temperature of the water, I did not regret my decision.
Squeals, screams, and laughter filled the air as we navigated our first set of waves, rolling, tossing, and splashing. White water foamed over the raft as we dipped and rose. Between rapids, our guide Luke entertained us with stories and jokes, and educated us about the area. The stunning views and thick forest along the banks added an aura of peacefulness to the excitement of the white-water.
My foot was cramping from being jammed under the seat to hold me in, but I held my own, paddling hard when it was called for. At one slow spot, Luke asked if anyone wanted to take a dip. Partly to stretch out, and partly to cool down, I opted to slip into the water, and was somewhat mortified when it took Bear and Luke to pull me back in. But the cool dip was worth the humiliation. Making my legs work to get back into position was worse.
As we neared the end of our run, the only disappointment was that it was about to be over. I could have gone another couple of hours, easy.
Or maybe not. Once on dry land, I realized how exhausted I was. I stumbled back onto the bus, after picking up a slice of watermelon. I was barely able to pull myself up the stairs and into a seat.
That slice of watermelon was the best thing I’ve ever tasted.
Once back in town, there were three objectives – washroom, water, and food. Fortunately, all three were available right there.
The final leg of our journey was a drive up the Meadows in the Sky Parkway, in Mount Revelstoke National Park, a twenty-three kilometer drive up the mountain, switchback fashion. We stopped at a few viewpoints along the way.
I’d read early August was the best time for wildflowers in the park and was disappointed there didn’t seem to be many. But the higher we climbed the more wildflowers appeared until the meaning of the words Meadows in the Sky became apparent.
Our final stop, in Vernon, for a quick dinner before heading home. Here, the tables were equipped with Connect Four. Bear kicked my butt three times before our meal arrived. I guess we’re even.
once you get to know them.
I could feel the sweat trickling down my back. I could have rolled up the windows and put on the air conditioning, but then I wouldn’t be able to hear the crunch of tires on gravel, the creek rumbling in the canyon, or the crickets on the side of the road. I wouldn’t have been able to smell the road dust, the sweet scent of Cedar, and the fragrance of wildflowers. No, it was better this way. Besides, the higher I climbed on the road to Postill Lake, the cooler the air felt. It was still bloody hot, but every so often, a breath of cool breeze flowed through the Chevy, offering a taste of relief.
I hadn’t been out in a long time. The road trip to Vancouver must have taken a toll on the poor, old Rodeo, because it began to die a slow, painful death. It managed to hold out for a few more months, survive a move, and get me from A to B until I felt it just wasn’t safe to drive anymore. With the help of a few very good friends, I purchased a 2008 Chevy Uplander – a minivan. This was our inaugural back-road day trip.
I didn’t want to do anything crazy – a nice quiet drive up into the hills, see what there was to see. I knew there wouldn’t be cell service for much of the drive, so I didn’t want to deviate from the path I told Santana I would be taking. Just in case.
My concern was irrelevant. The Chevy did just fine. It was much quieter than the Rodeo was, and I thought there was a chance I might see some wildlife. But it was the weekend, and while not exactly busy, there were more than a few off-roaders. The most exciting wildlife I saw was a chipmunk, and a black cow I mistook for a bear.
But there were flowers. Not as many as there would have been in June, but enough to capture my attention. Oxbow Daisies, Cinquefoil, Siberian Aster… There were even a few wild strawberries still in bloom, and Lupine everywhere. I busied myself taking photos of the flowers, trying to exercise the photo muscles out of use for so long.
I made it to the lake, but instead of taking pictures, I bought myself a bottle of water and just sat there, looking out over the water, remembering how much fun Santana and I had during our stay there.
The drive back down was just as slow as the ride up. By now, not only was I taking photos, but I was also composing haiku, pulling over to jot them in my notebook as they came to me. I took a side road and followed it until it broke into two. One was sunlit and the other disappeared into the shadow of the forest. I sat for a few minutes, trying to decide which one I should take, and finally decided to leave it for another day.
My day was already full of joy and contentment, capturing small moments with camera and pen, bright bursts of colour and birdsong.
Some people may think of them as weeds. But I’ve gotten to know them.
“I’m thinking about signing up for a tournament in Vancouver,” Santana said.
“You should. I’ll even drive you.”
“Really? You’d do that? Can I bring friends?”
“Sure, why not?”
Almost immediately after having this conversation, I began to have regrets. It was impulsive. The reason I offered in the first place was partly because there was a poetry contest I wanted to enter that required a location-based poem of a location within the Vancouver city limits. I had a place in mind, and I thought if I were to visit that place, I’d be inspired to write something spectacular.
But here’s the thing. Despite driving professionally for more years than I care to count, I don’t really like to drive the Coquihalla, as beautiful as it is, and I’m uncomfortable driving in cities I’m unfamiliar with. Then I realized the deadline for the contest was a week before the tournament. So much for that plan.
It was too late to back out. The boys had paid their fees and booked a hotel. I looked at the reviews for the hotel. They weren’t great.
My biggest concern, of which there were many, is that the elevator tended to be out of order. Was I going to drive all the way to Vancouver to be stuck in a hotel room all weekend? I would not be able to handle three flights of stairs, of that I was certain.
But wait.
Even if that were the case, the boys would be out all day. I’d be alone. With nothing to do. Except write! I had at least a dozen potential deadlines coming up. This would be my own, personal, writer’s retreat. Hopefully, I would have a view of English Bay and not the back alley, but either way, I’d make it work. Once I made up my mind to look at it from a different angle, I began to get excited.
We arrived at our hotel without incident; the cherry blossoms an eruption of colour against a brilliant blue sky. To my delight, the elevator was in perfect working order, and the beach was only a block away.
I’m not going to take you on a play-by-play of the entire weekend. Suffice to say I spent my mornings on the beach, looking out at the ships waiting to dock. My afternoons were spent meeting friends, taking naps, and exploring Stanley Park. I did more walking in three days than I have in the last month. Exhausting, but so worth it.
Our final morning in Vancouver found me beneath an ornamental cherry tree on the patio of Starbucks, cradling a latte and enjoying the fresh ocean breeze on my face.
I’d come because our suite was a little too warm for my liking (the only complaint I had about the hotel, by the way) and I wanted to spend some time writing in my journal. It was, I admit, the only writing I did all weekend, except for one little cherry blossom haiku.
But that’s okay. It was in that moment I realized that I was not just content, but actually happy. Happy because I like my life. It wasn’t about being in a city as vibrant as Vancouver, although that was part of it. It was the freedom of choice, of being able to take a weekend to go somewhere new. It was as though the little girl who lived inside of me was finally allowed to come out and play.
e.e. cummings said, “It takes courage to grow up to be who you are.”
I think I finally made it.
Featherstone Creative 