Writer's Fidelity

16°49′54″N 93°05′38″W

2012-02-04T21:29:00.000-08:00

The canyon, with the Grijalva River running through it.

Sumidero Canyon: We took a day tour to the Sumidero Canyon while spending a few days in San Cristobal. It was both incredibly amazing and deeply disturbing. The canyon, formed by the Grijalva River, was created around the same time as the Grand Canyon in Arizona. The Grijalva weaved and eroded canyon walls as high as one kilometre, making looking upwards at them a big pain in the neck. The tops of the walls were covered in cloud.

Waterfalls in the canyon.

The tour had us in a boat fit for 30 people; some from Mexico, others from around the world, all unsure of what to expect as we sped through the muddy waters of the Grijalva. As we made it into the canyon, we saw American Crocodiles laying on the mud banks, their teeth jutting out the front of the mouths, not bothered by the boat that slowed to gawk at them.

The canyon walls were lined with waterfalls; one here, another a few hundred metres away, all spitting water out from deep within the cracks in the rock, cascading down solid cliff through emerald green forest. One particular waterfall had an almost Avatar-like fall line; giant canopy plants that overhung from the rock face.

And then we reached a turn in the canyon, and entered upon a section of the Grijalva blanketed with debris... and trash. The nearby heavy populated city of Tuxtla (with the biggest population in all of the state of Chiapas) is largely responsible for the plastic that floats amongst logs in the canyon. What gets thrown onto the ground gets washed way down to stream, and then flushed into the Grijalva. Recycling is not a popular activity in Mexico, or most of Central America for that matter, and thus, the banks of rivers become dumping grounds for human waste. Mexicans salvage wood in the area, but leave the plastic bottles, bins, coca-cola crates and prescription pill jars to float on.

The garbage scattered throughout the canyon, with salvagers
working to collect wood. Plastic stays in the river.

The Grijalva is one of the five most polluted rivers in all of Mexico, it's headwaters beginning in Guatemala to the south. As our boat driver cut through the debris with his second propellor, I couldn't help but think about how the earth provides such an incredible wonder, and we (humans) manage to do everything we can to destroy it. Or at least, we don't change the way we produce and consume. It was an eye-opener to how we should and do, do things. #Thirdworldproblems.

Despite the upset of pollution, the canyon tour was great.

16°44′12″N 92°38′18″W

2012-01-29T09:28:00.000-08:00

Oct. 8 to Oct. 10, Puerto Escondido to San Cristobal de las Casas: San Cristobal lies in the Central Highlands area in the Mexican state of Chiapas, considered a state of revolutionary reform with a rich array of indigenous people. Clad in traditional colourful clothing, women carry their children in cloth tied around their backs. It is one of the most culturally abundant states in Mexico, and we were lucky enough to spent a few days travelling through it.

We arrived in San Cristobal after a 12-hour bus ride and immediately hopped in a cab to Planet Hostel (the cab ride was free, and when travelling on a budget, 'free' is well-embraced). It was early and we were hungry, so we made our way to a nearby restaurant and indulged in scrambled eggs and beans before wandering through the highly acclaimed San Cristobal Mercado Municipal.

The streets of San Cristobal are cobble-stoned, and coloured walls line every two-foot wide sidewalk. The mercado (market) was magical. All the fruits you could imagine: mangos, melons, bananas, apples, peaches, forest green avacados and potatoes with dirt still stuck in their wedges stacked as high as possible in a small dish waiting for sale. The women stand behind their makeshift tables and yell out appealing prices for the deliciously fresh food you see, and their children stand behind them stacking fruit, playing with sticks and smiling shyly at me whenever I glance at them.

At this point in the trip my Spanish was terrible. Still, a 'buenos dias' to any of these women warranted a pleasant acknowledgement in return.

Plazuela de la Merced and Templo del Cerrito, and Templo
de Santa Lucia, both in San Cristobal.

The market: beans, flowers, fruit, vegetables.

The women, mainly of the Tzozil and Tzezal ethnicity, wear deep purple garments, black alpaca skirts and will turn away if you hold your camera up to take a photo. They believe a part of their soul is captured when they have their picture taken. And children run through the market without shoes on their tiny, dirty feet. A man and his mother walk through the streets with two turkeys at their front bound by their legs; this is how they make a living before heading back to the rural farmland.

We walked through an arena meat market, where butchers slice and chop the red flesh from the recently butchered cow that hangs on a hook behind them. Row upon row of sausage lays stacked on a shelf, and flies buzz around in a choir-like melody. It stinks, slightly.

Looking down separate directions of a street: beautiful sky one way, and dark
ominous storm clouds moving into the city. Rainy season is a treat.

On our second day in San Cristobal we toured the streets, walking up grand stairways to churches that sit atop the highest hills and look out over the city. Yellow, red and green prayer flags hung above the walkway and blew in the wind. We ate lunch in a nice little patio and watched as people strolled by, some tourists, most trying to sell jewelry and hats and other items that you can easily find in the market. A little boy walked with his father, holding his hand, as they tried to convince passerby that they could shine their shoes. They carry small wooden boxes and a shoe polisher.

At one point we were caught in the middle of a torrential afternoon rain storm--common during the rainy season in Mexico--and wound up huddled in a sunglass store for a couple of hours. We watch with others as the streets began to flood, and laughed when a delivery man on a motorbike attempted to drive up the flooded street and immediately turned around. The water was too much for him. Shopkeepers swept water from their entryways and the indigenous women ran holding their skirts high and jumping puddles, smiling. Just like children playing in the rain. We all share a bit of harmless pleasure playing in the rain.

A woman and child walking through the colonial streets.

That night we went for dinner with two friends, one of whom was working as a midwife in town and could speak fluent Spanish. We sat at a coffee shop at 10 p.m. and drank hot chocolate, and a young girl came up to us. Rambling in Spanish, she asked us if we wanted to by the crafts she was placing on the table--painted animals carved out of rocks. She pulled them out of a wicker basket, the kind you imagine would carry easter eggs. Tavniah asked her several questions: "What's your name? How old are you?" She then asked, "Donde esta tu madre y padre?" Where are your mom and dad? She said nothing.

"She should be at home," said Tavniah.

We had been told on several occasions not to hand money to children. It often ends up in the hands of the mother who is waiting around the corner, and who knows where it ends up after that. But as Florenca, five years old, looked up at me flashing her big brown eyes it took all of my might to not hand her a few pesos and make her feel proud. Instead, I bought her a pineapple muffin from inside the cafe. She walked away down the street and took a big bite of her muffin, and all of the other little girls rushed to see what she had received.

San Cristobal street at night.

A small, colonial town tucked in a remote area of Mexico. San Cristobal is beautiful.

The Nicaraguan Cinnamon Bun

2012-01-28T15:56:00.000-08:00

One thing about travelling is you happen across some of the most amazing recipes, of which seem to taste extra delicious all because you are travelling in the first place. One such recipe is this amazing Roles de Canela (cinnamon rolls) that my lovely friend Laura Bloomquist gave me. Lauara lives on Ompete Island, Nicaragua, and runs her own B&B with her boyfriend Gary. They are both incredible cooks and incredible hosts, and if you are ever on Ometepe in the town of Moyogalpa, stop by the Cornerhouse for a bite.

Maybe Laura will have just whipped up a batch of Roles de Canela.

Ingredients for dough:

2 tbsp. active yeast
2/3 cup sugar
1 cup warm milk
2/3 cup melted butter
2 tsp. salt
2 eggs
4 cups flour

Ingredients for deliciousness:

1/2 cup melted butter
1 and 1/2 cup white or brown sugar (I use half and half)
3 tbsp. cinnamon

Directions: Mix sugar, flour, melted butter, salt, eggs and flour in large bowl. At the same time, combine active yeast (2 packages equivalent to 2 tbsp) with one cup of warm water and 1 tsp. of sugar, let stand for 10 minutes. Add active yeast mixture to all other ingredients. Mix dough in bowl, adding approximately 2 extra cups of flour to reach desired consistency, knead for 8 minutes. Place in greased bowl and let rise to double original size (about one hour).

Punch dough down, rest for five minutes. Roll out dough to about a cm thick and spread 1/2 cup melted butter over the dough. Sprinkle cinnamon/sugar mixture over the dough. Roll, cut to size, let rise for 45 minutes. Bake at 350 degrees until golden on top, about 25 minutes.

These. Are. Delicious.

15°51′43″N 97°04′18″W

2012-01-22T12:47:00.000-08:00

Puerto Escondido, on Barrade Colotopec.

Sept. 27 to Oct. 5, Mexico City to Puerto Escondido: A warm ocean, seashell beaches, crashing tidal waves, and ice cold coca-cola in a glass bottle: this was Puerto Escondido. After spending nearly 10 days in the smog of Mexico City, we arrived in tiny Puerto and took a deep breath of fresh air. Hot, humid, and sticky fresh air. Stepping off the air-conditioned ADO bus we had sat on for the past 18 hours was like being forced to suddenly stand in a sauna, except there was no exit door to escape the heat. Puerto was hot. I've never been so hot in my entire life.

Our catch: a dorado (green) and two tuna.

We jumped into a taxi cab and paid $2 for a ride to our first hostel of the trip, Tower Bridge Hostel, at the end of a dirt road and across from a Mexican woman's laundry business. The hostel had a pool, and that's all that mattered. Because we were there during the low season (high season doesn't start usually until mid-November) Ben and I were given an awesome private room with a king size bed and own living area for just $20 a night. Immediately we rushed off to one of the many beaches in Puerto, Playa Carazalillo, for a swim.

Girls can fish, too!

The beach sits in a tiny bay and is scattered with local food vendors and women trying to sell you hemp and seashell necklaces. The water wasn't refreshing; it was hot, and the waves continually knocked the feet out from under numerous people, sending them slamming down into the sand. We quickly developed a routine: wake up, eat, go to the beach, come to the hostel and swim, go back to the beach, eat, sleep. It was delightful. On our second day there, we awoke at 7 a.m. and hopped into a tiny pickup truck with Omar, a local fishermen who runs a sports fishing business. We got into his boat at Playa Principal, scattered with anchored fishing boats in the bay, and headed out onto the ocean. It was incredible. Within 15 minutes of letting out the fishing line, we caught two average-sized tuna (bonita fish) and a green, scarred dorado (also called Mahi Mahi, or dolphin fish). I decided that lake fishing in B.C. was not for me; it is much easier to catch a fish in the big, bad ocean. Meanwhile, we had been in search of dolphins, sea turtles, and whatever else we happened upon.

Swimming with sea turtles.

Omar's assistant fisherman, Juan, leapt into the ocean at one point to chase after a sea turtle - we had seen plenty at this point, many of which were mating - and grabbed onto this turtle before it had the chance to dive under the water. We got to swim out in the middle of the ocean and touch it. It was the one thing I had wanted to do during out trip, and we had managed to achieve it only two weeks in.

Afterwards, we saw what I first thought was a shark. A gray, sleek fin sticking out from the water right near our boat. Omar inched towards it and he suddenly yelled with excitement, "A moonfish!" Apparently this fish, actually called the Ocean Sunfish or Mola Mola, is incredibly rare to see. Having fished for more than 20 years in Puerto, Omar has only seen one "moonfish" before in his life. He and Juan ran all over the boat snapping pictures of this fish, which grows as big as a dinner table and as flat as a pancake. Seeing this giant blue fish swim next to our boat was a rude awakening to the complexities of the ocean, which houses more creatures than we are even capable of grasping.

Ocean Sunfish, the size of a dinner table.

Thankfully, Ben had his new GoPro camera, and we were able to get some underwater photos and video (above) of the fish. We made our way back to Puerto a couple hours later and paid $50 pesos to have our fish cooked up. We sat on the beach and ate it for breakfast.

Playa Carazalillo, my favourite Mexico puppy,
and a swordfish pulled up onto the beach.

The next few days in Puerto involved surfing, drinking coca-colas on the beach and eating my favourite, al pastor with fresh pineapple and cilantro. We went to the beach every day, and Ben bought himself a surfboard while we were down on the main street at Playa Zicatela one night. I was hesitant to surf; I'm a confident swimmer and I love the water, but put a surf board beneath my feet and I become unsteady and nervous. Still, I tried one day while at La Punta, after hiding under my Swedish friend Milje's sarong in search of shade. It was a thrill to actually catch a wave and ride it into shore. A local offered me his extra surfboard and gave me a push into the wave. He didn't want money, but I assume he noticed I was the only one sitting on the beach watching in envy at my friends and Ben floating in the waves, and threw me a pity party. It was a lovely party, though.

Walking a path between beaches along the rock. We had
to be careful of incoming waves. The heat was unbearable.

Two days later, after a night of throwing up due to an untimely bout of heat stroke, Ben awoke me from my slumber. He had gone to the beach to surf a few hours earlier while I stayed in bed. "I stepped on a sea urchin and I need to go to the hospital," he said. Reluctantly, but for the love of my boyfriend, I pulled myself awake and escorted my boyfriend, whose foot was bleeding and punctured with sea urchin needles, to the local medical clinic.

Find a palm tree, grab a coconut!

For the next three hours I watched as a doctor and his assistant used needles to extract fragmented urchin spines from Ben's foot. It was easily 40 degrees Celsius in town, and I ran between the clinic and a nearby internet cafe in an attempt to organize how we would claim the doctor's bill on our travel insurance. I have never been so sweaty, so hot in my entire life. But I do believe Ben had never been in such incredible pain in his entire life either. There was no freezing, but Dr. Mario Cruz did the best he could digging in his foot. Some urchin spines were left in as they were difficult to extract - Dr. Cruz said Ben's body would eventually push them out.

Ben's injured urchin foot, sitting in the medical clinic with
Dr. Cruz. Incredibly painful.

We spent a few more days in Puerto, reading books on the beach and eating an incredible amount of fresh guacamole, and getting to understand the local lingo, the local troubles, and the Mexican struggle. I spoke with a man on Playa Carazalillo at one point about the difficulties of trying to get a Mexican passport, nevermind a visa to travel. The limits that are cast down upon the people in their own country is incredibly difficult to understand coming from a country who's people are so free.

Our favourite Swedes, Milje and Casper.

There was also another guy who, having grown up in Puerto, said he had never been to Mexico City, or nearby San Cristobal. He lives with his grandmother, works as a surf instructor, and has a shark tattoo on his arm. This is his life. But he's happy. I fell deeper and deeper in love with Mexico while in Puerto Escondido. The people were warming up, I was growing more comfortable, and we were beginning to understand that there is a community of travellers all around the world, including in Puerto.

You should probably just go and feel it for yourself. Go catch a fish, swim with a turtle. Just go.

Things I learned in Puerto:

1. People are incredibly helpful, especially Swedes. Casper and Milje sat with Ben and pulled urchin spines from his foot on the beach.

2. Having travel insurance is easily the most important thing to have while traveling.

3. As much as I love the heat, when I began wishing for snow in Mexico just to cool down a bit, I realized I was not climatized for that crap.

4. Three weeks into our trip, I realized we were about to have a lot of fun.

F.U.N.

Teotihuacan: the first ruins

2012-01-16T15:39:00.000-08:00

The Pyramid of the Moon, and my best friends. Also, looking from the Pyramid of
the Moon towards the avenue of the Dead, and the Sun pyramid.

When you've reached Mexico byway of the unbeaten path, you quickly discover it is a rock garden of stone cities and prolific culture, where the study of Anthropology never quiets and dies. When you stand atop an ancient pyramid, the second-largest in the Americas, and look out over a city of stone and squares, it is hard not to feel infinitesimal. You are hit with a wave of irrelevancy about your own existence as you walk on the cobbled roadway built by age-old civilizations. And as you climb the steps of your first pyramid - steps twice the height to which you would normally climb - you can no longer claim ignorance to the magnificent formations that man has created.

Atop the pyramid looking towards
the Moon pyramid, and Ben and I in a square.

This is how it felt to climb the Pyramid of the Moon, the Pyramid of the Sun, and walk the Avenue of the Dead in the ancient Aztec city of Teotihuacan. This was our first encounter with ruins during our Central America trip. Canada is so young and so void of archeological riches that to walk onto land that trembles with stories was like being a child again and walking into your neighbourhood candy shop for the first time. You sit on top of the first pyramid, just like you would stand in the doorway and gaze at the colorful candies, and look out at something that you think you understand - that once there was a king who ruled a land and men built this city for him - and then you realize you know nothing at all.

Renee and I with Pyramid of the Sun.

On the second day of our three month backpacking trip, we hopped on a bus with our friends Renee, Chrissy and Said, and went to Teotihuacan. The vastness of the Pyramid of the Sun could be seen even as we drove in via taxi to the park entrance. It towers above the rest and dominates the skyline like a protruding mountain, except this mountain is constructed of thousands of volcanic rocks and there is a set of stairs leading to the so-called "summit." The pyramid stands 71.2 metres tall, with a base perimetre of 894 metres. Archeologists have concluded that the pyramid was constructed beginning in 100 A.D. This is further back than even myself can comprehend.

With the possibility to hold more than 200,000 inhabitants, it could have been one of the largest cities in the pre-Columbian Americas. Still, there is no evidence that solidifies which ethnicity actually lived here - the Aztecs gave the present-day names to the site, but there are a number of ethnic groups that the city could have belonged to.

Common themes in Teotihuacan of rich kings surrounded by slaves.

All of this aside, as we ventured through the city on a hot Sunday afternoon, I carried with me a smile that I could not escape. Even as ambulantes (people trying to sell you artifacts, jewelry and other items) bombarded you with their colourful obsidian knives and sparkling silver earrings, I felt immersed in a culture I had no idea existed. To even bear witness to a small part of Mexican history, to see for myself the stacked stones and to hear the tales of sacrificial lives for the good of a king, it was unlike anything I have ever experienced.

The best part is, this was just the beginning.

You know you're in Mexico when: On our bus ride back from Teotihuacan, we were stopped by police who asked all of the men to step off the bus. Not wanting Ben to get off, I told him to stay. A woman behind us said, "He has to go. They are looking for guns." I watched out the window as Ben was told to lean against the bus with his legs and arms apart, and then as a cop patted him down. Alas, no guns.

Viva la vida viajando

2012-01-07T19:33:00.000-08:00

The itinerary: The boyfriend and I had three months to make it from Mexico City, in central Mexico, to Panama City, Panama. There was no plan to stick to. We had particular destinations in mind, but no reservations, no pre-purchased tickets and no notion of what it was going to be like, who we would encounter, what challenges we would have to face. We just went.

Living the Travelling Life

Flying into Mexico City.

Mexico City - When you've never travelled extensively, arriving in one of the largest cities in the world at the start of a backpacking trip is not a gentle, genial way to begin. Mexico City, with a population so high that officials can't even say how many people live there, is more congested than my sinuses in the middle of February. When you finally escape the crowded MEX airport, and you wind up on a dark street lit with one street lamp, where everything seems darker than it normally would at 9:30 at night, a search for a taxi is not the thrill you'd think.

The Zocalo, with Parliament on top and
Catedral Metropolitana, oldest church
in Latin America.

Fortunately, the excitement of commencing a three month trip I had been waiting months for overshadowed some of that fear on the first night we arrived in Mexico. That, and the three friends that came to pick us up because they know Mexico City better than I ever will. That helps, too.

We jumped into the taxi, and I ignored vigorously all those things people had said before we left: "Mexico is SO dangerous right now. Why are you going there?" And suddenly the taxi driver is holding his horn down and driving in the middle of two lanes on a bustling highway, and I'm reaching for the seatbelt to contain my insides and calm my nerves, but there isn't one. But it doesn't matter. The point of travel is to immerse oneself into another, foreign culture. If this culture meant no seat belts, then so be it.

Art and the Aztec Calendar in the Museum
of Anthropology, Mexico City.

Mexico City's official city proper population is around 9 million people. But the surrounding metropolis area contains more than 21 million people. The city has an incredible history: many years before its existence the Aztecs (Mexican people) were migrating through the region in search of a place to settle. Led by a god, Huitzilopochtli, they were told that when they saw an eagle atop a cactus, holding a snake in its beak, they were to settle in that particular area. The Aztecs, after years of travelling, saw a serpent in the mouth of an eagle at the current site of Mexico City, then called Tenochtitlan, and began to build the city on an island, surrounded by Lake Texcoco.

Mexican soldiers taking down the Mexican flag in the Zocalo, Mexico City.

After having spent a week in Mexico City, I could tell the story of the eagle and the serpent held great meaning. The Mexican flag bears an eagle with a serpent in its beak, and can be seen in almost every corner of the city, paper flags taped to the dash of every taxi cab, in every restaurant and blowing in the wind at every park. In the city centre, the zocalo, the largest flag I have ever seen blew in the wind at the top of a flagpole, the reds and greens of the Mexican flag towering over the people that stand below it. While there myself, it was hard to ignore the deep affection that Mexicans themselves have for that flag, and their country.

Chrissy, Renee and I in Coyoacan, and in the
Zocalo, in front of the cathedral.

The city is so rich in history, and so rich in tragedy. I heard many stories while I was here - the beauty of travelling to a place you've never been. You become so engulfed in what has occurred, what is happening, what tragedies and triumphs a city has encountered, that you begin learning far more than you ever would by just reading up on a book about the particular area.
One night while we sat in the zocalo, as I watched while hundreds of people marched around the square, protesting the

firing of more than 40,000 electrical workers (the president is working on privatizing electricity in Mexico - another disconcerting issue) a friend told me about the Tlatelolco massacre. Ten days before the summer Olympics in 1968 were held in Mexico City, a group of 10,000 university and high school students gathered to peacefully protest the Olympic Games, demanding a fairer government and looking to that government to provide basic necessities for its people. Instead, snipers stationed throughout this particular square opened fire on the students, killing between 200 and 300, and injuring hundreds more. The electrical protesters continued on through the square, many shouting "Viva Mexico!" as I listened.

El Angel, commemorating Mexico's independence,
and a view of the city centre from atop the Latin
American tower, downtown Mexico City.

Mexico has many demons that few people are aware of, the stories I heard are evidence of that. And when the dark secrets are exposed, they cloud the outsiders eyes of what real beauty the city, and the country, holds. I write about the darkness because that was what had me questioning visiting Mexico in the first place. In truth, I was wrong about it. Those people who doubted us going were also wrong.

So what did we do in Mexico City? Everything we could fit into nine days. We visited the monument El Angel, the Angel of Independence that towers above the city, constructed in 1902. We spent a day at the Six Flags Mexico City theme park - for an unauthentic experience. We walked the streets of La Condesa, where my friend Renee lived. We ate frozen ice cream from a plastic tube and walked through Coyoacan, a former village of the city, and I watched in amazement at the indigenous dancers bearing rainbow colors of feathers on their headdresses, with nuts tied around their ankles and dancing in unison to the giant beat of the drums. We scrambled through crowded markets with candles and incense burning my nose.

Indigenous dancers in Coyoacan: the woman on the right is providing a
traditional blessing for people in the audience.

We spent hours wandering through the rooms of the Museum of Anthropology, which houses some of the oldest artifacts discovered in Mexico, and some of the oldest mummified remains of sacrificial slaves in surrounding ancient cities. I saw the enormous Aztec Calendar that archeologists pulled from the centre of the city. And I got to see all of it with people that I really care about, which made it that much more worthwhile.

Tradition, culture.

Mexico City was a great way to start a three month backpacking trip. From the moment we landed it was as though we had walked through a solid door and into a room painted with all sorts of colours and cultural riches, filled with people who love the way they live, who carry an undying compassion on their shoulders for their country. It wasn't scary at all. It was exhilarating. If anything, before leaving the city I became envious of the culture they carry with them.

Photo credit: Ben Ross and Jessica Bell

there were a thousand other faces

2011-12-24T12:41:00.000-08:00

"Old Streets of Antigua, Guatemala"

I have so many photos that I am dying to post, but time is short for now because of the holidays. Once I head back into Fernie, there will be an abundance of posts and stories and photos. I promise. Merry Christmas to all my blog followers! I'm back!

The trip was incredible. I have learned an incredible amount about the cultures in Mexico and Central America, and have a new outlook on life here in Canada. The richness of the individual people in Central America, the simple lives they live, and the warmth they surround you with has truly enlightened me.

More to come, very soon.

A donde fueres, haz lo que vieres

2011-10-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

"Wherever you go, do as you see."

Two men with their borro in tow on the beach.

We are almost three weeks into our trip, and there are so many, many stories that have accumulated on the sheets of paper in my journal, that it is difficult to narrow the utmost important down. For they are equally influential in this journey.

We left Mexico City in a hurry last week, on an 18 hour bus ride to Puerto Escondido. Cramped, uncomfortable, trying to sleep as the bus swerved down curves on the Mexican highways, arriving at check stops every couple of hours, men holding fully-loaded machine guns, searching for criminals, searching for anyone who doesn't quite belong. Like ourselves. The busses are given the go ahead, so we don't need to stop, but my nerves are so wound up no sleep comes easy.

Juan and Omar, our fish guides, with a bonita fish.

But Puerto is beyond words. We step off the bus to stretch our legs and are met with a blanket of humid weather, my palms suddenly sticking to everything they touch.

I've learned that traveling quickly becomes a part of who you are; aching for the next destination, embracing whatever it is that the locals do, whether it be surf at this beach or that, eat this food or that. If you just take a step further, out from the hostel or the hotel or the resort that you feel so safe in, you wouldn't regret it. I'm becoming immersed in Mexico, and want to further myself as a traveller here, not as a tourist.

In all honestly, it is the people that make it so. Not the beaches, not the cheap jewelry. The people.

Playa Zicatela (Zicatela Beach) at sunset.

el sabor de Mexico

2011-09-24T17:39:00.000-07:00

The sound of Oaxaca cheese sizzling on a taco on the grill on the street, the spices, the Spanish floating to my ears; I can't understand much, if any. I am in Mexico. It is mucho bueno. It is so incredible, and so different, and so not easy to summarize into a small blog post. A taste of Mexico in my first week.

Debido a que es tan hermoso que tiene que ser compartido.

Because it is so beautiful, it has to be shared.

Teotihuacan, Pyramid of the Sun.

The best friend, the blanca Mexican!

Zocalo, the centre of Mexico City, with Parliament.

A non-authentic Mexican day at Six Flags.

Traditional Aztec prayer and dancing in Coyocan.

Who knows where we'll be next week.

travel, journey, voyage, explore, backpack.

2011-09-16T15:41:00.000-07:00

Travel and change of place impart new vigor to the mind. - Seneca

I'm sitting on my bed, in my room, in Canada, and I don't really want to be here. And tomorrow, I won't be. Nor will I be for the next three and a half months. Because I am going to Mexico and Central America! I have no idea where I will be in a week: the only thing I know is that at 8:05 p.m. tomorrow night I will have landed in Mexico City, quite possibly the biggest city in the Western Hemisphere (21 million people). I will be going for tacos with my long-time Fernie friends and my new Mexican friends, and on Sunday, I'll be walking through Teotihuacan.

Packing for such a trip has proven to be most demanding. I have a 75 litre bag, with the desire to only fill half of it. But, alas, that is impossible. I've tried desperately to cut back on my belongings: a pair of Toms, a pair of hikers, flip-flops, a sheet (for those nasty hostels with nasty sheets), soap, lotion, 6 pairs of underwear/socks, three pairs of shorts (one jean, swim, lulu), long johns (for those long nights in the highlands of Guatemala), two pairs of jeans (comfy, skinny, 'cuz a girl has to have her skinny jeans), my Loki rain coat, two shirts, three tanks, one long sleeve, an American Apparel sweater, eye cover (for dreary hostel sleep ins when I want to drown out the light), and nick nacks of medicine which includes: advil, aleve, cream, carmex, a knife, a lock, Immodeum (diarrhea prep) and Malaria pills. This is not all I have in my bag, but it's all I will include so as not to overwhelm those of you reading this.

I was nervous. For a long time. Will a bring the right things? What am I forgetting? Will I be safe? And now, I'm just so excited there are tingles passing through my veins and my mind is constantly invaded with thoughts of climbing Maya pyramids and surfing turquoise blue waters, of swimming with sea turtles and drinking tequila with the local senoritas!

There is nothing more exciting that not knowing where I'll be. I never thought I'd say that. Packing through Mexico, Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. All of them. Adios, Canada! Hola, adventura!

For my avid followers, I will be making a full-hearted time investment into blogging about the trip as it happens. They may be informal, short blogs, but if you are interested, follow along!

good to have the sun on my face again

2011-09-11T18:20:00.000-07:00

The water is so clear and so blue on my eyes that it makes me wish I could see underwater. Like a fish. Or a frog. Every time I make the hike up to Silver Springs, and ascend on the cliffs that overlook the lake, a rush of gratitude envelopes me. A deep breath in, a slow breath out, my eyes graze the lake that is so close to where I grew up. And even after what feels like hundreds of visits, the amazement remains.

A 23 foot leap off a jutting rock takes me deep into the water, but as I lean with my toes clutched to the edge, the jump I've done many times before leaves my heart thudding faster than it ordinarily would. And then I leap, and the water shoots up my nose, and I'm swimming in the deep blue to the surface where the sun warms my face. It's cold. I'm so completely at home. My own little Eden. Even if there are 30 others who feel just the same, now standing on the rocks above me.

Climbing a mountain, or two.

2011-08-22T11:28:00.000-07:00

At 1350 metres in elevation and six kilometres in, after having carried a 40-pound backpack through switchbacks for the last two-and-a-half hours, the pain in your shoulders becomes almost numb. The first three kilometres is a struggle; not yet in your element, with every step up towards your destination your legs shake. Your hips, where the waist straps of your bag sit, are aching and in connection with your hip flexers are sending signals to your brain saying, "Sit down, now." Still, you can't. If you sit, you won't get up. And if you won't get up, you won't see what you and your friends are determined to see, even if it takes all of your might to see it.

The Barrier lava dam as viewed from 1300 metres. Click
on the photos for a detailed view.

Last weekend myself, Ben, Jess Moir and Jamison Herron - after having spent far too much time in the city - felt it was time to hike into Garibaldi Park. Halfway between Squamish and Whistler, the park is one such area that is difficult to find words to describe. Not many people are aware it even exists, as most usually rush past it to get to Whistler. We packed our bags: emergency blanket, long johns, toque, sweater, extra sweater, hikers, socks, extra socks, toothbrush, can of beans, trail mix, sunscreen. Trying to prepare yourself for an overnight hike, without overpacking, is a challenge I haven't quite mastered. Trying to do so when you've heard there is still 2 metres of snow at the camp where you're headed, is even more troublesome.

Not deterred, however, we began or ascent up the mountain, passing fellow hikers (or in my case, being passed) - some hiking in, others hiking out. We made our way past the six-K mark, and then to The Barrier. For my fellow geography buffs, The Barrier needs no explanation. Still, it is such a remarkable remnant of the changing earth that it deserves attention. The Barrier is a lava dam that retains Garibaldi Lake. According to my good friend Wikipedia (and my knowledge collected last year from a Geography field trip), its thickness is 300 metres and is 2 kilometres wide. The volcano responsible for the flow is Mount Price, and more specifically, Clinker Peak (a west vent of Mount Price). At the time of eruption (9,000 years ago) a glacier existed in the Cheakamus River valley and the lava flow halted against it to form the barrier.

The area below The Barrier is extremely dangerous, so much so that the village of Garibaldi (below it) was relocated. It's possible that The Barrier could collapse following an earthquake or another event. Seeing it in its entirety was tremendous.

Finally at Garibaldi Lake, where we stopped to view the lake
trout and indulge in our finally arriving.

Past The Barrier, it's another 2.5 kilometres to Garibaldi Lake and the campsite. The hike in from this point is beautiful - crystal clear lake water, streams and then the turquoise blue of Lake Garibaldi. Was there snow like what we had read? Absolutely. So much, in fact, that we had to trek around in search of a site that was snow-free, and upon failing, Ben and Jamison dug out a snow pit for our two tents. We ate lunch, unpacked, went for a walk and then spent the next few hours making dinner, playing cribbage, and recuperating from the 9.5 kilometer hike-in. Whiskeyjack (Gray Jay) birds were landing on our hands, and chipmunks were sitting at our feet. The rainbow trout swam in the lake. There was no sign that just hours before we had been surrounded by concrete and high-rises.

The following morning, after spending a cold, rainy night on the ground, surrounded by snow and wrapped in our sleeping bags like caterpillars in their cocoons, we were up and began our next hike. Garibaldi Park offers endless hiking opportunities and deciding which ridge to climb or mountain to conquer is more difficult that the venture itself (figuratively speaking). Thanks to Ben's topographic map, we decided on Mount Price for its yet unexplored territory (Jamison had already climbed the Black Tusk).

We did a bit of bushwhacking before finding the not-so-beaten trail in some crowded and rocky forest on the south-west portion of the lake near Battleship Islands. At first not even sure we were going anywhere (for our lack of knowledge about the trailhead), we quickly began hiking, not quite sure of where we were headed, excluding the moment when Ben pointed out, "We're going up there!" Marked only by flagging tape and a few faded footprints in the snow, we hiked towards Mount Price.

Mount Price and its vent, Clinker Peak (left and right); Jess and
Ben with a view of Garibaldi Lake in the background, and an old lava flow.

The hike mainly exists along the ridge of an old lava flow and partially through the flow itself. We zig-zagged through a basalt rock field that once would have been a solid flow of lava, now broken up after hundreds and thousands of years of weathering processes. The view from the ridge of Garibaldi Lake, and the surrounding landscape including Panorama Ridge, was a site to see.

Further up the ridge along the 4 kilometre ascent we encountered a colossal amount of snow. This past winter blanketed Garibaldi Park with so much white stuff the potential for colourful wild flowers was burried deep beneath. Instead, we gathered ourselves walking sticks and remained on top of the snow as we continued on our exploration.

As we reached the bottom of Clinker Peak, I noticed red streaks in the snow. Jamison informed me that what looked to be red spray paint was actually red algae, or watermelon snow. The algae, which is green algae with a "secondary red carotenoid pigment" thrives in freezing water and is common during summertime at alpine elevations.

Hiking in the snow towards Clinker Peak; Jamison, Jess and
Ben making their way upwards, and myself taking in the view.

Now on the ridge of Clinker Peak (reminder: this is where the flow that created The Barrier came from) the volcanic eruptions of its past became distinct. The direction of the lava flows heading towards The Barrier and into Garibaldi Lake, were easy to distinguish and even more remarkable from such a high elevation (1900 metres). The volcanic igneous rock beneath our feet, included Andesite, Basalt, and Pumice, was a geologist's dream come true. Reds, blacks, oranges, a rainbow of rock types. And the view from the summit of Clinker Peak of Garibaldi Lake was so vast that you simply cannot capture it in a 24 mm wide lens. At this point we ascended up a snow field and the view was so breathtaking that the aches in my legs were virtually non-existent.

Nearing the top of Clinker Peak, and Ben with the beginning of an incredible landscape.

Once at the top of Clinker Peak, we walked down into a concave between the peak and Mount Price. It was here, upon climbing towards the pinnacle of Mount Price, that the true limitless of Garibaldi Park set in.

Jamison and I heading into the concave dip before climbing
to Mount Price; Ben with the most incredible view.

To the southeast of us came into view The Table, the Warren Glacier, Garibaldi Neve and Mount Garibaldi. The Table (seen to Ben's left in the bottom photo) sits at 2,021 metres and formed beneath the Cordilleran Ice Sheet. Behind The Table is Mount Garibaldi - for all intents and purposes - an active stratovolcano. At 2675 metres in elevation, the volcano is concealed by glacial snow. Even now, these photos do not do the landscape justice. "Wow. Wow. Wow." It's all I could muster up to say.

Minutes later, after digging through and picking up large chunks of Pumice, we made it to the top of Mount Price. A flat, rounded summit, Mount Price was by far the best choice for a hike. A 360 degree view from the peak (at 2052 metres) showed Garibaldi Lake, Panorama Ridge, lava flows and the glacier kingdom of Garibaldi Park.

No words. Just splendor.

We weren't at the peak for more than a half hour before the blue sky gave way to ominous clouds. As we explored the top, gray cloud moved into the mountain and concern about ill-tempered weather had us packing up and heading down. What was a steep and slippery climb through snow and rock on the way up turned into a fun slip-and-slide ride on our rain coats as we descended. No walking necessary - we wrapped our jackets beneath our bums and slid down the mountain. I may have had a little too much fun, but it's not every day you get to play in the snow in the middle of August.

Two hours later we were back at camp, packed up, and making our way down the dreaded switchbacks back to the truck. By nightfall we were still on the trail and, for some time, I sang to myself in the dark before Ben convinced me to strap on my headlamp. At 9 p.m., nearing the parking lot, my feet began to throb. Every step closer on the path sent agonizing pain through my body. After having hiked for nearly 15 hours in less than two days, my sprightliness for exploring dispersed. My back pained. My legs cramped. My feet swelled. My heart delighted.

All aches and pains were made up for with a view like this. Go the Garibaldi Park. Even looking at this, it gives little insight into actually being there and seeing for yourself how amazing it is to climb a mountain, or two.

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I - I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. - Robert Frost.

Room between me and the ground.

2011-08-04T18:23:00.000-07:00

As we ascended off the tarmack at Squamish Airport, what I thought would be nervousness in my first flight in a single-engine plane was actually utter excitement. The headset was on, the engine roared to life, and my good friend Stuart - who recently received his private pilots license - pulled back on the control column and sent us flying in the air. In seconds we were escalating above ground.

Before take-off he gave us the tutorial: "This is the tracking device incase we crash. Put your seat belt on like this. If I say 'hands off,' don't touch anything." And then, as if he had been doing it for years, Stu flew up to 7,000 feet in the air and imprinted within me an entirely different view of the Coast Mountains around Squamish and Whistler. A bird's eye view, if I dare to sound cliche.

We saw the Stawamus Chief, not from the highway as most do, but at 3,000 vertical feet. The vastness of the granitic monolith is even more astounding from the air. And then we flew - in attempt to reach our desired elevation - through Garibaldi Provincial Park, which encompasses a volcanic field of nine different stratovolcanoes.

It was like a geography dream come true. You could see where glaciers from thousands of years ago used to sit in the earth, that have now melted away and left the ground transformed. And more, you could see the amount of volcanic activity that shaped the land in the first place during the Holocene (11,000 years ago). Above you can see the lateral moraine, a Roche Moutonnee (thanks to Malcolm's knowledge below) and U-shaped valleys from glacial activity.

And then you've got Garibaldi Lake, which is, in itself, absolutely astounding. It's depth is at 300 metres and exists due to a lava flow from Clinker Peak that created a lava wall barrier during the last ice age. The blue colour is the result of rock flour - ground up sediment from the glacier that, when the sun hits it, reflects the water in a bright blue. Adjacent to the lake is The Table, which formed below the Cordillera Ice Sheet. Flying directly next to and above these features, having never seen them at any close distance, was breathtaking. Not even an hour from Vancouver there is so much left to explore.

Stuart then flew us in our loop past Mount Cayley, seen behind me here. Mount Cayley is a "potentially active volcano" that rises 7,428 vertical feet. Upon further reading I discovered that Mount Cayley poses future eruptions, with hot springs steaming up on the western flank. Also, seismologists have recorded earthquakes as early back as 1985, a sure sign that volcanic activity still exists beneath the mountain.

As we began our descent back to solid ground, pilot Stuart and the other passengers (myself excluded) decided that Negative G's would be a hilariously fun form of entertainment. As I gripped my hands tightly to the bottom of the seat, Ben and Mikey giggled like school boys in the back. I resisted the feeling of floating and yet my body leapt into the air as the plane dove. All was not well in Jesse's insides. Still, I refrained from throwing up and took a photo of the two, much more thrilled passengers. Flying is fun. Seeing the reflection of the tiny single-engine plane on the trees below had me feeling nostalgic. However, I can't quite put into words what flying through a volcanic belt, with glaciers staring back at you, is like. It's like knowing something is beautiful but the description of it isn't tangible.

The modern airplane creates a new geographical dimension. A navigable ocean of air blankets the whole surface of the globe. There are no distant places any longer: the world is small and the world is one. - Wendell Willkie

Towers: Photo of the week

2011-07-29T21:42:00.000-07:00

Near Seymour Creek a couple of weeks ago. Ben standing next to one of Mother Nature's giants, to which we have destroyed.

Creation destroys as it goes, throws down one tree for the rise of another. But ideal mankind would abolish death, multiply itself million upon million, rear up city upon city, save every parasite alive, until the accumulation of mere existence is swollen to a horror.

- David Herbert Lawrence

Central Americas!

2011-07-29T08:06:00.000-07:00

The world is a book, and those who do

not travel only read a page. - St. Augustine

Central America. September 17. Eight hours from Calgary to Mexico City. Yes, oh yes.

After five long years of school and work, of saving up money to pay for tuition and pay for rent, I am finally saving up money (though very little) to travel. Ben and I fly to Mexico City in September, where we'll be staying with my good friend Renee before backpacking our way down to Panama.

Mexico, Guatemala, El Salvador, Nicaragua, Costa Rica and Panama. It is going to be amazing, and I can't stop thinking about it. Surfing, Maya ruins, jungle, parrots, culture, stories. I want to write so many stories while I'm there, I can feel my brain swelling at the thought of it.

I am so excited.

Book 15

2011-07-20T07:02:00.000-07:00

The Virgin Suicides by Jeffrey Eugenides

The Lisbon girls, a tragedy but for no particular reason other than they chose to be. The Virgin Suicides was an odd and yet compelling book about five sisters who over the period of one year all find unique and inexplainable ways to kill themselves.

Whether it be because their parents prevented them from experiencing the normal things every teenage girl should experience, or because they never found love, or because they felt no one understood them, they chose death over life.

I felt very little connection to this book. Odd, because I thought that it would for sure entrance me. The writing style was unique in that the narrator was a school boy (or boys) who observed the Lisbon girls from afar and wrote based on accounts conducted from interviews, but I felt nothing pulling at my heartstrings to continue to read on. Because there was so little development of the five Lisbon sisters, I never felt I knew their characters well or could distinguish the type of girls they were.

Still, I suppose that was the purpose of the book: to leave the reader trying to decipher for themselves the reason why five young and promising women would take their own lives, and perhaps lead is to question our own?

Fifteen down, ten to go.

kindness in a customer

2011-07-18T19:55:00.000-07:00

I have worked many a job in my life. Most of them have involved working with other people, customers. At Dairy Queen I served up burgers and ice cream, at Montana's Cookhouse I seated people and cleaned tables, at Michael's I stocked shelves and helped people around the store. At the newspapers I've reported for I've interviewed and photographed and told people's stories. And now, this summer, I paint the place to which they live day and night.

In all of the above, if there is anything of value I have learned, it's that kindness is a virtue and it is one that is thin on the ground... it so rarely exists.

An employee is aware he or she must be kind; provide hellos, work hard, smile and do everything one can to satisfy the paying customer. But what is so rarely considered is the contrasting attitude of the customer. If you hope to see the people you've hired do a fabulous job of whatever it is they have been hired to do, do not hover over them and point out the smallest of imperfections at the beginning of a job. Give your workers a chance to prove that they suffice. Do not accuse them of "ripping" you off, or "changing a contract," and then proceed to ignore them when they are trying to communicate with you and clear the confusion.

Do not assume that you are right - because you live here, or you are a contractor - and the painter is wrong, or does not know what he or she is doing. And do not assume that because we are "just painters" we are mindless hosts that lack the capacity to do anything properly.

If you ever hire a contractor, a plumber, a painter, a drywall man/woman, an electrician, a carpenter, or if you are ever in line at a Dairy Queen ordering food, please for goodness sake do not assume that because you are the one hiring, or the one ordering, that that gives you the right to mistreat the person behind the counter, or the one holding the brush.

Do not assume that because I have paint in my hair and drywall dust in my eyes, that I am an uneducated and inexperienced human being. And do not, when I am trying to communicate with you and saying that, "we must respect one another," turn your head from mine and wave your hand in my face as if to shove me off for being so ridiculous.

Kindness is so lacking sometimes in this world, and it is at brief moments (like today) that I encounter it. For goodness sake, be nice, people.

Kindness is in our power, even when fondness is not. - Samuel Johnson

sitting in the sun, breathing the salty air

2011-07-07T21:41:00.000-07:00

"... The grandest and most pleasing prospect my eyes ever surveyed."

This was how explorer William Clark put into words what he saw when seeing the Oregon Coast, and specifically the region near Cannon Beach, for himself in 1806. What my eyes too witnessed while recently visiting the same area was parallel.

The Oregon Coast is phenomenal. I've struggled the last few days to find words that properly describe the coastline so as to give it justice, and there aren't many. Phenomenal will have to do. It is a region that shows the aged earth we live on; 400-year-old sitka spruce trees that blanket parkland, basaltic sea stacks left behind after decades of erosion. It is an area that I am not sure I can captive into one single blog post.

Spiderwebs gathered morning dew near
where we camped in Astoria, OR.

Last Thursday, having had enough of the hustle and bustle of Vancouver, of working and eating and sleeping and repeating, we took the long weekend to go to Cannon Beach, Oregon, some 552 km and six hours of driving down south. It was the best decision I've made (as of recently). We slept the first night on a dirt road near Astoria (a difficult thing to do in the U.S., as state troopers often patrol roads and will send you packing to a campsite if they catch you). We parked on a sandy marshland/spit area, and in the morning heard the fishing boats heading out along the Columbia River estuary. Not quite sure yet what to expect of Oregon, we took a walk to the waterfront and then packed up to drive a few miles further to Cannon Beach.

We first rented surfboards when we arrived in Cannon Beach. I've surfed only once before in Tofino, and it was a challenging endevour - one I wasn't sure I'd try again. My hesitation at surfing lurked beneath my skin as I pulled on my wetsuit. And then it was off to Indian Beach in Ecola State Park - a beach surfers head to for some nice (I prayed) breaking waves.

Top: me surfing. Middle: Ben and
I with our boards. Bottom: Ben
at Indian Beach.

The view of Indian Beach was incredible. Golden sand stretching as far out as possible, waves creeping up on giggling children running to escape the cold Pacific. Basaltic sea stacks in the distance with the white caps of waves crashing into them, and I, in my surf gear, terrified. However, as is evident in the pictures to the right, fear hath no place for surfing. After some coaxing from Ben, and a silent prayer to the surf Gods, I plunged into the water. I have never been more ecstatic, more thrilled, in my entire life, as I felt the first time I got up on my knees, and then my feet, on the surf board. The wave pushed me in, and I caught myself yelling out to anyone who would listen, "I'm riding a wave!" Perhaps my excitement goes misunderstood by those who haven't yet had the chance to surf. Still, it was invigorating.

Ecola State Park's Hiker's Camp.

We surfed all afternoon before putting into place the next two night's sleeping arrangements. Ben and I carry with us a certain refusal to pay to camp. Such an attitude is detrimental when in the States. So, we settled for the second best: pay $15 to camp two in Ecola State Park. This meant hiking our gear up more than 800 feet in elevation and 1.25 miles to the camp. Exhausted nonetheless, we managed to make it up and spent two nights camping surrounded by a greener-than-green forest and friendly fellow campers near Tillimook Head. We carried up the tent, the food, the clothes. The site was magical; cabins, the biggest clover patches I've ever seen, and campfire shenanigans.

We spent the Friday and Saturday surfing, and Saturday night did a little exploring before heading back up to camp. We checked out the Lookout (right). Sea stacks are ever present - the ocean has, over thousands of years, eroded away any surrounding rock and what remains is this basalt section of rocks, making for a spectacular view. The rocks play homage to several different species of birds (including puffins) and seals, as well. In the state park, as a part of the trail that leads to Hiker's Camp, is the Clatsop Loop Trail, again a trail made famous by the Lewis and Clark expedition (read up on this, it's very interesting). On Saturday night we did the second part of the trail which runs along the cliffs to the camp, and the hike led us through a maze of trees unlike I've ever seen before. There was the view of the open ocean, with the Tillamook Rock Lighthouse (which closed in 1956), and the exploration of an old World War II bunker (also on the hike).

Sitka Spruce. The right tree began growing atop a fallen tree, which
then broke down into the earth, hence my ability to climb beneath it's roots.

Ben skimboarding along Cannon Beach
in front of Haystack Rock and "the Needles."

Far too soon Sunday morning came, and we left Hiker's Camp, said goodbye to some very friendly Portland people, and made one last quick stop at Cannon Beach. This beach is perhaps the most famous of them all along the Oregon Coast, if not for the view itself, for it's Hollywood claim to fame. The movie The Goonies was filmed on the beach. Haystack Rock, the most photographed, stands at 235 feet and is a monolith (meaning it is made up of one single type of rock), and is the third largest of this kind in the world. We flew our kite on the beach, ate a snack, and then headed our way back to Vancouver, reluctantly.

For many years I've wanted to head down the Oregon Coast. I love my mountains, but the salt water and the Pacific, with its sandy beaches, welcoming surf, and even more welcoming sites, is grabbing a hold of my feet and pulling me closer. The north part of the Oregon Coast really is the grandest and most pleasing prospect my eyes ever surveyed... yet.

Photo credits to myself and Benjamin Ross.

Book 14

2011-06-29T07:16:00.000-07:00

The Magus by John Fowles

This book went recommended by my dad, who has the knowledge of intriguing books down to a science. The Magus follows Nick Urfe in a whirlwind mystery as he leaves his desperate girlfriend for a teaching job on a small Greek island. There, he meets a even more mysterious man by the name of Conchis, who will lead him on a 'game' where the main character constantly questions what is real and what is staged.

In the end, he discovers he has the potential to be a more compassionate, selfless individual, but not without losing the one person that led him to this rediscovering of himself.

I enjoyed the book, although it ended far too soon and without a sense of conclusion. There were moments within it, however, that I couldn't put it down, and it kept me guessing until near the very end.

I always pull things from the books that I read, and this was no short of ideas or thoughts to provoke me. Like the lesson Nicholas learns, my favourite: "Because the one thing that must never come between two people who have offered each other love is a lie."

And in one scene, where Jojo, a young and virgin-like woman, says to Nicholas: "I wish I was real pretty." He replies, "Being pretty is just something that's thrown in. Like the paper around a present. Not the present." I'm not sure if everyone would enjoy this book, but it made for an interesting read.

animal planet

2011-06-26T11:10:00.000-07:00

My undying love for little animals continues to become ever more prevalent. Meet Ms. Raccoon, resident of Stanley Park. Thanks Ingrid for taking the photos!

cookie monster

2011-06-19T21:57:00.000-07:00

When depressed, hungry, etc.. baking cookies makes me feel a little better. It helps that I have a great cookie monster book. If you ever see it, pick it up for yourself. It contains great recipes, like the All-American Chocolate Chip Cookie.

2 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 tsp. salt
1 cup of butter, softened
1 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup granulated sugar
2 eggs
1 tbsp. vanilla
1 pack semisweet chocolate chips
1 cup walnuts (optional)

Preheat oven 350 degrees F. Stir together flour, baking soda, salt. Beat butter and sugars in large bowl until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs and vanilla. Add flour mixture, beat until blended.
Stir in chocolate chips and walnuts. Drop the dough onto ungreased cookie sheet 2 inches apart in tablespoonfuls. Bake for 8 to 10 minutes until edges of the cookies are golden brown.

Makes 2 1/2 dozen cookies, so I suggest doubling the recipe if you are a monster like me, or if you live with one.

Drunk again in the rhododendrons

2011-06-17T19:44:00.000-07:00

"Boy, what you gonna do with your life? So you want to be an artist, want to be a singer, want to be remembered for what you could create." Bloc Party

That's it. Graduated. Degree in hand, a $30,000 slip of paper that says, "you've committed to something, now show that it was worth it." It's no ordinary thing to obtain a degree. It is the "what now?", however, that is even more peculiar.

I went to my grad, walked on stage, shook the Dean's hand, and two days later I found myself climbing ladders and painting window frames. I was angry and frustrated: had I really worked so hard the past four years to find myself wearing dirty painter's pants, combing the crusty paint from my hair?

But then I was standing in line at 7-11 in my painting attire buying a much-needed chocolate bar after work, and a man whom I could only guess by his accent was from the Middle East, said to me, "You are sure lucky. Women in my country can't work [the way you do]."

I think the point of school, the point of work, the reason I have ripped my fingernails and challenged my fear of 30-foot ladders, or the reason for anything at all, is so that we can grow. So we can see ourselves develop and transform and change and change again. So we can confront complications and come out stronger.

So, I have my Bachelor of Applied Journalism degree. But I could be a painter. I could be an artist. A traveller. An author, I could make shoes or build fences. The point is, I can. And so, I will.

For those of you in these photos, I'm so glad you have been a part of my life. And I think it's great that so many of us decided to go to the grad, because I'm not quite sure I'll be gathering another degree anytime soon.

friends and anemones.

2011-05-24T13:59:00.000-07:00

The ocean has got to be the most spectacular and magical thing on this earth. It's an underwater world of which we barely get to scratch the surface of. It's mysterious and strong, and I was just lucky enough to catch a glimpse of it this long weekend in Tofino.

Top: Surfing at Chesterman's Beach, Bryce, Teresa and Ben. Also, the crew skim boarding. The bottom photo was taken at Long Beach, a 10-mile long beach that is absolute paradise.

Ben and I camped for the weekend at Bella Pacifica Campground with some friends, and spent every hour of the day on the beach, myself completely mesmerized. On Saturday, I zipped up my wetsuit and took in some lessons from our friend Teresa on surfing at Chesterman Beach. I'm weak, the ocean is strong, and 15 minutes was all I could take. It was incredible though to feel the fast speed of the waves as they break. Next time I'll have to better prepare for the energy it takes to "paddle, paddle, paddle."

The following day we made out way to South Chestermans, where I walked along the beach to Frank Island for some exploring. The tide was just coming in and I was able to get to the rocky shore where sea creatures of all sorts reside. Sea anemones, sea stars, fish and clams.

The Green Surf Anemone (top and bottom). I'm not sure if the creature in the middle is an anemone. The anemone is a predator and eats all sorts, including a hermit crab (about to be eaten on the bottom).

There was also hundreds of mussels attached to these rocks on Frank Island. The mussels emit strong byssus threads that harden upon contact with sea water and thus are able to attach securely to the rock. They call a collective of mussels such as the ones below "mussel beds."

The little sea animals are so intricate in both their colour and their design, as you can see below of the shells, the sand dollar and the purple shore crab. Shells offer up shelter for animals like hermit crabs, and the sand dollar is worth nothing in Canadian dollar exchange. This little crab was hidden under the first rock I overturned, and was the only crab I saw the entire weekend.

Shells, sand dollars (which are actually herbivores that have spines to move along the sand) and my friendly baby purple shore crab.

My favourite thing to do at the ocean, which is evident in my photos, is to take my camera and just explore. I feel there is so much to discover in doing that, and my favourite discovery was the sea stars. Below you see the Ochre Sea Star in orange and purple. They feel hard to the touch and are just one of many species of sea stars. Another one we commonly saw (and held) was the sunflower sea star.

Unfortunately three days during the long weekend was not sufficient enough to see the sea on Vancouver Island. Thus, there is no other solution than to go back and stay longer the next time.Visit, meet new friends and see for yourself how incredible the ocean really is.

A Cup of Sugar

2011-05-24T08:54:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago my neighbour, an old, quiet and reserved man, knocked on my door and asked if he could borrow a cup of sugar. I, being the cookie fanatic that I am, obliged, invited him in and got him his cup of sugar. He said thanks and was on his way.

Last Thursday I got another knock on the door. I opened it, and here was the same neighbour, clean-shaven, dressed in a suit, holding a small boquet of pink flowers. He said, "These are for you, for lending me that cup of sugar."

He handed me the flowers, gave a bit of a bashful smile, and I gave him a giant bear hug. The simple gestures that one never expects often are the most heartwarming. So thank you, neighbour.

All my love was down in a frozen ground.

2011-05-15T21:18:00.000-07:00

Bluejay beauty.

(Bon Iver)

Book 13

2011-05-09T11:20:00.000-07:00

All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque

With all this time on my hands I at least get the chance to knock off some books on my "25 Before I'm 25" list. All Quiet on the Western Front is a classic in itself, a little peak inside the soldier's trials at war, and it is a book I can't recommend enough to those who haven't had the chance to study World War One. I took a European history course last fall and it was incredibly insightful, and this book just open's up the most important thing to be understood about any war: that it was old men talking and young men dying.

The protagonist, an 18-year-old German soldier barely an adult, is thrust into the war with the Germans, fighting against Britain and France, but continually questions what exactly he and his commerades are fighting for. He writes with such vivid detail the blasts felt from a hand grenade, the hunger in the soldier's belly, the brown, torn earth.

In particular, some favourite excerpts from All Quiet on the Western Front are the ones that give the reader an idea of war. On page 114 he describes the ferociousness the soldiers embrace, transforming "into murderers, into God only knows what devils; this wave that multiplies our strength with fear and madness and greed of life, seeking and fighting for nothing but our deliverance. If your own father came over with them you would not hesitate to fling a bomb at him."

We are so fortunate a generation to not be forced to fight for our country. Later still he writes this, my favourite: "I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another and, in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another" (p. 263).

Please read this!

sleeping on the balcony after class.

2011-05-09T10:36:00.000-07:00

There are certain milestones in life that one cannot simply ignore, milestones that bring about a certain amount of feeling of accomplishment. I believe graduating with a degree is one such milestone, and it often goes unacknowledged, but in truth, it is a huge task concluded. I don't often post photos of myself on my blog, and if I do they usually involve being with friends, or are taken for an artistic purpose. Generally, unless one wants to become entirely self-absorbed, I discourage self-indulgent posts. But I will post my graduation picture. Why? Because I feel like I've done something that I need to commend myself for. I don't say this selfishly, and I don't by any means mean to gloat. But there are certain things one cannot avoid feeling pride for. Graduating with a degree is my "certain thing."

So, for the last five years (technically four, but a year off in between makes it five), I have learned how to write, how to develop stories that the public will care about. I've interviewed a woman who was 101-years-old, I've met Olympic athletes, I've seen the cursor on my word document flash on and off as I try to decipher how it is I am going to write what others will hopefully read. It's a huge challenge. At times I've felt vulnerable, incompetent. I have questioned, "Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life?" I've made mistakes, crammed for papers due in eight hours, received criticisms I'd rather avoid, cried at my desk, pulled at my hair. But I've learned that I am capable.

To be capable is to be independent, to be able to jump in head first even if you aren't quite sure what you're jumping into is a pool of water or a pile of boulders. It's taking risks, throwing yourself out there to editors and instructors and publications and hoping that what you get in return is a warm greeting, a "we'd like to publish your story," but understanding that the response may not be what you'd hoped. It's having the confidence to pick yourself up off the ground and jump right back in.

If I've learned anything, it's that you can do whatever it is you want, if you just apply yourself to do it. So, I finished school late April - it's May 9 - I'm unemployed. I have a few dollars to get me through, I am sitting on my couch going stir crazy that I don't have a job. But I refuse to settle for the minimum wage job, for the routine that is stocking shelves or making frappuccinos, for a job you hate going to every day. I've applied myself. I submitted a paper to The Tyee, I applied for a reporter/photographer position at Metro. I'm sitting here, crossing my fingers, saying secret prayers, that it will work out.

I went to school so that I could enjoy my work. I don't plan on giving that up anytime soon.

smiling in bright lights.

2011-04-26T17:53:00.000-07:00

All it takes is an adventure through the snow-packed woods with a few old friends, and suddenly you feel beautiful. Man, I wish I was beautiful (love Counting Crows). Photos of mountains are great, but sometimes we need photos of ourselves.

We all want something beautiful.

My friend Andrea, pictured above, came through to Fernie today from Manitoba. She's a truly dedicated friend who would literally go out of her way to see you, even if only for a few hours. And she's a photographer, so the three of us went out and snapped some shots at the Hosmer mine ruins.

"She's looking at you. Ah, no, no, she's looking at me."

It's been a great few days in Fernie, and spending the afternoon with friends on my last day here was truly so wonderful. We fell, Renee crash-landed in the snow, and we sunk up to our knees with freezing toes. The dye in my shoes ran into my white socks when we were done. But we are goof balls, and being goof balls is the only way to be.

When everybody loves you, you can never be lonely.

Having a timer on your camera also helps. I really try to avoid sentimentality when I blog, because readers don't usually indulge in it, but it's days like this that I simply cannot avoid it. I love my friends, and I love seeing them through the lens of my camera.

Dreadlocks can be so beautiful.

So, tomorrow it's back to Van-City and in search of a real job. But now, with degree done, I feel an entirely different feeling that I had prior to finishing school. A sense of relief, a sense of fun, and huge change.

I've been through the Rockies

2011-04-25T16:23:00.000-07:00

Fernie is, and has always been, my favourite place. Having visited less and less each year, I sometimes forget the absolute amazingness of it, and now when I come home I try to absorb it all through the lens of my camera. I'd like to think I've done a good job of that. The geology around Fernie is incredible. Just east of the town onwards to Alberta is the Crowsnest Pass, home to a slew of uplifted mountainous terrain. These were taken from near the Crowsnest Lake, the second mountain being Crowsnest Mountain and the third being Tecumseh Mountain (black and white photograph). I've never hiked any of these particular mountains, and that is an odd fact, but I suppose when you are surrounded by something you don't truly appreciate its beauty. Hopefully, when I can really spend some time exploring, I'll be able to make my way up their ridges and provide photos from their peaks.

The purpose of me posting these is to just give those of you who do follow my blog, but who have not yet been to Fernie (or anywhere else in B.C. for that matter), a taste of what you are missing. It is so refreshing to be outside and away from the city lights, the traffic, the hospital noise and the shopping, and instead hearing the birds chirping outside my window.

I can see the stars at night here. And I don't mean the most prominent stars like the big dipper, but even the smallest ones that sparkle when the sky is black.

Poplar trees and deer and elk and coyotes and quiet. I always talk about how quiet it is when I come back, and I think it's because there's a calmness that encompasses that quiet. It's something that is missing from life.

March 6.

2011-04-25T12:35:00.000-07:00

Truly wonderful the mind of a child is. The little man, Caleb Guy Frayn.

We share a birthday, so it's special.

Book 12

2011-04-24T22:20:00.000-07:00

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

I was excited to read this book, thinking it a classic by the notorious Oscar Wilde. But, I was instead introduced to what I consider a poor attempt at transforming a play into a novel. I made it to page 92 - halfway through - and had to put it down. There was very little showing of the individual characters, and an entirety of telling.

This novel was the only one Wilde ever did, as he was more known for his position as a playwright. And while the idea of a man who wishes to remain young forever, and in greed commits numerous sins, which are then reflected in his self image, is an incredible idea, there was not enough pizazz within this novel to enlighten me.

I found myself skipping through sentences instead of truly being absorbed within them. And the story offered the truly sexist and misogynistic views of men in the late 19th century, which (while I can embrace differences of that time) had me rolling my eyes. Thus, I made a wholehearted attempt to read it, and then put it back on the shelf.

Linkages.

2011-04-24T01:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes the best things in life don't involve messages,
They don't involve plans and collaborations and serious contemplations.
But involve spontaneous gatherings and smiles,
And unexpected laughter and discussion.
They involve meeting with old friends, whom you haven't seen in years,
Upon seeing them one feels a certain connection,
That one lacks with others.

Her eyes are wild.

2011-04-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

I want to express my love for freckles.

The thing about running..

2011-04-08T20:57:00.000-07:00

The thing about running is... unless you're actually doing it, you are convinced it's the most tiresome activity, the most tedious and dreary way to get into shape.

The thing about running is... it's only ever really worth it if you have some great music to coax you through what feels like the never-ending trip down the street, through the park, and home again.

The thing about running is... you always think you are running fast, until someone who is also running passes you. Then, you just want to walk.

The thing about running is... if you forget to do it, for days, weeks, or even months, the first time you try to do it again, it feels like you've lost all your pizzaz, all that jump in your step. Your legs feel weak, as though they can't go any further.

The thing about running is... you have a goal, and no matter how hard you run, how fast you run, how long you run, you never quite seem to reach it.

BUT! The most important thing about running is, when you actually do it, with motivating music (or none at all), and when you can feel the sweat beading down your back, and off your forehead, and when you can feel your legs burning with how hard you are pushing them, it is actually pretty amazing.

Not for how far you run, how fast you leap or how long you last, but just knowing you are doing it. And afterwards, you have a legitimate reason to shower.

Moral of the story? Must. Run. More.

Book 11

2011-04-02T12:46:00.000-07:00

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

I have a general rule when it comes to reading. If I'm not entirely encapsulated by the book or novel within 100 pages, I put it back on the shelf and move on. But, but page 100 of The Poisonwood Bible, I had already learned so much about life in the Congo, I had forgotten about my rule.

This novel (and I say novel hesitantly, because novels are works of fiction, and I wish that The Poisonwood Bible were based on some true tale), follows five women: daughters Rachel, Leah, Adah, Ruth May, and mother Orleanna, as they grudgingly venture on a mission into the Congo jungle with there less-than-acceptable religious preacher father, Nathan Price. The author is able to tell the story where each individual chapter is from the point of view of one of the five girls, and she manages to make each of their 'voices' differently - different attitudes, different believes. I caught myself favouring with one particular sister over the other, and couldn't wait until the next chapter began.

In the most generalized summary, the novel shows the Congo in the heat of religious imperialism, where the Price family attempts to 'save' Congo people from their evil ways, and results in the fall of Father Price instead, who turns on his family, his daughters, and his wife. The author integrates historical evidence from that time into the story, relates it to the Price's demise, and manages to carry it through to the last chapter.

My favourite protagonist? Adah. The twin sister who kept quiet under the assumption that she could not talk, limped behind the rest of her sisters under the assumption that she could not walk, and, in the end, surpassed all the four sisters in success and establishment in her experience in the Congo. She wholeheartedly has no belief in God or christianity, and considering the circumstances, this is not at all surprising.

She continually questioned her father's authority, and tells about when she questioned a God that condemned people based on the colour of the skin or where they were born. She was put on her knees to pray for her soul and, when she gets up, says: "When I finally got up with sharps grains imbedded in my knees, I found, to my surprise, that I no longer believed in God."

All in all, it was an incredibly knowledgeable book, one that I would recommend to anyone who has an open mind about religion, Africa, and understanding of cultures unlike our own.

Way out of reach of human eyes

2011-03-28T10:39:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all you need is an adventure in the woods.

With sister.

Little Bird - Jewel

tickled pink.

2011-03-23T19:10:00.000-07:00

Melon

2011-03-06T17:53:00.001-08:00

"Screech, you can't elope!"

"Don't call me a cantelope, you melonhead!"

Mr. Feesh

2011-02-21T15:21:00.000-08:00

He's a betta. And his name is Michael Phelps.

He is our first pet, and we love him.

Some stories

2011-02-20T13:57:00.000-08:00

I'm finally getting around to publishing some stories written last semester for my magazine writing class. This one is about landslides in North Vancouver, and I spoke with several officials as well as residents who experienced a landslide outside their backdoor in 2005.

Typing out this story on blogger is a bit tedious, so I've linked to my website where you can find the story.

Click here:

Landslide

The second story is true, though it is hard to believe and perhaps may be difficult to read without feeling uneasy for some. I wrote it under anonymity, meaning that the subjects are real but their names are not. This mother is fighting to protect her daughter from an abusive father, and it shows her struggles and successes in doing so.

Click here:

On deaf ears

These stories are very dear to my heart and I am extremely glad to have been able to write them and edit them with the help of one of my instructors. Please leave any comments as they are much appreciated.

-J

Laugh until we think we'll die.

2011-02-15T23:41:00.000-08:00

(home)

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros

Book 10

2011-02-08T14:40:00.000-08:00

East of Eden by John Steinbeck

In my teenage angst years I made two attempts at reading this novel. They were inconclusive - I never finished the 601 pages and felt my brain swollen from too much information. But finally, a few years later and with a new understanding for great literature, I've managed to read (and enjoy) East of Eden.

John Steinbeck's writing is absolutely eloquent: there are words in this novel I've never seen or heard before and I had a dictionary at hand for many nights of reading. But mostly I find it incredible at his development of characters. Regardless of a large or small part in the novel, each character is well-developed; Joe Valery, an escaped convict and bodyguard at the neighbourhood whorehouse, even has a story. And while Steinbeck doesn't take away too much from the main characters, he is able to tell Joe's story well enough to have us show interest. Also, the overall uniformity between East of Eden and the story of the brothers Cain and Abel (a biblical tale) is so well done that throughout East of Eden there is a yearning from certain characters to belong and to be accepted. Some are and succeed, others aren't and fail, and vice versa.

There are so many quotes I could pull from the novel. One section in particular focuses on introducing Cathy Ames, the antagonist throughout and in the lives of the Hamilton and Trask families. But instead of describing first her appearance and demeanor, he writes about his opinion of evil in order to give an understanding of the particular evil of Cathy.

"I believe there are monsters born into he world to human parents. Some you can see, misshapen and horrible, with huge heads or tiny bodies; some are born with no arms, no legs, some with three arms, some with tails or mouths in odd places. They are accidents and no one's fault, as used to be thought. Once they were considered the visible punishments for concealed sins.
And just as there are physical monsters, can there not be mental or psychic monsters born? The face and body may be perfect, but if a twisted gene or a malformed egg can produce physical monsters, may not the same process produce a malformed soul?
Monsters are variations from the accepted normal to a greater or a less degree. As a child may be born without an arm, so one may be born without kindness or the potential of conscience. A man who loses his arm in an accident has a great struggle to adjust himself to the lack, but one born without arms suffers only from people who find him strange. Having never had arms, he cannot miss them. Sometimes when we are little we imagine how it would be to have wings, but there is no reason to suppose it is the same feeling birds have. No, to a monster the norm must seem monstrous, since everyone is normal to himself. To the inner monster it must be even more obscure, since he has no visible thing to compare with others. To a man born without conscience, a soul-stricken man must seem ridiculous. To a criminal, honesty is foolish. You must not forget that a monster is only a variation, and that to a monster the norm is monstrous.
It is my belief that Cathy Ames was born with the tendencies..."

I've read many books and a few have inspired me to write better, to explore my imagination and express that imagination in a story. But Steinbeck, as of now, has to be on top of those inspiring authors. If not for the story itself, for the way to which he delivers it. Read it, you won't be at all disappointed, provided that you can stick with the 600 pages.

** 10 books read on my 25 before 25 list. I need to pick up the pace. **

to the evening star

2011-02-06T23:38:00.000-08:00

Tonight, for the first time since the late summer, I can see the stars out my window. There are no clouds, no buildings obstructing my view. So, I found a poem I like about the stars, in hopes that you too may like it.

Though fair-haired angel of the evening,
Now, whilst the sun rests on the mountains, light
Thy bright torch of love; thy radiant crown
Put on, and smile upon our evening bed!
Smile on our loves, and while thou drawest the
Blue curtains of the sky, scatter thy silver dew
On every flower that shuts its sweet eyes
In timely sleep. Let thy west wing sleep on
The lake; speak silence with thy glimmering eyes,
And wash the dusk with silver, Soon, full soon,
Dost thou withdraw; then the wolf rages wide,
And the lion glares through the dun forest.
The fleeces of our flocks are covered with
Thy sacred dew; protect them with thine influence.

- William Blake

little observations

2011-02-03T13:22:00.000-08:00

From time to time I notice little things. Things on public transit, things on the streets, a conversation between two people. And from time to time I like to write about these little things as they are often things that stick with me, that make me smile inside.

Yesterday, crammed on the SkyTrain heading to school during rush hour, an elderly couple made an attempt to squish onto the train. They held onto one another tightly and with much perseverance managed to get on the train before the doors closed behind them. The husband's hair was gelled back, thin and gray. He grabbed onto a nearby bar for stability as the train began to move. His wife, who had the most immaculate curls, held tightly around his arm. He was holding her steady.

"It's like sardines in a can," joked the husband. The wife giggled in response like a little school girl on the playground.

I make these small observations because I feel there are things out there that are often so simple, yet so gratifying. There's a lot to be said for a husband and wife, moving closer to their mid-80s, who are still able to look as though they share so much love, who have a sort of invisible fire between them. It's uplifting.

The tree.

2011-01-31T10:26:00.000-08:00

The world is not like it once was, Cemented and concealed

Roots constricted and withheld. But grows tall above buildings,

It will not be held back, The tree.

Sad day for a duck

2011-01-30T18:38:00.000-08:00

Walking in the sunshine today along the sea wall with my mom, we came across something rather sad. I looked down to the water - the tide was low - and I saw a sea duck just floating against the rock. It was flopping its head back and forth and was having a difficult time staying afloat. My mom and I stopped to look at it and it was then I realized that it's neck was broken.

I wasn't sure what to do, and the duck flipped on its back and his head went under water. It was bound to drown if I didn't do anything, or at least to suffer for a very long time. So I decided to walk down to the water and pick up this duck to prevent it from drowning. When I reached for it, his head was under water and I could tell it was scared. His eyes looked right at me. His feathers were smooth and I grabbed him gently.

A man and his daughter were walking by and asked, "What's wrong with it?"

"Its neck is broken," I said. The poor thing was flopping back and forth. The man suggested I put it out of its misery, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. He motioned to grabbing it by the head and whip its body around but I have never killed an animal before and wasn't about to do it.

Seeing I was mighty uncomfortable this man came down to me and he put to rest the poor duck. It was very sad. I carried the duck over to the nearest garbage and put it inside.

Horrible though it may be, I don't doubt that the duck would've died a slow and painful death if it wasn't for what this man and I did, and I feel better knowing we helped it die quickly.

scars.

2011-01-27T12:12:00.000-08:00

Scars remind us where we've been,

they don't have to dictate where we're going.

Welcome, Mr. Bug

2011-01-19T12:14:00.000-08:00

Having a macro lens has strengthened my curiousity. The closeness I am able to attain with the lens is incredible. So incredible, in fact, that I have adopted a new friend in the process.

Last night while in bed I looked towards the bedside lamp and saw a giant bug flying to and then away from the lamp. Imagining it was some scary black and yellow wasp I let out a scream. Ben leapt under the covers. I grabbed the fly-swatter, determined to kill whichever it was. But then I discovered that it was this handsome bug, the Leptoglossus occidentalis, or the Western conifer seed bug.

The western conifer seed bug on my plant by the window.

After doing some digging with Ben on the internet, while Mr. Bug crawled quickly on my hands, we discovered that Mr. Bug is native to the western states and, according to accounts from another bug-lover, move inside homes when it gets too cold. Mr. Bug flew around the house towards the light, he sat patiently while I took pictures (as if he knew he were the subject of some new discovery) and then I placed him outside where I felt he belonged, on our windowsill. He was a very pretty bug.

But this morning I looked out and he was still on the sill, upside down. I thought, "Oh no! I killed him." But then I poked him and he moved. So, my thinking is that it is too cold for him outside and he'd be better off staying in our apartment where it is warm.

I think I'm odd in that way. Most people would squish him or flush him and that would be the end of that. But I can't help but feel that Mr. Bug has a sense of appreciation for me housing him from the cold wind. At least, that's my rationality. That, and he is very responsive to my playing with him and I find it entertaining.

*Update* Mr. Bug tragically died the other evening when he mistakenly flew into the web of said Mr. Spider, another occupant of Apt. 5 at 1035 West 12th. Mr. Spider proceeded to cast his web around Mr. Bug, suffocating him. Oh the irony of it all.

Poetry: Wordsworth

2011-01-18T21:23:00.000-08:00

In an attempt to be more mindful, I'm going to start posting favourite poetry once a week. Tonight I heard this and looked it up. The poem is called Ode by William Wordsworth, and while it is nearly 210 lines long, I found this one part I particularly liked.

What though the radiance which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.

hiccup

2011-01-16T02:53:00.000-08:00

hiccup
ears ringing, i am tired;
of the inconsistency.
the irrelevant encounters, the extraneous
beats and drinks and glances
met with a glare.
i am so tired.

The Cove

2011-01-14T22:26:00.000-08:00

I've been meaning to watch The Cove for the past few months and only finally got around to it tonight. As it turns out, I am completely horrified. If you've seen it you are likely to have felt the same way I am feeling now.

What an amazing piece of work. A group of activists, filmmakers and freedivers try to uncover the secrets of the small Japanese town Taiji, where each year for six months nearly 23,000 dolphins and porpoises are murdered. Murder is a strong, visual word, but in this documentary it is certainly all that I see.

Fishermen gorge the dolphins with hooks, knives attached to poles, they tie the dolphins by thick rope to boats and drag them across the water in this particular bay. First, they tap on poles in the water to disturb the dolphin communication, and then after local and nearby dolphin trainers take the "pick of the litter" (the desired and trainable dolphins), the others are herded around a corner and to their death.

They even separate the baby dolphins from their parents. And in the end all die.

I don't mean to be melodramatic, but I will never again look at these Sea Worlds and other entertainment areas in the same light. Ever. In fact, this is exactly the kind of work I would like to get into, the kind of journalism I would be proud to be associated with.

Kudos for Ric O'Barry and the others for what they've done and for shedding light on this. For shame to Japan who continues to hide and even ignore the cruelty that continues.

swimming closer to you.

2011-01-09T09:54:00.000-08:00

Loving the ocean.

To the flower..

2011-01-08T09:55:00.000-08:00

is all it takes.

Meet me in Crooked River.

2011-01-06T14:17:00.000-08:00

The Collisons, circa 1962.

DIH-SKUR-IJ

2011-01-06T12:06:00.000-08:00

1. to deprive of courage, hope, or confidence; dishearten; dispirit.

2. to dissuade.

3. to obstruct by opposition or difficulty; hinder.

4. to express of make clear disapproval of.

Discouragement is something I've never been particularly good at tackling. It is something I am well aware of that diminishes my confidence and leaves me questioning my abilities as a journalist. But there are particular types of discouragement that leave me questioning the type of person I am or how others perceive me, and it is this type of discouragement that leaves me distressed.

I have grown a thick (or at least thicker) skin in the past five years, at school, in my personal life, with work, but the thick skin is not impenetrable. At times it even plays the role of a sponge, absorbing critique and criticism that should remain an exterior, things like suggestions and lessons.

Is there a discouragement repellent? Something I can spray like a mist, walk into and absorb, so that I no longer feel like I do at this moment.

old albums new.

2011-01-02T13:00:00.000-08:00

When you're young, you forget that your parents at one time were not parents. You forget they went to college, had roommates, worked summer jobs. I myself have certainly, until recently, not understood this. I didn't even realize that my mom had stowed away in the spare room closet, albums upon albums of her life in film.

So for a few days this Christmas holiday I went through some albums and came across these photos taken of my mom when she was just 20, and beginning her first year at UBC. I like to think that if she and I were 20 at the same time, we would have been good friends.

Modest as she is, she says, "I never really thought anything of those photos when they were taken." Yet here I am, completely taken by how beautiful she is in them. A friend of a friend studying photography had taken them in 1976. I think now, almost 35 years later, she looks at them in a different light. I truly love discovering the things I did not know about my parents, like these old black-and-whites.

Book 9

2010-12-31T08:49:00.000-08:00

Atonement by Ian McEwan

Atonement simply defined means satisfaction or reparation for a wrong. This book is about a sister seeking such atonement and never finding it.

I've always wanted to read this, having seen the movie, and it has been on my list of books for several months, but this past semester it was tucked into a shelf where it was forgotten until just a few days ago. The verdict: I really enjoyed it. Being able to feel what all the characters feel was a treat as I haven't read many books that let you into multiple-antagonists' heads.

Also, truly it is a creative story, that a single lie can change the plans laid before an individual and that regret is as strong an emotion as love. I recommend it for those of you who do read my blog, if you haven't read it already. And, of course, if you do in fact read my blog at all!

Oh, deer.

2010-12-29T11:15:00.000-08:00

Last night my sister and I, linked arm-in-arm, walked home from downtown. As we turned the corner onto our street - our boots crunching against the snow - we saw a deer. We walked closer and then poof! Nine deer! A doe and her fawn who very clearly showed its unfamiliarity with a white winter, several other does and two bucks. They walked quietly past us, unafraid of Jenn and I as we stood to watch them not more than 10 feet away. They were absolutely beautiful and completely in their element, eating berries from the trees and exploring the dark yards of Fernie when everyone else is asleep. It was quite magical, though perhaps only appreciated by those who too have an appreciation for quiet, and family.

Santa Clause is real.

2010-12-26T10:52:00.000-08:00

Quiet roads, frosty windows, Christmas carols and red lights reflected on silver tinsel on the tree. I love Christmas and all that encompasses it. I love the quiet of home, where Christmas eve on main street means running into six old friends from high school and snow is packed hard onto the road.

I love the chill of the air, though I dislike how the dryness of it chaps my lips. I love Christmas morning, waking up under the blankets than have trapped all of my body heat, and knowing it's Christmas!

I love surprises you never expected, like a macro lens for my Nikon. I love sitting around with my Mom, Dad, sister and boyfriend and watching their reactions as they open their own gifts, and playing cranium which leads to dancing in the kitchen which leads to hysterical laughter.

Coming home makes me feel as though I should never leave it, because it's so comforting and so certain. But at the same time, it's okay to leave it because whenever I come back, it's the same. It is certain; certain that I'll run into old friends and have time to sit and read a book, or cuddle with my Dad on the couch just like I did when I was five.

Home is great and I'm glad I have one to come to.

2010-12-18T23:43:00.001-08:00

one is the loneliest number.

Playing with food.

2010-12-15T21:58:00.000-08:00

TV Dinner

2010-12-12T19:37:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting in a nice restaurant called the Banana Leaf in Vancouver, eating my green-bean stir fry with rice tonight and I look to the family that has just sat down adjacent. A mother, a father, a daughter, a son... but wait. There's something else. Between the two children is an iPad and playing on the iPad is the Incredibles.

When I was young, no such thing existed. If my parents were nice enough to take my sister and I for dinner (usually to the town's Chinese restaurant) we sat quietly, drew animals with wax crayons, and ate our dinner. If we were too hyper to sit quietly, mom and Dad would play games with us or we'd be required to bring our favourite book and read.

Twice in the past month have I been sitting at a restaurant and then, low and behold, a child comes in with his/her family and begins playing on whatever sort of new technological device she/he has with them. It angers me. Partly because I wonder if it's the parents who have consciously decided it's just easier to plunk a movie down in front of their children then it is to converse with them?

In all seriousness, to those people who are parents out there, PLEASE do not become like this. Challenge your children, teach them that dinner time is family time and not time to watch another Disney flick. It's quite despicable, in my very honest opinion.

blue shoes.

2010-11-29T23:30:00.000-08:00

Can't shake the cavernous creep
With these insecurities.
They pull, seize inconsistently,
Run deep. They do, within my veins.

Hands-on.

2010-11-28T21:26:00.000-08:00

Learning can be fun, especially if you get to wear hip waders and balance on slippery rocks while doing it.

...White as snow geese: last years fotes...

2010-11-14T19:57:00.000-08:00

"But she's a Jewess!"

2010-11-13T13:50:00.000-08:00

I'm taking a European history (1900-1939) course. Recently, we've been focusing on Hitler's rise to power in Germany. I could go into extreme detail, but I won't. I will however, tell you a small story that to me shows that Hitler and his Anti-Semitic views, along with many who supported and were a part of the Nazi party, was nothing more than a desire to hate. It was a load of crap.

Marta Appel was a German Jewish woman living in Germany in the 1930s with her family when Hitler's dictatorship was slowly, but very strongly, influencing the German people. The Nazi party began integrating into education a new curriculum, a curriculum that would teach young German children about the Jewish race. But Jewish children were still required to attend school and would have to sit for hours and listen to the persecution of their people.

Appel's daughter was at school one day when an official from the Race Policy Office came to speak with the students about "high and low races." Below is an excerpt from her memoir:

"I asked the teacher if I could go home," my daughter was saying, but she told me she had orders not to dismiss anyone. You may imagine it was an awful talk. He said that there are two groups of races, a high group and a low one. The high and upper race that was destined to rule the world was the Teutonic, the German race, while one of the lowest races was the Jewish race. "And then, Mommy, he looked around and asked one of the girls to come to him." "First we did not know," my girl continued, "what he intended, and we were very afraid when he picked out Eva. then he began, and he was pointing at Eva, 'Look here, the small head of this girl, her long forehead, her very blue eyes, and blond hair,' and he was lifting one of her long blond braids. 'And look,' he said, 'at her tall and slender figure. These are the unequivocal marks of a pure and unmixed Teutonic race.' Mommy, you should have heard how at this moment all the girls burst into laughter. Even Eva could not help laughing. Then from all sides of the hall there was shouting, 'She is a Jewess!' You should have seen the officer's face! I guess he as lucky that the principal got up so quickly and with a sign to the pupils, stopped the laughing and shouting."

This story warms my heart a little bit, as it shows the Germans couldn't even distinguish themselves what the real difference between them and a Jew was. And yet, more than 6 million were murdered in a span of six years.

a childhood friend.

2010-11-13T09:12:00.000-08:00

Cotton stuffed but not too much fluff:

There's something to be said about a 23-year-old woman who still sleeps with a stuffy.

But we can't help the things we find comfort in and mine I find in Flopsy.

(Let's be honest here, I'm no poet. But I can't help but feel like my favourite stuffed animal need receive a little credit on my blog!)

word problems

2010-11-09T23:33:00.000-08:00

Words I have trouble with:

subtle - not suttle

accept vs. except

definitely - not definately

pour - not poor

The park of Stanley

2010-11-06T17:17:00.000-07:00

Spent the afternoon biking around Stanley Park. It was wet and cold but very much enjoyable. It's quite odd, actually; it's so green and lush that you almost forget you live in the city.

There are tons of old-growth trees that stand over 100 feet tall.

Siwash Rock behind Mr. Ben Ross. This rock is a sea stack made of basalt (from an old lava flow) and is more resistant to weathering than other types of rock.

The friendly neighbourhood raccoon who lives in Stanley Park. He came to say hello, and even smiled for the camera.

Pickled Carrots

2010-11-05T09:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes all one needs is a jar of pickled carrots in the mail to make a better day. And I received such a jar yesterday. In a a box of Kisko Kids Freezies, wrapped in bubble wrap, my friend Chelsey sent me this jar of carrots, a little note included.

I like to think that we remain in contact with certain people for a reason - they were a friend in high school, someone who you always, always enjoyed being around. Thanks to that someone, there is a jar of pickled carrots sitting in my cupboard.

A personal essay

2010-10-29T11:08:00.000-07:00

I wrote this as a part of my Magazine Writing class for school. It's a personal essay and for me, the only way I could do it was if I wrote about something that was important to me. Thus, I wrote about my cousin Fran, who has Down syndrome.
It's a bit more lengthly than the average blog post, but please if you have the time, read it. It's very dear to my heart, if I may say that without sounding too cliche.

Twenty-one

   My uncle's face is flushed, Dad wipes the tears from his eyes, Mom's cackle echoes from the kitchen and I'm doubled over with laughter. My aunt lets out a guffaw and the entire room ignites with hysterics. Two-year-old Frances is the rascal; it's her contagious laughter and silliness tickling at our stomaches.
   The tears drip down my cheeks and I look at Fran. I'm only 11, but I know she's different. her eyes are a bit far apart, the bridge of her nose is a little flat and there's a gap between her big and index toes that is bigger than the gap between my own. She's round and her skin is dusted pink, her blond hair rigidly framing her face.
   My mom says Fran is a "Downs baby," and my aunt has tried to explain it, but the words mean very little at the time.

* * *

Years later I'm sitting in my Grade 12 biology class, with the scent of formaldehyde in the air and jars of fetal pigs resting on the shelves, learning about human reproduction - about chromosome 21. I read that upon conception a fetus inherits 23 chromosomes from both its mother and father for a total of 46. However, an extra chromosome 21 results in a child having Down Syndrome (DS). The text explains in a slew of medical language some DS features: slow development, congenial heart defects, problems with hearing and vision. I read and re-read the content, dumbfounded; how could it be that the only thing separating Fran from me is an extra 21?

It seemed like such a miniscule difference, and it was, for five months following Fran's birth. We didn't know she had it.

* * *

It's mid-afternoon March 1996 and Paula's contractions - three weeks premature - are creeping closer together. Daryl is driving the pickup truck 100 km/h down the straight road to Edmonton. Paula lies in the truck cab, her head resting on Daryl's lap and her feet in the air bolstered up against the truck door.

"Do you want to stop here?" Daryl asks as they drive through town after town. But Paula is determined to have this baby the way she planned - natural, and not in a hospital. They drive five hours, Paula breathing hee's and ho's before finally reaching their midwife.

My aunt never had any ultralsounds during her pregnancy. If she had, the doctors would have been able to detect that Fran had a disability. After Fran was born, they travelled and visited family. My aunt's sister commented that Fran felt a bit "floppy" when she held her (children with DS have a low muscle tone), but there was never any mention of Down syndrome. None of us recognized it in Fran.

My aunt and uncle visited their family doctor after their travels and it was only then that they knew. In the 1960s doctors often suggested that parents who have a child with DS give that child up for adoption, or send them to an institution. But when the doctor told them that Fran had DS, they looked at her cooing on the doctor's examination table. She smiled back at them.

They couldn't give her up.

* * *

Eleven years later I'm sitting on the back deck at my aunt's and we've just eaten dinner with the family. The hairs on my arm are bristled but I can still feel the sun's remaining rays warming my skin. My parents are inside; I can hear their faint conversation through the screen.

Fran walks out and plops down beside me, sighing. Her brother and sister crunch through the leaves that have fallen from the trees.

"Guess what?" she asks suddenly, braces crowding her tiny mouth.

"What, Fran?"

"I got my period. That means I'm a woman. But my mom says that I can only talk to girls about it, not boys." She is so excited about the prospect of growing up that her words run together. I put my arm around her tiny back and tell her that it's all a part of growing up, that she can talk to me about it any time she likes. We sit barefoot, our feet resting on the weather-beaten wood and hers touching the side of mine, cold. The sun has fallen behind the mountains but I still feel warm.

* * *

That warmth I often feel with Fran froze with a snowstorm one morning when, a few months later in January, I took Fran skiing. My aunt and Uncle wanted to spent the morning with their two younger kids on the higher ski runs and had enrolled Fran in ski-school. I signed on to be her helper, watching over her as she participated with the other snowflakes on skis.

The sky is dark, as if someone had forgot to change a dying light bulb that was now flickering to black. The snow, usually light and fluffy, is damp and soaks straight into my jacket, as though it were a sponge. Some kids wear plastic ponchos over their suits. But Fran, dressed in a retro purple and pink snowsuit, is ready to challenge the cheerless weather. For the duration of the morning I follow behind her as she snowplows down the mountainside.

"Slow down, Fran," I yell to her as she whips around a ski trail without yielding. She ignores me, pushing faster down the kill, a cackle escaping her mouth as if to say, nana nana boo boo, you can't catch me.

But her euphoric outlook freezes with the snow when, less than an hour later, she no longer wants to participate. She isn't going to wear her ski-school bib. She won't follow the ski instructor like the other kids. She hates her goggles and throws them to the ground and she howls on the busy run as skiers and snowboarders race by, staring. My cheeks, which had been rosy-pink from the cold air and snow, now flushed hot like embers in a fire.

Most children throw temper tantrums, stomp on the ground and slam bedroom doors. But this sort of behaviour isn't a tantrum. It's stubbornness, a refusal to do anything that might make the situation better, and it's a common reaction that children with DS have. Calm - only four letters, but sometimes hard to spell with Fran.

I drive home that afternoon, tear off my sopping-wet clothes and hang them in the furnace room. I surge upstairs and when my mom asks how my day was with Fran, I tell her I don't want to talk about it.

* * *

I'm walking up the front steps to knock on my aunt and uncle's door. It's the beginning of September and the leaves on the trees in the front yard are just beginning to change colour. I've stopped in with my boyfriend to visit them before I continue on to my last year of university.

"Hi guys, welcome to my home," Fran says. "See my grand piano?" Then, for a brief moment, she lets go of her knowledge of adolescence, of maturity, and plunges into me, wrapping her arms around my waist. She pushes her thick prescription glasses onto her face when they fall down the bridge of her nose and takes my hand, pulling me inside. She's developed curves and wears a bra; she's 14. She isn't a "Downs baby" anymore.

Fran is eager to show me her room. She opens the wood door and I walk into a palace of pink. A floral canopy hangs over her bed; there's a portrait of a unicorn framed on the wall, and a stuffed plush horse lies on the comforter. Her room and her mind house multitudes of make-believe. She tells me that she loves Sleeping Beauty and right now she's dating Prince Phillip. She knows it's not real, but that doesn't matter.

"I'm a princess in my heart right now," she says.

Got a handful of lightening, a hat full of rain.

2010-10-16T23:35:00.000-07:00

Inside and out, the copper mine, where packrats rest.

Home. It's... delightful. Got to spend five days in Fernie before driving to Vancouver, and Fernie is the best place to call home. It's so beautiful, and every time I come back to it I ask myself if I really have to leave.

End of August, and we did some adventuring. Mainly, I spent time with my family because that's all I wanted to do. Dad took us to an old copper mine above Burton Lake, and we ventured in with our homemade torches to check out the spooky tunnel.

I find it remarkable that in the 20s and 30s men used to hike up here, and pack out copper ore down the mountain side. Our notion of what it means to 'work' has truly transformed.

My sister also took us to the high school to practice our pottery skills (or lack of). I've come to terms with the fact that she is highly talented in numerous ways, including art, and I like that she had the patience to teach us a bit about using the pottery wheel. Dad didn't do too bad either. I love my Dad. He's so adorable and as I get older I want to be around him more and more.

A bunch of berry pickers. And pancakes.. mmm!

Then we went raspberry picking with our friends Derek and Sarah at Coal Creek. Crawling up into the bank in search of raspberries and we came up lucky - no encounters with hungry bears and lots of berries. So much, in fact, that when we got home Mom fed us a good feed of pancakes and bacon, and the berries ended up on top with some sweet maple syrup.

I can't help but want to go back home all the time. I grew up here. How lucky am I? Mom and Dad, if you sell the house, sell it to me. I'd be happy to just stay home.

the best part - the waterfall. Hidden treasures.

- Norah Jones.

Trans-Canada

2010-10-12T15:29:00.000-07:00

Trans-Canada Part 4: Alberta-bore.

I've been through and through Alberta again and again, and at this point in our trip we were so close to Fernie that making any stops in this 'poopy-province' wasn't even an option.

True though it is that Alberta has its perks, when your destination is Fernie those perks are irrelevant.

Ben and I did stop in the pass at Lundbreck Falls (above) and explored here before we took some classic photos of the 'spook tree.' The spook tree - as my sister and I used to refer to it - is a burmis tree that has proven a good representation of the Crowsnest Pass. It was the first time in the 19-some years of passing it that I actually stopped to take a photo.

We also made a quick stop at the 7-11 for some classic potato wedges, and then took a exhaustingly chilly dip in the Crowsnest Lake. It was freezing. But we had never swam in it before, and upon leaping out of the water we jumped back in the trunk and cranked the heat.

Alberta was fast, but we made it fun.

Trans-Canada

2010-09-27T15:00:00.000-07:00

Part 3: Saskatchewan, my favourite.

Saskatchewan, from what I've heard of other driver's experiences, is nothing more than a flat land of wheat fields, or a province where - as my dad says - you can see your dog running away for days. But in spending little more than a day and a half exploring it, I have to give it the favourite province award.

First, Ben and I drove across the border on a Thursday, Aug. 26 and made our way to Carrot River. My mom grew up around here, and understanding her upbringing and the circumstances to which she lived made going through here truly special. We arrived at my Auntie Lois and Uncle Dick's house at around 8:30 and were greeted with exactly what I had expected: big hugs from my Auntie. Ben went to shake her hand and she brushed it off, also hugging him.

That night all the nearby family came for a visit, to see me and to meet Ben. My cousins Joanne, Paul, and Jaimie (with her husband Peter and their two girls), and my cousin Trish and her husband Dean (and their boys). To no surprise there was endless amounts of food, and though Ben and I were completely exhausted, we stayed up to eat, drink and visit, something I've truly missed... family.

There's something to be said about being able to drop in for the night, to eat, shower, and sleep in a comfortable bed, and then depart in the morning without feeling as though you've taken advantage of someone. So a big thank you to my Auntie and Uncle for allowing us to do so.

Before leaving Carrot River, we stopped in to visit Uncle Kerby , who proceeded to say my mother worried about us like "an old hen," and then we went to Trish and Dean's farm. It was like walking into a petting zoo, where Keiran and Trey brought all sorts of rabbits, cats, horses and goats to show us. I had a permanent grin on my face the entire time. This is what it's like to live in Saskatchewan.

Ben and Dean on Dean's combine.

Following the reunion, we went south towards Swift Current, where we ended up in what felt like the 'true west', where it was certain there would be tumbleweeds and cowboys and indians battling in the distance. I took a nap and awoke to Ben pulling me out of the truck and standing in a field of I'm not sure what (if you know, please tell me). We took these amazing pictures, and the wind swept through the field as if you were standing on the ocean, like waves.

In a field of something, somewhere in the flatlands of Saskatchewan.

Then, we drove down a dusty, sand road in search of a campsite, and ended up in the desert. Literally.

We pitched our tent under a big tree just as the sun was setting, and we began our decent, I got three cacti stuck in my foot. First, who knew there were cacti in Saskatchewan? Second, a cactus in the foot is (and I do not exaggerate) the worst pain ever. So much so I stood on the hillside, waiting for the coyotes to come eat me, while Ben ran to the truck to grab a pair of work gloves and a pair of shoes for me. Luckily he pulled them out before the coyotes actually came.

We fell asleep in the desert, and I heard several howls throughout the night. But it was beautiful. The morning was beautiful, the entire area was quiet, and deer jumped through the bushes as we camped. It was my favourite camping spot of all throughout the trip.

The entire purpose of taking this trip slow was for this: the Great Sand Hills of Sask. We spent two hours walking on these sand dunes, probably 15 to 20 feet high, and they were incredible. The sand ripples from the wind, as Ben described it: "A bug highway," where tracks from all sorts of beetles, worms, critters, left footprints in the sand. We leapt off the dunes, Ben crash-landed in the sand.

Go to Saskatchewan. And don't just drive through. EXPLORE!

Trans-Canada 2

2010-09-15T16:49:00.000-07:00

Part 2: Guess Who? Manitoba!

Animals of all sorts in Manitoba, an elk in Onanole and

a swan in Swan River.

I don't think many truly realize how unbelievable Canada is. I can't say this enough. Manitoba, said to be a prairie province and a flat and flowery grassland is so much more than that. With giant statue-like animals, clear, crisp lakes, white poplar forests and abandoned churches, the province was more than we bargained for.

On day three of our trip we ended up in Winnipeg, and my lovely friend Andrea had us stay in her bed while she voluntarily slept on her couch. We went for dinner with her and our friend Lisa Joy and saw the insides of the provincial capital.

To be honest, Winnipeg was intimidating. The downtown core (where we stayed) felt dark at night, and more than once in a 2-block radius we were asked for spare change. Perhaps it was because for 2 nights previous we'd camped in the quiet and suddenly we'd been thrown back into civilization. But seeing old friends made it worth the while.

Friends don't let friends sleep on the street! Andrea and I.

Day four, we're up fast and driving into northern Manitoba on our way to Carrot River, Sask. There are fields upon fields of sunflowers, and my eagerness to capture each province through photos nags at Ben to pull over at numerous locations. We drive up the Yellowhead Highway and then onto HWY. 10 towards Barrows (my dad got his first teaching job in Barrows).

We stop for a swim in Clear Lake at Riding Mountain National Park, where the water is literally so clear you can see the bottom no matter how far out you swim. I saved a ladybug from drowning here, and then I hit a bird with the truck.

If there was anything I've noticed most prominently about the drive thus far, it is the abandoned churches, homes, towns. Likely at one time flourishing with life, today they are overgrown, the whitewash paint pealing from the siding and the door handles rusted from years of ill use. This church we ventured to was beautiful, the inside still colourful, and you feel a certain calming when exploring it. But at night I can only imagine it chilling and eerie.

Behind the church was this amazing forest! With white poplar trees, Ben crawled deep back into the woods like a woodsman and took some amazing photos.

Lastly, before crossing the border into Saskabush (Saskatchewan), we stopped at Barrows, where my dad taught 35 years ago, and went up to Red Deer Lake. My dad used to hunt moose along this lake, so visiting this spot was especially meaningful to me. I drove past his old teacherage house and we even stopped to see his old boss - who was unfortunately in hospital. But I did meet this man's son, who is my dad's Godson.

I liked Manitoba. And I can't wait to go back and explore it.

Trans-Canada

2010-08-30T17:45:00.000-07:00

Our trip across Canada from Ottawa to Fernie, and in the next few days Vancouver, has been amazing. I'm not sure that words can describe the absolute beauty of this country. I'm splitting the trip into provinces, sort of a five-part series, and will post the best shots and write about the best memories of the trip.

Along the way we encountered several abandoned

buildings, including an old residential school a farmhouse.

Part 1: Not-so-terrible Ontario

It took us two nights and three days to get across Ontario, in total driving more than 2,000 kilometres. Granted we had a really slow start, I'm glad we didn't rush through the province but instead took our time and stopped at interesting places along the way.

We left Ottawa Monday morning and drove straight on until Massey, ON. (roughly 7 hours) camping at Chutes Provinicial Park for the night. We set up our tent in the dark, with mosquitoes, and then scarfed down potatoes and ham on the fire before passing out.

Stopping along Lake Superior, where there are pot holes (left),
where rocks have ground down to form deep holes in the bedrock.

The next morning we checked out the Chutes waterfall before driving to just outside Sault Ste. Marie (another 8 hours). We drove along Lake Superior making several stops, skipping stones and running on sandy beaches, and even stopping at Chippewa Falls (anyone who's an avid Titanic fan knows the relevance of this place). We saw the most amazing sunset and then ventured down dirt roads near midnight trying to find a suitable place to tent near Marathon, ON. We had to pay $35 the day before to camp, and didn't want to again.

We ended up on a dirt road next to a railway track. It was freezing, but the moon was the brightest I've ever seen it, and when you're exhausted it doesn't matter where you sleep.

The third day in Ontario, we drove from Marathon to Winnipeg, Mb. We only had a few stops but they were remarkable. We stopped at the Terry Fox memorial outside Thunder Bay, and it was truly so emotional. There's a large statue and the story of Terry is written on the stone. He ran 27 miles a day and made it to 12 kilometres outside Thunder Bay.

And lastly, we made a stop at Kakabeka Falls, where my mom and dad had stopped back in 1984 after they were married. The falls were like stepping stones, and an old legend says that an Ojibwa princess led her captures over the falls in attempt to save her tribe.

We swam in Kenora and then just a few minutes later crossed into Manitoba on Aug. 25. Ontario is beautiful, is covered in lakes and if you haven't ever seen it, I suggest you do.

Ben and I at Katherine Cove on Lake Superior.

Like a sunset to me.

2010-08-29T18:33:00.000-07:00

Cross-Canada is beautiful. This is just a sneak preview of things to come.

Spill Canvas

Oh! Canada trip!

2010-08-22T16:47:00.000-07:00

Two peas in a pod.

4,032 km, 2 days and 6 hours.

Wow! Where did the summer go? That's what I'd like to know. I feel as though I just finished packing up to move to Ottawa, and suddenly I'm packing again to move back out west. Excited? Yes. But more overwhelmed.

So, tomorrow is the big launch to our drive across Canada. Ben and I leave Ottawa in the morning and are hoping to make it half-way across Ontario before the sun goes down at night. But I'm not sure it's possible. Ontario is more than 1,500 km from Ottawa to the Manitoba border. It's practically half the drive to Fernie.

In total, we will drive 4,032 km and a total of 2 days and six hours--or 54 hours, until we get to Fernie. And though it's going to be a looooong drive, I'm ecstatic. Because it's an adventure.

Canada is immaculately enormous, with so many places to see and so many places that have yet to be explored. There are old abandoned farm houses, lakes, waterfalls, and I can't wait to get my camera out there and take some shots.

We start the drive along Lake Superior, which is going to be filled with sunsets and lake stops and beaches galore. The lake is enormous and we can't drive through it, so we have to drive the long way around. We'll stay two nights in Ontario, one in Thunder Bay (where the Terry Fox memorial is).

Oh, and we are stopping in Manitoba to visit our good friend Andrea, and in Saskatchewan to visit some of my mom's side of the family (whom I haven't seen in years).

We are also going to camp at the Great Sand Hills of Sask., these enormous sand dunes that are migrating north by the wind.

I'm tres excited for this trip. No doubt we will be exhausted upon our arrival to Fernie. But I can't wait to do it with Ben.

(photos are from Ben's cousin's wedding, in a free photo booth.)

sister, sister

2010-08-12T12:09:00.001-07:00

I have the most fun with her, my little wing-woman.

Lovely as a tree: photo of the week.

2010-08-09T11:49:00.001-07:00

A tree is in itself a being.

It needs the light of sun,

the cool of water, and a dusting of love to grow-

Whether it be a squirrel or a bug or a bird.

Then it gives shade, shelter and solitude,

clinging to earth and life with complex roots.

A tree gives life and, in return, receives it.

the water

2010-08-09T11:14:00.000-07:00

Kayaked this weekend. It was thrilling. I got my roll back, flipped in the rapids, and bailed out, without consequence. It's fun to try things, even if they scare you.

The water, the water, didn't realize it's dangerous size.

The mountain, the mountain, came to recognize

its steep and rocky sides, more than realized. - Feist

No Cars Go

2010-08-03T08:55:00.000-07:00

We know a place where no planes go, we know a place where no ships go. Hey! No cars go. - Arcade Fire

There's something nostalgic about a weekend away, specifically with very good friends, to a very quiet place, where no cars go. It's a sort of escape, from the everyday life of work, internet, cell phones and car horns, and it was where I spent my weekend -- at my friend's cottage on Weslemkoon Lake.

My feet were filthy: sap stuck to the bottom of my heels, walking barefoot over pine needles and sharp rocks jabbing into the bottom of my soft-skinned soles. There are no calluses when walking in shoes all day through the city.

And washing your face, using soap become things of the past. The lake is suddenly your bathing grounds and a morning swim or a midnight [skinny] dip are what keeps you refreshed. Though it feels good not to be clean.

So the things that occurred this weekend were, though not in any particular order:

1. A drive through the bush with a disfunctional GPS and a map book. Winding through the dirt roads, "Do we go left?" "I think this is the road we're on." It's fun to get a little lost, because you see things you wouldn't normally run into, and you might even end up driving through a swamp with puddles.

2. Choosing a theme song. No Cars Go by Arcade Fire. Because, we were literally going where no cars go. Not only was the drive entirely remote, but the cottage is only accessible by boat. And once you're there, seclusion surrounds you.

3. Lots and lots of food. Hamburgers, sausages, barbecue chicken, salad, corn on the cob with melting butter and more than a sprinkle of salt.

4. Canoeing when the sun comes up. The lake is like glass in the early morning and with so much unexplored land, how could you not precariously balance in a canoe (hoping the previous nights' drinking doesn't tip you over) and paddle?

5. Staying up until late hours and sitting on the dock, watching for shooting stars and actually seeing one right on the horizon.

Weekends can be sooooooooooo good. So good, because it's a time where you don't have to think about anything except for whether you've put enough sunscreen on or how long until the next meal. Weekends with friends, great music and excellent food at a cottage where no cars go, however, is absolutely the best.

Dwayne: photo of the week

2010-07-28T19:16:00.000-07:00

I really enjoyed talking with Dwayne, a sheep breeder, who has spent the last 69 years of his life devoted to making a good ol' sheep. So I think this deserves photo of the week.

Home

2010-07-26T14:13:00.000-07:00

Alabama, Arkansas,

I do love my ma and pa,

But not as much as I do love you.

Holy, Moley, me, oh my,

You're the apple of my eye,

Girl I've never loved one like you.

Man oh man you're my best friend,

I scream it to the nothingness,

That you got everything I need.

Ahh home. Let me come home.

Home is wherever I'm with you.

Ahh home. Let me come home.

Home is where I belong with you.

Book 8

2010-07-23T10:00:00.000-07:00

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

In more ways than one, this book broke my heart. First, because it's true. Second, because I can't imagine living a life the way the author did, and then describing it in such vivid detail without feeling sorry for herself.

The Glass Castle is about Jeannette Walls and her highly dysfunctional family, growing up "without roots" in the United States. Her father Rex, is a functioning alcoholic and her mother--though no doubt a mother who loves her children--is entirely selfish.

The book leads with Jeannette hiding in the cover of a taxi while she watches as her mother sifts through dumpsters in downtown New York. Ashamed, yes, but more than that, this moment leads the reader into how the family came to be so separated, and what exactly it is that holds even the most hopeless of situations in tact.

Jeannette receives severe burns to her body at three-years-old from cooking her own hot dogs. She is her father's favourite and yet he continually disappoints the family with his boozing and gambling, leaving his children at home to starve, eating lard sandwiches.

Jeannette, if no one else, should inspire others with troubled lives, as she and her siblings managed to survive and thrive in the end, though not without memories of their upbringing at bay.

Without giving too much away, this book made me laugh. It also made me want to shake the living life out of the author's parents for being so ridiculous and selfish. Her own mother--while her children were starving-- ate chocolate under her blanket. She refused to get a job as a teacher because the system was a sham, and her father thought everyone belonged to the CIA or the FBI, or the mob.

However, despite the beatings and abandonment, the parents did love their children and did what they could (at times). For instance, one Christmas Jeannette and her siblings were each given stars as gifts. It was what they could offer and in a way it was an act that demonstrated the parents understood the wants of their children, even if it meant imaginary gifts.

"We laughed about all the kids who believed in the Santa Clause myth and got nothing but a bunch of cheap plastic toys. 'Years from now, when all the junk they got is broken and long forgotten,' Dad said, 'you'll still have your stars.'"

A favourite part in the story was when Jeannette and her brother schemed up an attack on the neighbourhood bullies in Welch, who had called Jeannette ugly and made fun of their family for living on a garbage dump. The siblings piled rocks onto an old mattress on the hill and then, as the boys biked by, propelled the rocks down onto them.

This book goes highly recommended by me, but isn't for the faint of heart, as it at times brought me near tears.

"...he said it was interesting. He used the word 'textured'. He said 'smooth' is boring but 'textured' was interesting, and the scar meant that I was stronger than whatever had tried to hurt me."

Sprinkles: Photo of the week

2010-07-23T07:23:00.000-07:00

There's a rainbow, it's in my heart.

what I know

2010-07-20T16:13:00.000-07:00

I've always heard 'write what you know'. I think I heard it in a movie, once. But I'm not sure which one. And today I wrote what I knew, and it turned out... amazing. And I may have discovered something that I didn't know was there, but was there all along, waiting to be written about.

So I'm going to write what I know, and see where it gets me. most authors do, and many of them succeed. If I get somewhere, I'll send you a copy.

If somebody's got soul, you've got to make them move.

2010-07-11T12:23:00.001-07:00

(Left: Wintersleep lead singer Paul Murphy. Photo cred: me)

Music is something I don't write about much. Great music is something maybe words don't explain well, because it's music, something you listen to. Not something you read. It's something you feel inside.

But going to see live music is a whole other thing entirely and it's felt even deeper. I love it. I went to see Wintersleep the other night, and it started, "I got outta bed today, swear to God couldn't see my face, I got outta bed today, starring at a ghost..." and I looked to the ground and not only was I shaking my leg - even my entire body - to the beat, but so was everyone else.

And everyone had a smile, was singing along. It was so gripping. Music is amazing in that it can bring even strangers together. You may not know the person standing next to you in the crowd, but share a song together and not knowing one another makes no difference at all.

(Metric lead singer Emily Haines. She was fabulous. Photo cred: me)

And last night, I saw Metric, and Passion Pit. And Metric's Stadium Love. "No one's getting out without stadium love..." everyone in the crowd watching Emily Haines started jumping up and down, dancing, not caring what anyone else thought, and it was so uniting.

Music unites people. Listen more.

Too hot, too hot!

2010-07-08T11:21:00.000-07:00

Growing up in British Columbia, I've never fully experienced the wrath of humidity. That is, until I moved to Ontario.

In the last week, I’ve been introduced to the humidex – a calculated value describing how hot or humid the weather ‘feels.’ The Weather Network has reported that the week of July 5 would be filled with a high humidex. On July 6 the temperature was expected to reach 32 degrees Celsius, but with the humidity it could ‘feel like’ 41 degrees.

On July 7, it was 33 degrees Celsius, but it felt like 44 degrees.

This isn’t the type of temperature increase anyone can get used to. It’s a ‘sit in your scivvies, run the AC until it’s dead, drown yourself in the pool kind’ of heat, and I don’t like it one bit.

Back home, my family complains of the cold. “It’s only 10 degrees,” and “There’s still snow on the mountains.” But currently, I’d sooner sit in a snowfield naked then have to deal with the heat mother nature is spewing down on us. It’s like sitting in a sauna where escape is not an option.

“Too hot” has an entirely different meaning to me now.

Cookie mistake

2010-07-07T18:01:00.000-07:00

Crack-a-lackin cookies recipe was a bit.. OFF! So I fixed up the correct ingredients. Hopefully no one has tried to bake them yet! See below!

Turtle, tortoise.

2010-07-04T18:18:00.000-07:00

Be like a turtle; at ease in your own shell.

The thing about turtles and tortoises is, I don't know much about them. I know they are cute. I know that a few summers ago I fed a snapping turtle a hot dog. I know that out west, we don't see a lot of them. But now, I'm going to know a bit more.

Above you see a tortoise (top) and a common snapping turtle (bottom). I took these photos the other day at a Reptile Zoo presentation. The difference between the two is this: the common snapping turtle is a freshwater turtle found in Canada and the U.S. The tortoise is a desert turtle that lives on land. Turtle has webbed feet, tortoise has club feet. They both have shells (called a carapace) to hide from predators in. But a tortoise will sink and drown in the water while a turtle will swim.

The snapping turtle can live to 30 or 40 years in the wild, and eat fish, frogs, birds and mammals. They are nocturnal - meaning they hide in mud or sand during the day and wait for their prey and during the winter become dormant, again burying themselves beneath muddy pond bottoms for the duration of the winter.

The tortoise can live up to 150 years, although one has been recorded as living longer. A tortoise named Tu'i Malila, who was a present of the Tongan royal family in 1777, remained in the care of that family until 1965. That would mean that Tu;i Malila lived until it was 188 years old. Tortoises like to eat lettuce, worms and insects, among other things.

Book 7

2010-07-04T05:26:00.000-07:00

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger

This book was certainly not what I expected. I started reading it and realized that it was written as if a 15-year-old child was writing it in a journal, and I wasn't so sure I liked it. But it was interesting...

Interesting to see inside the mind of a harmless, confused, boy learning what it is to become a man. Holden isn't your typical adolescent, he has an imagination that won't quit and ideas that are far too erratic, but in his eyes are all the more tangible.

The best part is when he references to The Catcher in the Rye. He says he pictures kids playing in a field of rye, and he is the only other person there. He's standing at the edge of a cliff and he's there to catch kids if they start to fall towards it. He says, "that's the only thing I'd really like to be."

This book was a-ok, not fantastic, but a-ok, and as I usually am with books, I am glad I read it. Because now someone may ask me, "have you read this?" And I'll say, "yes!"

Bzzzz... photo of the week.

2010-07-03T19:50:00.002-07:00

I bought a basket of flowers in the market last week and the other day, a bee buzzed and got some nectar from the flowers. I just played with this photo a bit, couldn't get the bee in focus, he was just too quick!

Cocoa crack-a-lackin'

2010-06-27T19:11:00.000-07:00

Sesame Street's Cocoa Crackle Cookies

INGREDIENTS:

3/4 cup all-purpose flour

1/2 cup whole wheat flour

1/3 cup unsweetened cocoa powder

1/2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp baking soda

1/2 cup butter, softened

1/2 cup granulated sugar

1/4 cup light brown sugar

2 eggs

1 tsp vanilla

1 cup powdered sugar

DIRECTIONS:
Mix flours, baking soda and salt together. Beat butter, brown and white sugars together until fluffy, add eggs and vanilla and mix. Then combine the flour and sugar mixture, plus cocoa power. Roll in tablespoon full balls and roll into powdered sugar, then drop onto greased cookie sheets.

I double the recipe because the 'tablespoon size' cookies are much tastier but only make about 15 cookies. These are my favourite, favourite cookies. They taste like chocolate cake. Bake for 12 minutes roughly.

I made some jam.

2010-06-27T14:04:00.000-07:00

I made some jam yesterday. I've never done it before. It was great. It was sweet, delicious, and certainly not nutritious. So, this is how you make jam.

First, go buy about 2 litres of strawberries. They are better from a strawberry farm, because they are cheaper than buying a ton at the grocery store.

Then, you wash and mash the strawberries in a bowl, with a potato masher. You crush them until they are all juicy, red, and you do that until you get four cups of strawberries. You put the strawberries in a pot. Then you add 1/4 cup of lemon juice, and a whopping 7 cups of granulated white sugar. Not four cups... but 7. I couldn't believe it. It did, however, explain for the complete sweetness of the jam. Then, you add the Certo. And boil the strawberries.

You have to watch that they don't overflow over the pot and get onto the stove. Because if it does, that 7 cups of sugar will stick like white on rice. Or sticky, strawberry sugar mix. It happened.

You pour the jam into jars, and seal them with a kiss. Jam is delicious. I don't eat a lot of it, but now that I've made 12 jars of jam I will have to eat more.

no big deal... yah right!

2010-06-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

July/August Issue 2010

So, I have two very small pieces on the upcoming issue of Canadian Geographic. And yes, they are small, and yes, they are not even engrossing 300 words, but.. it's a big deal! I'm super excited. And I know all I really do is talk about my internship, my job, my writing, but it is what I do and I am glad to say that it is - I hope - finally paying off, so to speak. The story is about a student who won this year's GeoChallenge. I interviewed him and sent it to one of our senior writers. My name is at the bottom and I think that's pretty cool. So if you can spare $7 next month, check it out. Page 9.

Small town what?

2010-06-24T11:07:00.000-07:00

I never thought that living in a small town would result in all things small town. But, I've been proven wrong. Over the last several weeks I've been checking out the Elk Valley RCMP police reports as posted on The Free Press website, and they have proven to be more small town than I ever anticipated: I mean, country mud, belt-buckle wearing, beer-guzzling, dog-chasing, bizarre police reports.

Here are a few that resulted in my laughing out out loud while at the same time shaking my head.

- In Grasmere at 8:20 p.m. a vehicle hit a deer. There were no injuries but the deer was killed.

- In Fernie on 6th Ave. at 1:08 a.m. there was a report of several males out in the street yelling and screaming.

- In Fernie at 9:52 a.m. a 100 gallon fuel tank was stolen from a cabin on Morrissey Road.

- In Fernie at 3:18 a.m. police helped remove an unwanted guest from the Super 8 motel.

- In Sparwood at 1:29 p.m. a man reported having his cell phone stolen after letting a woman stay the night at his house in Pine Avenue.

- In Hosmer at 1:02 p.m. three gunshots were heard in Dicken Road. Police could find no evidence of firing but noted there were a lot of gophers in that area.

- In Fernie at 3:02 p.m. a hair salon reported a man had been calling them asking for a two-hour facial massage.

- In Elkford at 11:45 p.m. there was a domestic disturbance at Deerborne Drive. A drunk woman was screaming at her husband and the neighbours were shouting to her to be quiet.

- A driver got stuck on a sandbank when he drove into the Elk River to retrieve a pair of antlers.

Protected Parrots: photo of the week

2010-06-23T16:15:00.000-07:00

the wrath of earth! rarrr!

2010-06-23T16:03:00.000-07:00

I thought earlier this morning that I hadn't written an exciting post for a long time, and I was concerned because I get an itch when I don't do some personal writing. I write every day, but it's not always personal, mostly it's for work.

And then two things happened to me today that quite changed my worries. There was an earthquake! EARTHQUAKE! In Ottawa. I was driving on my way to a story meeting and I drive a big, 1998 Dodge diesel truck. I had stopped at a red light and was just listening to the radio, enjoying (not really) the hot, humid weather.

When bam! The truck started shaking, rocking back and forth, back and forth. And I looked around me, and all of the other vehicles waiting at the light were also shaking, from tire to tire. Initially I thought, "Must be a big train." But then I was tuning in to the radio and the announcer said, "I think we just had an earthquake."

The shaking lasted for maybe 15 seconds, and it was the neatest thing I've ever experienced! I study geography, so the earth shaking it's fury is quite extraordinary in my eyes.

To inform the ill-informed, the epicentre (which is the point on the earth's surface directly above the 'focus' of the earthquake) was just 56 km from Ottawa, at 45.9 degrees N and 75.5 degrees W. And immediately during and following the tremor, people in the city were evacuated from buildings. Malls closed. I wasn't at home, so I didn't experience the full effects of being in a building. But upon opening my door I discovered that the shelves in our kitchen had fallen, and with them went the slow cooker and a water jug.

It was all very neat, feeling the wrath of the earth. It's so cliche, but I think we truly underestimate just the power the earth has and it is one thing that - no matter how hard we try - we can not control.

As a side... I was biking around town to see if I could see any damage from the quake, when I saw this man with parrots on his back. He is a bird rescuer, and his four parrots sat on his shoulder. He was kind enough to let me take a photo. See picture of the week!

All in all, I didn't get my work done, but I had a great day!

it's all biz. ness.

2010-06-21T15:41:00.000-07:00

I'm now a professional and thus need a business card. I ordered 1000. Think that's too many?