Oh the Places I Went.. The Final Chapter

I keep turning on my laptop and staring at this empty page, not knowing where to start this last entry. There is no exciting city or small rustic town to describe, no trail to be remembered or hotel room to be forgotten.

There is no story to tell...

           but I'm working on an ending..

Wesleyville NL... Random moments in rural places

I spent most of Monday morning lazing around, doing laundry, collecting receipts, all the usual stuff one does the first day off after a couple of weeks on the road.  Just before noon I was flipping channels and contemplating if it was somehow wrong to open a beer in my pajamas before lunch on a workday when I got a fairly unimportant email, while I had my email open I decided to check my itenarary for this weeks travel and discovered that I was due to fly to Newfoundland in exactly 30 minutes. Crap.

Crap crap crap crap crap crap.

I had thought I was flying out the next day. I frantically called, emailed, texted, and BBM'ed  (simultaneously) my colleague F. who I knew also thought we were flying the next day. A mad panic ensued, at least on my end, until the travel department was able to rebook the flights later that day. I took my clothes out of the dryer and put them back in my suitcase and changed out of my home lounging clothes into my airplane lounging clothes, called the airport limo and was on my way back to The Rock.

Because of the flight change I had a long layover in Halifax waiting for the EVA airlines plane heading to Gander and didn't make the final flight until after well after midnight. F. would be arriving about the same time via St. John's.  After delays for refueling and de-icing in Halifax I landed back in Gander about 2:30 local time and found the now familiar agent at the car rental counter waiting for me. She smiled and said she had good news and bad news. I laughed and asked her to explain before she informed me the rental was ready and all warmed up, but unfortunately all she had was a passenger van. I asked her what she had given F. when he came through earlier and she said he hadn't arrived yet.  I jumped, literally, into the 12 seater white van and made a bee line for the hotel, F. could worry about himself.

I got to the hotel about 3am and stood at the desk for a few minutes directing polite 'excuse me' noises towards the pair of legs I could see sticking out from the office door. Tapping on the counter and calling out hello didn't stir the pair of legs so I eventually resorted to ringing the bell on the counter. The legs jumped into the air and then out of site to be replaced by the top half of the leg's body peering around the corner sleepily. 'Checking in please' I called out and with a sigh the legs and body pulled themselves together into a full person who grumpily checked me in and gave me a room key.

I was just getting into the hotel room about an hour later when I got an email saying F. was delayed in Toronto in bad weather and wouldn't arrive until sometime the next afternoon. I had just two hours before I had to be on the road to get to Wesleyville first thing in the morning so I weighed my options, propped open my eyelids and flicked channels until it was time to head out. I walked back over to the office and woke up the clerk for the second time that night to check out. I tried joking with her, saying that I should get a discount for not even messing up the bed but I couldn't even get her to crack a smile.

Back onto the TransCan highway for the four kabillionth time for a yet another dark drive through the Newfoundland wilderness until I got to Gambo where I slid over to the the Road to the Shore for the last 80kms. As I passed slowly through the small weather beaten villages alonng the Kitimakke Coast the sun began an astonishing rise over the Atlantic Ocean's horizon. I watched the sky change as I drove from black to deep red to brilliant orange as it broke the day and started illuminating the landscape around me. Scanning the sides of the road I looked for somewhere to pull over that wasn't someones driveway/yard/pier/dock and eventually  found a place to stop at the water's edge in Indian Bay. It felt really cool to be one of maybe just a handful of people to witness the sunrise over the western hemisphere that morning.

I arrived at work in Wesleyville at the perfect time, just as coffee was being made and passed the day slowly waiting for F. to join me in town. I still hadn't slept and was hoping to get a nap mid afternoon when he arrived. I was literally leaning against a wall with my eyes closed when F. called to say his plane had made in emergency landing in PEI and would be further delayed. I prepared myself to work throughout the day alone and later on that evening I got the word that he wouldn't be making the trip at all.  Hmmm, I thought sleepily, that meant I was on-call until 10pm. I left work shortly after and made my way through town to the motel that the travel department had found for me, the only place to stay anywhere close to town.

I walked into the motel and found myself flashing back to my parents fake wood panelled basement circa 1977. I settled into the 'rec' room that I was given which didn't come with a chair, or an iron, or an alarm clock, and jumped into the shower to wake myself up before I went to find food. There was a small homey looking dining room down a dark hallway in the motel and I sat down and looked at the menu, quickly realizing that my choices were cod. Cod and chips, cod on a bun, cod tongue, pan fried cod, scruncheons (deep fried salted cod fat cubes).. you get the picture. I settled for cod and chips and a bottle of Black Horse and ate while chatting with a friendly local who turned out to be the brother of the motel owner. Between my state of complete and utter exhaustion and the crazy Newfoundland accent I only understood every third or fourth sentence but I was pretty sure he was telling me he would introduce me to his beautiful niece who the whole town was crazy about. After a while we were joined by the owner, who had earlier checked me in and later cooked my meal and I drifted out of the conversation. Even though I could barely understand their words it was enjoyable to listen the to strange accent and oddly phrased comments between the two as they discussed the everyday business of living in small town Newfoundland.

I stumbled back to my room and lay on the bed with my phone next to my head waiting for 10 o'clock. Finally the workday ended and after 40 hours of flying and driving and working and dealing with the locals who just refused to speak the same language as me I was able to relax, close my eyes and fall asleep.

I had the foresight to ask if the dining room would be open for breakfast and had arranged for eggs and home fries to be served at 8am  and so, for the first time in a week arrived at work unaccompanied by stomach moans and gurgles of hunger. Considerably more alert than I was the day before I found myself catching on to the lingo a bit and laughing along with some of the good natured ribbing the store full of 60 year old women I was spending the day with kept tossing at me. It was a good day and by the time I left my cheeks were sore from smiling so much.

I was amazed to discover the local grocery store was still open when I drove by about 7pm and I decided to stop and look for anything that wasn't cod. Without access to a microwave, stove top, or even a coffee maker to heat water I was hoping to buy something that was ready to eat and could actually be placed in a food group other than 'fried'. I left with two brownish bananas, a block of cheese, a small tin of tuna, a bag of pretzels and a 8pk of Black Horse and climbed up into my passenger van for the short drive back to my parents basement rec room, oddly transplanted 35 years later to a motel in a small fishing village in Newfoundland.

A while later I was lying on the bed flipping through the 19 channels on the TV............until...


Through the thin motel walls I could hear the sound of voices coming from somewhere in the motel. not just voices but drinking voices.. drinking Newfoundlander voices- and above all the sound of female voice. I left my pretzels and followed the voices down the dark hallway until I came into a small 'pub'.

Very small.. very very small.

 A polished wooden bar stretched the length of three stools in addition to two small tables in the room meaning the place sat a maximum of seven and made it it officially the smallest pub I have ever had the pleasure of patronizing. The owner's brother that I had met the previous night at dinner was seated at one of the tables with his wife and a couple of locals were at the bar. Behind the bar was a drop dead gorgeous blond serving up drinks and stories and raunchy jokes. I took the last seat at the bar and easily struck up a conversation after ordering the local beer.  The two guys at the bar worked together and were drinking on the ol' b'ys tab, the ol' b'y being the boss and the quieter of the two.  I struggled to keep track of the conversation as I kept an eye and an ear on the blond behind the bar, who had by now been introduced as promised the her uncle who sat behind me. The niece had just come to town from BC and was keeping herself busy at the small pub as she adjusted to life in very rural NFLD. She was the first female under the age of 50 that I had seen since arriving two and she was, ahem..., a very welcome sight. As we took turns buying rounds of beer, I began telling stories about my travels across the country and more recently around 'The Rock'.  With a packed house of 6, including the blond, I found myself the center of attention as I talked about far off places that these people would likely never see.

I mentioned towards the end of the night that my one regret about this being my last trip to  NFLD was that I had never been 'screetched in'. It seems silly and touristy but it was something that I wanted to do. The ol' b'y started telling me how his grandfather used to give a Newfoundland welcome to mainlanders that was similar to screeching but older than the modern ritual. The bar discussed for a bit whether I had earned the right to the ritual but before I knew it I found myself walking down the road to one of my new friends fishing hut where all the required elements for my screeching were to be found. A surreal night was unfolding I realized as I stood reciting lines from a poem that was English but unrecognizable in a yellow sou'wester and coat drinking shots of dark rum before kissing a mounted stuffed puffin. The three locals had some big laughs at my expense as I drunkenly tried to recite the lines of verse and kiss the bird and take the shot all with just the right amount of respect the ceremony required. The Newfie welcome was a highlight of the entire year and am experience that I hope I never forget. An amazing random moment.

I finished work the last day about noon and headed out of a town. I had awhile before I flew out of Gander and had planned on taking the slightly longer route back to the city, continuing along the Road to the Shore  along the north eastern corner of Canada. It was a cold day with a salty wind blowing in from the ocean but it was sunny and I drove slowly following the highway from town to village along the coast, exploring amazingly small settlements along the way. Pound Cove and Deadman's Bay and Musgrave Harbour are quintessential fishing villages with stacks of lobster and crab traps in the driveways and trawlers anchored in the water. Wind and salt blasted wooden houses and fishing huts perch on rocky shores and small islands and outcroppings that have somehow stood the test of time and Mother Nature's harsh winters. I spent an hour or so in Newtown, wandering around the historic living heritage buildings that date back to the original 1850's seal hunting settlers. Change seems to come slowly in that isolated corner of the country and it was easy to imagine the lives of those early immigrants scratching out their lives, hunting and fishing in the days before highways and Google and smartphones replaced letters and instincts and traditional knowledge passed down from father to son and mother to daughter.

The town of less than 300 was quiet and with any public buildings closed for the season I felt a bit like an intruder and moved on after taking a few pictures. Speeding down the highway in my big white van with my belly rumbling after another breakfast and lunch less day. I was on a beeline for Gander when I saw a sign pointing to Cape Freels and I found myself unable to resist one more visit to one more town before my time in Eastern Canada came to an end. I followed a road that quickly turned to hard packed dirt. At the end of the road a sign pointed down a pitted two rut road towards 'Random Passage Trail'.

 I couldn't certainly couldn't pass that up, my whole life is based on random passages.

So with my belly imploring me to get back onto the highway and not stop until I found food, I locked the van doors and went in search of random. A half kilometer down the path the dirt trail took me past the cement foundation of a long abandoned building and onto the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Cold looking waves beat steadily against the shore of the snow covered sandy beach. It had turned grey and cloudy and the cold wind at the beach sent chills up the back of my coat. The trail seemed to continue along the beach and further up the Kittimake Coast but I was tired and hungry and ready to go home. I stooped to pick up a few small stones and turned back to the van.

That was my last day of exploring, I thought as I drove back to Gander and ate a greasy meal at the small airport diner. The project that had employed me for the last year was now complete and my days of travelling had come to an end. I was heading home for the last time A sense of melancholy had come over me at the beach in Cape Freels that now felt heavy and hard to shake as I walked across the cold tarmac and boarded the plane. I kept my eyes closed, resting my head against the window as we taxied onto the runway and climbed into the clouds, hoping to sleep but unable to get the scenes of the day out of my head.

I opened my eyes and was astonished by the sight outside the small airplane window. As I flew towards Toronto and home the sun was setting behind us, sending streaks of brilliant reds and oranges as it chased the plane west across the country. Without the haze of smog, without the clouds, without light pollution, without highrises or mountains or trees to block the view, a sunset from the 40 000 feet is an amazing sight and it felt like a perfect way to end the trip and the year.

I smiled, pulled out my camera and started taking pictures and I didn't stop until the light had gone out, wanting to record each second so as not to forget a single moment.

Around the Maritimes in 13 Days

I spent the next two weeks bouncing around the Maritime provinces with a string of upgrades wherever I went. The accumulation of frequent flyer and hotel and rental points, along with my improved packing skills, airport security know-how (yes.. that George Cloney character knows what he's talking about!), and familiarity with just about every major and many regional airports across the country, has made the travel aspect of my job seem second nature and dare I say, enjoyable, and I made the most of it as I hopscotched between Toronto and Nova Scotia, New Brunswick and finally back to Newfoundland, all first class and all the company dime.

My first stop was Stephenville which is a small town about 100 kilometres south of the Deer Lake on  the shores of the Gulf of St Lawrence.  The last time I was in this part of NFLD I drove through the Marble Mountains in one of the heaviest snowfalls in years, this time I drove through the dark night, adding to the number of kilometers I have driven around NFLD without ever seeing it at all. (A quick calculation tells me now that the number is over a thousand!)

I again managed to avoid running into, or even being rudely stared down by, a moose enroute to Stephenville and sleepily checked in at the hotel which, I was pleased to note,  was right next to the worksite I was headed to in the morning. When I woke up the next morning to a dark day of hard rain and cold wind I was even more pleased to find a indoor walkway to the mall where the jobsite was located. The rain didn't let up for the two whole days but because there was also a restaurant/lounge connected to the hotel I didn't even need to step outside for the first 50 hours. Everything I needed was connected  by a convenient series of rain stopping and wind blocking series of walls and roofs and weather proof doors.

On the third day in town (or in the fortress as I was starting to think of it) the wind and rain abruptly stopped just as I checking out of the hotel.  I had an hour to kill before I had to drive back to Deer Lake so I took a brief blind tour of the town and the water front. The town was not much more that a few strips malls and government and service centers so I headed to the water where I found long  beaches stretching off the distance with panoramic views of the cold  Gulf  of St Lawrence. Wind blew the spray from the waves across the beach as I walked along collecting a few stones and taking a few pictures but before long I found myself running back to the car and racing to catch a plane after losing track off time at the cold Atlantic beach.

A smooth round trip back to Toronto for a shave and a shower and not much more and I found myself bumping down in Halifax, NS and driving, in the dark of course, 100 kms north to my hotel in the town of Truro, on the northern edge of the Bay of Fundy. When I arrived at work the next morning it became obvious very quickly that through no fault of my own (for once!) I was in the wrong spot. A hectic series of emails and phone calls later, I found myself on a mad dash back across the province to Dartmouth, which is right next to Halifax and a mere ten minute drive from the airport I had landed in the night before. 

I finished the workday and drove back to Truro in the rain for my second night in Nova Scotia but checked out the next morning having already made plans to on spend the last night in Dartmouth and avoid another long commute. That afternoon I got a message from a colleague who was staying in Halifax. I have spent a lot of time on the road with F. who has been with me during some of the lowlights and most of the highlights during the last year and so, itching for company and a night out, I knew F. would be up for the same. I changed my hotel reservation for the third time and we make plans for a classic Nova Scotian dinner. Lobster.

We sat down at Murphy's, a seafood restaurant on Cable Wharf, right next to Theodore Tugboats home dock and ordered 'The Lobster Experience' which included the opportunity to fish your own lobster out of the tank and pay a days salary for the pleasure. We scooped up our lobsters and then got back to our drinks. The cooked crustaceans arrived soon after and we 'bibbed up' and got to work eating.  About 3/4's of the way through the 1 1/2 lb lobster I stopped eating and sat back, signalling the waitress for water. My heart was racing and I felt my face and ears flushing. I thought I was having an allergic reaction but I know I'm not allergic to shellfish.  I was actually a bit scared for a second but soon relaxed and broke out laughing when I saw my pal F. had an expression that probably mirrored my own. We slowed down a bit a made it through the lobsters but the waitress cleared away the plates without us having touched the side dishes. It was a great meal in a great spot and we paid the hefty bill, carefully folding the receipt away so I would be sure to expense the meal, and then headed up the steep streets into downtown Halifax.

We wandered the streets a bit, working off some of the meal we had had just ingested and generally checking out the dark city. Looking for a pub I stopped a couple of locals and asked where might be 'happening.'  The general consensus was there wasn't much happening in Halifax on a Tuesday night but a pub not far away turned out to be warm and welcoming and F. and I sat at the bar chatting with the locals, chatting up the waitresses and having a generally good time.

I dropped F. off in a town called Upper Tantallon at 9am the next morning and with two and a half hours before my boarding call I figured I had almost enough time to visit one of the most iconic and instantly recognisable sites in the maritimes. Peggy's Cove was just forty kilometers to the south and an opportunity to great to ignore, even if I only had almost enough time. I practically flew along the twisting country road, slowing down only to quickly 'ooh' and 'aah' at the heritage towns like French Village, Hacketts Cove and Indian Harbour, and sigh with regret as I passed signs leading to The Settlers' Graveyard and the Swissair 111 Memorial. I wished I had time to stop but I drove on and soon parked at the visitor center and grabbed my camera. I checked the time and grimaced after making a few calculations. I really had only a few minutes but forced myself to stop and somehow try to soak up the atmosphere of the place.  The quiet, calm Atlantic softly lapped up onto the rocky shore under a perfectly blue sky.

 What a serenely beautiful moment. Peggy's Cove will certainly rank among the most amazing spots I  have been.  I touched the water and ran my hands along the smooth rock, noticing the similarity to the rocky lake shores in northern Ontario. This was an incredible spot and I needed to stop and appreciate it. I spent no more than 20 minutes at the famous site and another 20 minutes driving slowly through the quiet village of fishing huts and stacks of lobster traps, artists studios and small shops selling local food and craft. I longed to get out of my car and explore each small wooden structure but simply had to leave. With only an hour to my boarding call and about a hundred kilometres to drive across the province to Halifax airport I sped away focused on one thing, not missing my flight. Despite being ffrustrated by school buses, a highly improbable duck crossing, construction and a detour just before the airport road  I somehow make it back to the city, returned the rental, checked my luggage, cleared security and made it to the gate just in time to miss the boarding call.

All was not lost however as the plane was evidently idling out on the tarmac waiting for me. The co-pilot met me on the tarmac standing beside the smallest commercial plane I've ever seen and helped me stow my carry on luggage in the small compartment behind the cockpit and then advised us of the safety features (HA!) of the plane and instructed us to tap him on the shoulder if it got too cold in the cabin. The 10 seater Beechcraft something or other twin prop airplane operated by EVA Airlines was taking me and two others to Frederikton, New Brunswick. . The flight was loud but otherwise fine and an hour after takeoff I was grabbing my bags and jumping into the rental for a ninety minute drive to Woodstock, New Brunswick another small maritime town this time on the border of the State of Maine.

 I was in town for two days and again it rained or was threatening to rain the whole time. I left town on the third day with virtually no impression of New Brunswick at all. The woman who took my nightly pizza delivery order was totally incompetent and the woman at the hotel check in counter was totally hot. That's about all I know first hand about the province and it's probably not fair to assume the rest of the province falls into one of those two categories.

Another round to trip to Toronto to wash my clothes and water the plants and I found myself back in Newfoundland, and the friendly calls of 'I's the b'ys' and 'yes me dears' and 'eres ya be lover'. I settled into the now familiar hotel in Gander and flipped through the restaurant listings in town before settling on Jungle Jims. I  was hoping to avoid another meal of deeply deep fried everything, a somewhat unreasonable expectation now that I was back in NFLD. The bar was full as was the seating area and I waited until the first table was free and sat down. I cringed at the menu, even the pictures looked greasy and settled on a cheese quesadilla and a Black Horse beer and drank it alone at a vinyl seated booth for meant for six. I've had a lot of amazing moments in the last year but eating that crummy artificial tasting cheese quesadilla alone in a crummy restaurant on another rainy night in Gander is not anywhere close to the top of that list.

I was up before dawn to drive to an even smaller town on the Atlantic coast called Wesleyville. The first hour of the drive was dark and I sped south though another 100kms of unseen highway before the sky started glowing to the east against a silhouette of unbroken pines. Eventually the GPS led me off the highway and I found myself in the town of  Gambo which happened to be the birthplace of Joey Smallwood, one of the Fathers of Confederation. Smallwood's name is attached to everything in town it seemed and I didn't have to get out of the car to feel his presence. The small town that was just beginning to stir as I drove through and I drove out the other side of town disappointed that I didn't see anywhere that I could find some breakfast or at least a coffee. I passed through a series of fishing towns and villages with my belly grumbling loudly as I drove.

I followed the two lane Road to the Coast as it curled through a smaller and sleepier towns of scattered homes and fishing huts. Wooden docks stretched into a calm ocean studded with rocky shore. This was a different kind of rural where the roads seemed to turn into driveways and then became docks without much notice.  The GPS tried to convince me to drive into the ocean at one point and repeatedly told me to turn when there was obviously no road to turn on. Already late, I switched off the GPS and stopped at the only 'public' building I could see for directions, the regional hospital. I entered into a surprisingly bustling emergency room and when I couldn't flag anyone down I walked down the corridor and found myself in an administration office of some sort. A woman looked up from her desk and I explained I just needed some directions. She seemed quite annoyed (rightly so!) but pointed me in the right direction. I continued along the coast and eventually, after a few more GPS directed u-turns found the address.

I finished the day driving back to Gander, with the sky already getting darker, without ever finding anything for breakfast and so boarded the plane with a backpack full of vending machine snacks. I would be returning to Wesleyville for four days the next week. I was bringing F. with me for company and maybe a suitcase full of freeze dried meals for sustenance. It would be the last trip of the project and I sure was glad I would have someone to share it with. I had eventually spotted a small grocery store in town but no restaurants at all so I was already working on plans for a sidetrip to Gander or maybe even St. John's to celebrate the end of the ride with a 'screeching in' ceremony, and more importantly perhaps.. a final meal.

Bishop's Falls, NL : The Middle of Nowhere

Bishops Falls is pretty much smack dab in the middle of Newfoundland, about as 'interior' as it gets, far from the bigger coastal cities, in fact far from the smaller cities as well including Gander which is 200 kms away and where I landed at almost midnight on a rainy Sunday. I picked up my luggage and rental and drove into the dark streets. The Trans-Can Highway would take me to my hotel for the night as it has so many times in different provinces across the country.

With bleary eyes I speed down the dark highway, trying to stay focused watching for moose. The road was dark and edged by an unbroken wall of trees on both sides. I didn't see a light of any sort for over a hundred kilometers expect the lights of the occasional transport barreling blindingly towards me and one dim PEPSI sign peeking out through trees just off the highway. After an hour and a half I turned off the highway and entered the small town of Bishops Falls. I drove up and down the main street looking for the motel I had been booked at called The Exploits River Motel. I was not expecting much from the place but had expected to be able to find it. There was nothing on the road even resembling a motel, in fact I didn't see anything. No gas station, no restaurant, no convenience or grocery stores or banks or schools. Just sparsely situated  dark houses. Wow, this place was remote, and it was small. After driving the length of Main St one more time before giving up, I pulled over and called the motel phone.  A sleepy voice answered and I asked for directions to be told the place wasn't in Bishops Falls but back right on the highway. The directions made it seem impossible to miss and pulled back out onto the highway, anticipating being in a bed in just a few more minutes.

Half an hour later, after four or five u-turns I turned onto a barely visible driveway that led me to the PEPSI sign i had noticed earlier. As it was the only visible object within a hundred kms I would have thought they may have given that as a landmark to look for when giving directions. They didn't.

A woman answered the door marked 'Office' in her housecoat and slippers and handed me a key with saying much at all. She obviously had been in bed and as I was barely awake I didn't press her for conversation. She said I could check in properly tomorrow and closed the door.

I settled into the room that was decorated, most likely in the early 70's, with concrete walls painted pink, battered veneer covered furniture and outrageous flower patterned linens. The bed was comfortable though and I was asleep not long after my head hit the pillow.

I went to work the day next day with an empty belly as the small coffee shop/restaurant attached to the motel wasn't open yet and even in the light there was nowhere I could find to eat. Back at the motel later that evening I was more than disappointed to find the coffee shop closed already. I still hadn\t checked in and so walked over to the office and walked in. After giving the owner, who was dressed somewhat more professionally than at our first meeting, my credit information I asked about the possibility of eating while I was in town. I got excited when she mentioned there was a Chinese food restaurant in town but then she said it closed a t 5:30. 

As I was walking away, wondering if I might have a pack of airplane pretzels in my briefcase, the motel owner called after me asking if the Internet was working in my room. It was and that surprised both of us. Neither she nor any of the other guests could connect and she was waiting for 'd'boys' to come and look at in the morning. She mentioned in a not so subtle way that she needed to send an important email and before you could say remote-interior-Newfoundland-is-even-worse-than-remote-northern-Ontario a deal was struck. I agreed to let her use my laptop in my room in exchange for dinner, specifically two grilled cheese sandwiches and french fries. It was the first time I had been forced to barter for food on the road and aside from not knowing how to fill in the expense form for a bartered meal everyone was happy.

I spent the rest of the evening eat my sandwiches and listening to transports pull off the highway, gears and brakes screaming and into the motel parking lot and then got on my laptop and used the only Internet connection in town to find a way out of town. Preferably to somewhere that had food for purchase with money instead of bartering with favours. I would be finished work by early afternoon and was flying out of Gander so emailed my travel department and, paraphrasing the ol' Gunsmoke line, begged them to 'get me the hell outta Dodge'.

I woke up the next morning to about two or three inches of unexpected snow on the ground with more falling steadily. I tramped out into the snow, without breakfast, in my soft leather Sketchers (of course I didn't have boots. I still don't even own boots, and even if I did.. would I have packed them? ) and poked around the rental for a snowbrush which, of course wasn't there.  Cold hands, a credit card and a stick pulled from the bushes cleared the snow from the car and I pulled out onto the highway just in time to be hit by a wall of heavy slushy snow courtesy a transport truck that was careening by. Credit card out again I scraped off the windows and drove the half a kilometer back into Bishops Falls.

Normally I would've taken the afternoon to explore the town, meet some people, take some pictures and generally just hang out but the snow had continued, the town was small, and I was hungry so when I finished work early in the afternoon I debated stopping at the Chinese food place but opted to head right to Gander where I knew there was a Subway that would be less sketchy than the only restaurant in town. For some reason I turned the wrong way when I pulled out onto the TCH  and as I drove around the first corner looking for a safe spot for a u-turn I came across the most wonderful site I had seen in two days. In the middle of nowhere, on a deserted highway, inexplicably, and to my utter astonishment and joy the familiar Tim Hortons sign shone out angelically through the falling snow.

What!!  Why had no-one told me there was a Tims? I had asked a dozen people where I could get some food in town and no-one had mentioned it. Why? Because it was technically five minutes outside of town?

Fortified for the drive back to Gander with coffee and other treats I pulled back out onto the highway, in the right direction this time and was on my way.

The snow had turned to cold, wind driven rain by the time I took the exit into Gander. I had driven out of Gander two days ago in the dark so hadn't known what to expect from the town. In the dim rainy daylight there still wasn't much to see. I stopped at a fish and chips and seafood chain for lunch and wasn't anymore impressed with my lunch in Gander as I had been in the same highly recommended chain in St. John's and then holed up in my hotel room for the rest of the night finishing of the case of Black Horse I had picked up on my way to the middle of nowhere two days ago.

I arrived at  Gander International Airport the next morning with lots of time before my (delayed) flight was due to leave and was impressed by the displays that adorn the airport. Over the next hour I completed a crash course in the aviation history of the town, learning that it had once been the largest airport in the world and still has one of the longest runways. The airport was instrumental in early test flights with many aviation 'firsts' originating in the town and was later an important airbase during the second world war as well as an active NORAD center. Impressive history for such an unimpressive town.

I took off heading straight for Toronto, realizing that I had only taken three pictures while on this trip, a record low I'm sure.. but then what does one take pictures off when one is in the middle of nowhere?

St. John's, Newfoundland: A Mainlander on The Rock

I hit 'The Rock' mid afternoon on a rainy Sunday and even though I was itching to get out and get my first looks at a Maritime city not covered in 3 meters of snow (re: Cornerbrook blog March 3 2011), the rainy weather kept me close to the hotel.  After  a long year of travel, I had finally reached executive status and had enjoyed a hot meal in a comfy seat on the plane for once I didn't arrive starving so I didn't have to hunt for food right away but I was thirsty so I headed down to the restaurant lounge for a pint.

I walked in and really noticed the Newfoundlander accent for the first time. Wow do they speak different on the Rock! I've bumped into my fair share Newfoundlanders at home or, 'up der in Ontario' and across the country but to be surrounded in a loud bar by them disoriented more than expected. They, at times, didn't seem to be speaking the same language as I was. The waitress spilled some beer on my sleeve as she was putting down my pint and this, to the best of my recollection was the conversation that followed.

Waitress:  Is done dere everflowd'ed' that one.

Me: Pardon me? (I would say these a hundred times a day for the rest of the week)

Waitress: Spilt all up ya I did, my dear. (She pointed to the few drops of beer)

Me: Aaaah.

Waitress: Ares ya are, my love. (She hands me a napkin)

Me: Thanks

Waitress: Yous caller if you wants anything. I won't be a biter, my dear.

Me: Mmm.. OK..?

Up early the next morning I set off for for my 150km commute around Conception Bay in the southern part of the island to the small town of Bay Roberts where I would be working for the next two days. It was still dark and with hi-beams on  I watched both my speed and the sides of the road, very aware that  moose were prone to crashing out of the trees at the edge of the highway to stand on the road staring down anyone foolish enough to drive along in anything smaller than a modern era Sherman heavy armour tank. As the sun gradually,  and reluctantly it seemed, brought daylight to the sky I could see more details of the landscape and as I followed the TransCan Highway for most of the way I was awed by the beauty of the landscape as I wove around coves and lakes and through forests and boggy marshlands, all studded with the ancient exposed rock that gives the island its nickname.

After work was finished on the second day I would be spending the rest of the week in St Johns so I took the opportunity to explore a locally renowned spot called Mad Rock. The directions were sketchy but the route turned out to be welled marked negating the need to watch for the dirt road after the 'smaller' barn, and I found the spot after a half hour drive through oceanside villages with narrow streets, weather beaten houses and docks stretching into the ocean.

Mad Rock is a one of the most eastern points of north america, ocean breakers crash into the land against high raw craggy cliffs spiked with ancient and dramatic rock shoals . Walking paths crisscross meadows of ground hugging moss and tough as nails grass and scrub bush and lead to amazing vantage points high above the oceans and down cliffs to the oceans edge where the tide surges up to shore. I explored the area for hours taking pictures of 'The Three Sisters',  'Big Shag Rock' and 'The Dark Hole' as I walked along the peninsula. As the sun lowered I turned back towards the car amazed at how much the tide had come in and the strength of the waves as they crashed against the rocks that I had been standing next to just a short time before. (Surfs up movie link)  It was all round pretty awesome stuff. I was, however disappointed to learn later that if I had gone half a km further along the trail I would've have come across the remains of stone walls and buildings dating back to English settlers in the 1500's. That would've been very cool to see but it was still a pretty awesome afternoon.

I drove back to Saint John's, impressed by the outing to Mad Rock but even more impressed with the voracity of the rumblings in my stomach as I drove. I was starved! A seafood chain had been recommended to me and I found an franchise not far from the hotel and sat down by myself and ordered a bowl of chowder and a Black Horse beer to start. The chowder was good but not what I had anticipated from this iconic maritime town and the seafood platter was so deeply  fried that the I couldn't taste anything but the oil and heavy batter. The Dark Horse beer, as I remembered  from an earlier trip to Newfoundland, was fantastic.

With my shift  finished on the third day at a decent time I drove out in the rain to get a sense of downtown St John's. It was just too wet too explore the city so I looked up and down Water Street and spotted the YellowBelly Brewery and Public House. The historic building houses a micro-brewery, live music lounge and restaurant and I sat down at the bar in the warm, dry lounge and enjoyed a couple of in-house brews and a black bean burger as I tried to use my jedi mind tricks to convince the cute blond at the end of the bar to look up and make eye contact with me. Not having much luck with the blond, and my dinner done I got in the car and spent a bit of times driving in the rain through the colourful row houses that line the steep and twisting streets of St. Johns before heading back to the hotel for the night.

I spent the next couple of days working in town and avoiding the continual rain in the evenings until the afternoon of my last day in town when the sun came out just as I was finishing my shift. This was my first and last chance to explore so I hurried back to the hotel and got changed and then set my GPS for Signal Hill, perhaps the most famous historical spot in the Maritimes. Signal Hill is, of course where Marconi received that first transatlantic signal a bunch of years ago that we take so much for granted now in the time of instant global communication. Clouds limited the view form the iconic hill but I still spent a long time wandering around taking pictures of St. Johns harbour, the Signal Hill Watchtower and remaining armaments that once protected the city from Americans and Germans alike. I made a checkmark on my mental 'bucket list' of cool Canadian historical spots that I've managed to visit.

Having seen absorbed what I could from Signal Hill it was time to get back to the city.

All week people had been recommending that I check out a local restaurant called Velma's. Renowned for its traditional Newfoundland food I was told repeatedly that it was the place to eat. I found it easily but circled the streets forever trying to find parking. I walked in and was surprised to find a very small, shabby, outdated restaurant. I stood around for a few minutes by the 'Please wait to be seated sign' but eventually showed myself to one of the tables. It took a while before someone came out of the back and showed me a menu and then I waited forever before she brought me the chowder that I was looking forward to, hoping the food was more impressive than the decor or the service. The chowder was good, very good and the crab cakes were as well and I left a short time later, stomach full and continued exploring the streets of St John's by foot.

I wandered the streets poking through local arts and crafts stores along Water Street including a music shop that claims to be the oldest shop on the oldest street of the oldest town in North America, I tried on traditional yellow rainhats and, unbelievably, cod flavoured chocolate. I popped into pubs along George Street and then ended the day walking down along the docks that lay at the foot of the city, checking out the massive international freighters and Canadian Coast Guard ships docked between smaller fishing trawlers that brought fresh lobster and shrimp and cod, lots and lots of cod to the city and out across the country fresh from the Atlantic Ocean.

What a great time I had exploring the sights of St. John's I thought as I flew out the next day after completing the first of many trips that would take me all the around the island province, with a couple of quick visits to Nova Soctia and New Brunswick as well. I hadn't expected to find anything in the maritimes that would compare to the stunning and dramatic beauty of the west coast mountains that I had been immersed in for the last couple of months but 'The Rock' had proved me wrong. There was only one thing missing from the trip, an official 'screetching in'. I had hoped to enjoy this renowned 'Newfie' welcome and could've experienced it at any of the pubs along George St. but had decided to wait until I could share it with some of my colleagues that would be joining me on future trips.. or I guess I should say 'when I come da reckly back der up'n bring d'ol boys an maids wit e.

..or something like that. 

Smithers: One Last Adventure In British Columbia

I landed at Vancouver, which has started to feel like a second, or third, home just in time to meet a colleague and catch another flight 1200 kilometers north to the small town of Smithers, in the Huckley Valley of the Babine Mountains.

We landed after dark and drove into town to check in at a dated but decent hotel. My room was an icebox when I walked in and  was like walking into a deep freezer and I spent the next hour shivering under a blanket in my hotel room waiting for the third member of our team to join us at the hotel. When she did arrive, we knocked on E.'s door and found her lying on the couch also under a blanket with the oven open and turned to 6000 degrees. The three of us caught up for a while and played some silly word game that I cheated at and still lost and then went our separate ways to shiver through the night.

One of the most amazing things about arriving in strange places in the dark is waking up and looking out the windows at a view I've never seen before. The anticipation of that moment can entice me out of bed with a bounce regardless of how late I've arrived the night before. My 'first view' of northern British Columbia was perhaps one of the most memorable of all. Deep forests with vibrantly contrasting green and shades of yellow against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains that merged in the clouds that seemed so close to the ground. As I walked across the parking lot to the Tim Hortons I literally did circles as I took in amazing mountain vistas in every direction.

Wow. I say that a lot, especially during my time in BC but those views were incredible.

I would only be in town for a couple of days and this first morning would be my only chance to get to get out  for a hike so, disregarding the the rain that was falling softly but steadily and armed with a map provided by the front desk, I hit the streets looking for adventure and a bit of exercise. At first I drove aimlessly searching out vantage spots to get pictures of the mountains surrounding the town, captivated by the white peaks all around and then followed a dirt road to the trailhead at the Bluff Trails.  The trailhead had a large topographic map and I studied it for a few minutes and tried to figure out which trail would provide the best mountain views but eventually arbitrarily headed east along a grassy trail. My classic canvas Chuck T hi-tops were soaked through before I had taken twenty steps and so were my quick-dri pants up to my knees but I walked on undaunted. A mixed forest of pine, elm and birch trees blocked out the view for the most part and when the trees parted, cloud and fog did the same but the hike was fun, crossing a beautiful clear mountain stream that I drank and collected a few small rocks from and the steady uphill path was challenging enough to force me to take off several layers of clothing even in though I could see my breath in the cool mountain air.

I climbed up the trail for about two kilometers, still hoping to get some close up shots of the snowy mountaintops that I knew were hiding in the trees and fog but turned around after about an hour and headed back. I reached the trailhead in about a third of the time I had taken to climb as the rather steep, now downward, slope had me half running, half hopping, but always scrambling down at a treacherous speed. I passed the trailhead, following the path in the opposite direction for another couple of hundred meters where the forest did open up and got a few pretty shots of the town below and surrounding landscape before heading back to the car and then to the hotel for a shower and dry clothes before heading into work for an afternoon shift.

On the second and last night in town E. and I took a walk around the small town, digging into outfitting shops, peering into shops that had already closed and generally getting the feel for Smithers. It didn't take long. The town has an alpine feel to it with sculptures of bighorn sheep and yodellers welcoming people to town, and international flags and chalet style buildings lining the streets. The town was also the home of Joseph Coyle, inventor of the egg carton. Suprisingly neither Joseph nor his invention had been immortalized in sculpture .We had dinner later that evening at the Aspen Riverhouse, a cozy restaurant in a room with exposed wood beams and hand built rock fireplace and hearth. The spaetzle I had for dinner was German/Asian fusion dish that was disappointing (compared to the amazingly good spaetzle I had eaten a couple of months before at Beer Bros in Regina) but I washed it down with a very good local micro brew beer and the company more than made up for the food.

The night ended after more than a couple of rounds and an early birthday celebration that included a shot of something buried in a mess of whipped cream (the alcohol made it into my mouth whereas the whipped cream ended up splatted all over the table) and me perching on a saddle that was on display in the lobby, not necessarily one of my finer moments.

(7am) With a morning flight out of town, we met for breakfast early and had about 90 mins to squeeze in a last bit of sightseeing. Our first stop was at Seymour Lake on the edge of town, where we stood gawking at the mirror calm lake with the impossibly white capped Babine Mountains providing an awesome backdrop. Without much time left we moved on and sped down the Yellowhead highway to the neighboring village of Telkwa.Telkwa is a a small, historic settler village with many of its buildings dating to the very early 1900's. We spent just a few minutes in the town and again took dozens of pictures of the buildings and spectacular scenery and then, somewhat reluctantly, drove back up the Yellowstone to the small regional airport in Smithers.

(930am) M. had left us at the airport to start her morning shift and we had just checked our bags when an announcement was made that the plane would be delayed until late that  afternoon. After a mad scramble to rebook flights home, we found ourselves stranded at a very small airport with no car and a very long wait ahead. We drank coffee and tea from a remarkably good cafe in the airport and alternated between pacing the lounge and trying to arrange ourselves comfortably on remarkably uncomfortable seats. Luckily M was able to return a couple of hours later and we headed for lunch at a small but surprisingly upscale and modern restaurant that some locals recommended that served up the best two bowls of butternut squash soup Ive ever eaten .

(1pm) Stomachs full, we had time for one last adventure. We had passed a sign earlier pointing to the 'Twin Falls' and that was were we decided to spend the last couple of hours before we flew out. A long and twisting dirt road led us up into the mountains where tall pines blocked out the sun and the view as we drove. My ears popped as we ascended and I gulped to depressurize them at the same moment I noticed through the passenger window the very steep cliff that hovered at the edge of sharply curving narrow road that M was steering us around. I gulped again.

We arrived at the alpine trailhead safely and started walking up the path, me a few steps back chuckling quietly to myself at the inappropriately heeled shoes of my female companions.

 The short well maintained trail climbed for a few hundred meters to a lookout point with a pretty awesome view of two waterfalls that start at a glacier and cascade 100 feet down into a colourful Columbia Mountain valley. It's hard to put into words how really incredible the mountain sights were in this small northern town. I was lost for words then as I gazed around me then and I still am now. Driving back down the dirt road back to the Yellowstone highway and then on to the airport I was quiet and somewhat reflective as I continued to enjoy the scenery, glad not be behind the wheel for once but wishing I was at least in control of the stereo (Bon Jovi, much to my chagrin, was my colleague's choice in music).

(330pm) The plane arrived a short time later and we boarded gratefully and settled into our seats. It was a somewhat bittersweet moment as the plane took off as I realized that this was my last trip to BC. What a great time I had had over the last couple of months exploring so many different parts of the province and I was sad this part of the schedule had come to an end.

BC has a pretty good way of saying goodbye though. The 90 minute flight south to Vancouver was perhaps the most spectacular of my life. With a low altitude flight path and a clear day I had the opportunity to peer down into the crystal clear alpine lakes, ice fields, glaciers and soaring snow covered peaks that dotted the mountain ranges thousands of feet below.

(5pm) A long wait for my red eye connection to Toronto meant I had a bunch of  hours to kill in the Vancouver Airport alone. I spent an or so at the White Spot at the airport having dinner and then passed a couple more hours sitting at the bar at Monks, drinking pints and watching the Canucks game. I napped on the floor of the departure lounge, downloaded and watched a movie, played 8972 games of poker on my Blackberry, chatted with a cute blond at the IPhone shop, chatted with an dude that was born in the same hospital as I was, brushed my teeth and put on fresh clothes in the airport washroom, endured a 40 minute flight delay and finally, 14 hours later than planned, I heard the boarding call to Toronto, stumbled onboard and sank gratefully into my seat.

(12pm) I had hoped to sleep my way home but found myself restless on the plane and spent most the flight looking at pictures from the last couple of months, remembering the adventures I had had in the big cities and small towns of British Columbia, and the characters that I had met along the way. I was going to miss my weekly trips west but was gladly looking forward to start my exploration of the maritime provinces. More than anything, I realized as the lights of Toronto appeared stretched for miles below me, I was glad to be home.

(7am)  An ridiculously long wait for my luggage preceded an even longer wait for my taxi which only led to a very slow drive home through commuter traffic. I arrived at home almost exactly 24 hours after my day had begun and considered heading into the office to take care of some administrative stuff but cracked open a breakfast beer instead. The can still sat untouched when I woke up sometime that evening, completely confused about where I was and what day it might be, frustrated that the hotel desl clerk hadn't delivered my wake-up call, and had a bit of a panic attack thinking I should be at work but not remembering in what city.

It took a few minutes to realize I was at home, in my own bed, exactly where I should be and I chuckled sheepishly to myself. Realizing there would be no housekeeping or room service either this morning, I made my own bed and brewed my own coffee and looked out the window to a familiar, and welcome view.

Kamloops: A City I Barely Saw

I arrived in Kamloops late at night after a long flight with delays at both Toronto and Calgary airports. I punched the hotel address into the GPS and pulled out onto the streets, as always excited by the first few minutes in a new city just waiting to be explored, but somewhat anxiously disoriented as I drove on unfamiliar streets in the dark. Not knowing the city at all I was relying on the GPS to guide me and at one point I realized that I had done a complete circle- twice- of an on ramp/off ramp circuit as I tried to follow the GPS directions. The electronic map didn't want to take into account that there was a mountain blocking me from turning left, as per her direction. (note to therapist: GPS becomes female when it pisses me off..)Tired and frustrated I found myself reasoning with the electronic voice, arguing and finally yelling at the damn thing. The problem when arguing with the GPS is that it doesn't respond in any way to my screams, swears and insults.. just repeats herself gently over and over. She has won her share of our battles this way over the last year even though she misleads then belittles me over and over again.

She knows I'll never throw her out the window.

I eventually found my hotel and settled in for the night, waking to a city nestled in a valley at the meeting of a lake and river surrounded by a circle of gently rising, soft brown mountains. I wanted to explore immediately but work kept me busy for the first couple of days and wind and rain kept me mostly inside during the evenings. I cruised around town a bit but for the first time in the last couples of months in BC I didn't see anything very interesting in town. With the exception of a pretty raucous night in the bar at Rik's Place with a group of bachelorette party-ers I spent my days at work and my evenings at the hotel. 

A break from work and the emergence of the sun coincided one afternoon and I headed for the hills. Kenna Cartwright Park is a municipal park containing 40kms of trail that lead right up into those hills, nothing too extreme but perfect for a day hike.With water, camera, map AND hiking shoes (oh, the pleasure of having the right shoes for once) I took off up the path, quickly shedding layers in the emerging sun. The  many trails in the park lead in every direction but I had previously decided to hike the 'Tower Trail' which would take me to the highest part of the park, and hopefully offer amazing views of the city and the surrounding area. I followed the dirt and gravel single lane service road as it climbed about 250 meters in elevation over the 2km path straight up to a radio tower on the top pf Mount Dufferin, the highest elevation in town. 

 I huffed my way up the climb checking out the glimpses of scenery through the trees and when I crested the hill I was rewarded with great views of the Thompson River, Lake Kamloops, part of the city itself and the surrounding hills of  Mara Mountain, and Mts. Peter and Paul.  I continued hiking, now following along the Ridge Trail for a couple of kilometers until I lost sight of the city, and enjoyed some good ups and downs up rocky inclines and back down into softer grasslands until I lost sight of the city and eventually found myself at the top of a high hill gazing out over a valley of soft  wheatgrass and scrub brush that sloped down to Kamloops Lake and the Thompson River valley

Wow.. what a spot.

I spent almost an hour in that amazing natural setting, looking at the rocks and trees, taking pictures and just enjoying the scenery before heading back on the other side of the ridge that had led me up to the radio tower. This side of Mount Dufferin was covered in sloping meadows of waist high straw-like wheatgrass and Upper Doug Daws Path led me through the meadows and into the forests that stand between the rocky hill and the lake below and back to the car. I rode back to the hotel with my stomach rumbling after about 10 kilometers of hiking already planning tomorrows hike.

I returned the next day in the late afternoon to explore another part of the park. I had seen hints of the areas in BC that are officially classified as semi-arid desert, the week I spent in the Princeton/Penticton area certainly was as dry as anywhere I've been and was hoping the 'Prickly Pear Cactus Trail' would give me more exposure to the desert scenery that I've been craving more of.

The first couple of kilometers of the trail starts by winding around steep rock outcroppings and tall Ponderosa pines until I come across a sharp turn at a barbed wire fence with a warning sign. This is the edge of the public park space and borders on a provincial penitentiary. 'Keep Out' signs are every 20 meters or so along one side of the path and for once I obey.

I followed the dirt path as it opened up into a dry valley of stunted pine, more sagebrush and yes, prickly pear cactus plants. It's been a dream of mine for some time to hike and camp in the deserts of Washington or Arizona, to set up a tent next to a big barrel cactus or rock hoodoo and I stopped and took in the surroundings thinking this must be close to what I might find on that imagined backpacking trip south. I hiked through the dry landscape along the Ponderosa Trail which leads almost 6 kilometers around the edge of the park and then back along Big Pine to complete the loop back to where I had parked, stopping often to take pictures and admire the strange and dramatic landscape of the park that had quickly become one of my favourite hiking spots across the country.

The last afternoon in town in decided to get in the car and drive out of town on the highway to see if I could find a way further up into the mountains. Cruising the highways burning gas needlessly is not something I often do but I hadn't found much in town and with rain clouds threatening to burst I didn't want to get caught hiking in the mostly open ground of Kena Cartwright Park in a storm. I spent an hour or so on the roads looking for access to higher ground but everything was marked private or was designated as a service road only so when I saw a sign pointing off the Coquihalla Highway to Inks Lake I turned off the concrete onto a rough, pitted dirt and gravel road that led me deep into a jack pine forest. The road eventually ended at a large clearing where several pickups and random ATVs were scattered about. I pulled my Ford Focus 2 alongside a massive truck with tires that stood as tall  as my car, making it look more fit for clowns or Shriners and headed in the opposite direction of the revving engines I could hear in the bush, hoping to find quiet and maybe Inks Lake.

It was an a startling change of scenery from the trails I had walked in KC Park in Kamloops. The dense forest was scattered with a dozen different ATV trails, none of them marked so I followed the one that was headed downhill thinking that the lake might be that way but after 45 minutes of ups and down and intersecting trails there was no sign of water. With no map to guide me further and not wanting to get lost in the maze of trails I decided to cut through the brush along a what appeared to be a animal trail (hopefully not a bear path) and find a nice spot to sit and have a snack and generally enjoy some solitude in the forest. I followed the path through the trees to a clearing soft grass and trees rotting into the ground naturally where the fell, a perfectly quiet place to sit and rest.


Les Stroud camera shot

I was messing around with my cameras, looking for interesting shots in the quiet forest and was pretty focused on trying to balance the tripod mounted camera on a tree branch when I was surprised by the sound of animals in the trees behind me. I grabbed my stuff and moved away as quickly as I could into the brush at the side of the clearing, my heart beating loudly as I glanced over my shoulder. I kept moving until I was about 100 meters away and then crept back slowly when I realized I wasn't in any danger. Hoping to spot a deer, nervous about coming face to face with a moose I was surprised to see herd of cows was moving up the path I had just taken down from the ATV trails and into the clearing.  As I was noticed one of them let out a loud 'mooo'.  These were extremely big cows (at least to this city boy) but nothing to be scared of and I chuckled to myself sheepishly as I headed away up the path back to the car, thinking about some of my past close encounters in the 'wild' with other ferocious animals like the  invisible tigers and sinister beavers of Killarney Provincial Park.

On the way back to the highway I passed a large sign that I had somehow missed on the way in that explained the area was a mixed use area that contained traditional grazing grounds as well as trails for bikes and ATVs.  The sign also had a satellite image of the park  that showed the path I had taken to the clearing was the border of the grazing ground and that I had encroached on the cows turf, which may be why they were a bit standoffish, and I drove on thankful it wasn\t a bull's pen I had wandered into.

That pretty much wrapped up my trip to Kamloops. It was strange to leave the city without ever really seeing it but I was more than content with the time I had spent in Kenna Cartwright Park, exploring the trails, looking for cactus and running from the cows at Inks Lake.

I was up and out of the hotel before the sun rose and hit the airport button on my GPS as I pulled out of the hotel parking lot and it directed me to turn right when I was very sure I needed to go left. I paused for a moment and then pulled out.. and to the left. When I heard her voice tell me, condescendingly of course, to 'when possible, take a u-turn' I turned the unit off. A half kilometer down the road I see a sign directing me to the airport.

Everyone once in awhile I win.

Princeton and Beyond Part 3: Penticton and back again.

I woke up with the light of the sun rising over the hills and streaming through my hotel window. It was early but I almost jumped out of bed eager to start the day. The city of Penticton was out there waiting for me to explore and I wanted to make the most of the time I had left. I had approximately 10 hours before two colleagues would be landing in town, marking the end of my solo exploring time and forcing a return to Princeton, the old gold rush town where my adventure had started five days ago.

I had stopped in to see a friend who worked in town and had an open invitation to a backyard beer and barbecue day but with co-workers coming, I had to stick to their schedule and couldn't make it work so I was planning on staying on my own for the day. I sent a early morning message to him thanking him for the invite and then went down to the chain restaurant attached to the hotel and had a massive breakfast, took a few minutes to pack up and then checked out of the hotel.

The sun was absolutely beaming down and even although it wasn't even 9am the temperature was already in the high 90's. Seeing that I was steps for one of the two beaches in town I decided to start the day there. I grabbed a coffee at the Starbucks and wandered down to the beach where I could still catch a Wi-Fi signal from the coffee shop and check out what there was to do in town.

My first stop after the beach was a driving tour of the city and especially the eastern edge of town that was home to dozens of vineyards and wineries. I had no interest in touring the famous Okanagan vineyards but wanted to get a sense of the country that they existed in. Winding roads into the hills that surround Penticton led me to an interesting mix of residential areas that were spattered with world class wine producing estates, the grape vines ran between, in front and behind the homes and signs along the streets invited passersby in for tasting and, of course, buying.

 The road eventually would lead me to Munson Mountain where there was a short hike to a lookout point that gave a great view of the two lakes that border the city as well as its downtown, vineyards, and surrounding mountains. Standing at the top of the ridges that surround the Okanagan I thought this must be what areas of California must be like as the Great Northern Basin Desert that runs through the northern USand into southern British Columbia brings the same dry, moderate temperatures to both wine producing areas. I spent some time taking in the scenery and snapping pictures before I headed back to the car and back into the city.

Penticton is a small but pretty cool city, with pubs and patios and shops and I had a blast wandering around exploring the streets. A constant hope as I explore strange cities is that I come across a local record store and I was lucky enough to find one in town. I had a great chat with the friendly and welcoming woman that owned the shop and as I browsed thorough the vinyl I shared some of the stories of places and things that I had seen over the last week in the area. With a few classic records under arm I was on my way out when she suggested a great local restaurant for lunch and, famished, I headed right over. The Walla Artisan Bakery and Cafe was a quaint little hole in the wall that was perfect. An amazingly good lentil soup and mushroom sandwich satisfied the vegetarian grumbling of my stomach and I ate contentedly as I watched and listened as regular locals came and went buying fresh baked artisan breads and chatted with the friendly staff.

My belly attended to, I wanted to relax for the last few hours before my co workers arrived and decided to check out the other, larger beach in town. I love beaches. Baking in the sun with a book and a couple of cold (hidden under knapsack) beers, feeling the hot sand between my toes as both sun and beer lubricate my head is a Top 10 moment for me and seemed like a perfect way to quietly spend my last couple of hours alone.

Except.. when I got to Skaha beach on the other side of town I found the parking lot and surrounding streets jammed with cars and after a half kilometer walk from where I had to park I found the beach area just as busy with people. Edging closer to the lake I dodged through a small city of tents and people I gradually became aware (the piles of paddles and assorted gear were solid clues) that I had stumbled into a national dragon boat racing event. Dozens of teams had gathered in Penticton and a large crowd of paddlers and their supporters were occupying the entire area. I found at spot in the sand not far from the water where I could watch the races and then generally soaked up the almost 40 degree sun for the rest of the afternoon.

My two co-workers were just touching down as I pulled into the small regional airport and I met them in shorts, flip-flops, shades and a half-unbuttoned shirt at the baggage claim (I wasn't on shift until 8am the next morning and was staying in beach bum mode as long as possible!)  I suggested dinner before we headed to Princeton, as the food options would be limited later and we headed to a local pub where the food was marginal, the service slow but the views were excellent from the second floor patio.

We sped around town picking up a few necessities for my  A. who's luggage would not arrive until the next evening and we headed out onto the mountain highway for the 90 minute drive to Princeton. My two passengers oohed and aahed as we plunged in and out of the valleys and up and around the steep mountainsides, snapping pictures of mountains and avalanche and mountain goat crossing warning signs. In between the oohs and aahs I related some of my adventures from over the last week and gave the rundown on the dodgy hotel and small western town I was taking them to for the next few days.

My old friend the desk clerk had dressed up (for my two female companions I presume) electing for a full T-shirt with his cutoff jean shorts instead of a tank top and proudly assigned us our rooms. A. was the lucky one that got 'the new bed' room while I had the same room I was in a few days ago. The clerk was interested to hear about where I had spent the last few days and I stayed downstairs and related a few stories about the strange town of Coalmont and Otter Lake and the dragon boats at Skaha Beach before heading up to my room.

 (The dead flies that I had waged war against 6 nights ago still lay in their final resting place on the washroom floor, a testament to the high cleaning standards at this old neglected hotel.. I continued to use my sleeping bag and pack pillow instead of the provided bed clothes for the rest of the week.)

The rest of the week was mostly uneventful. The three of us worked during the day and ate at the Brown Bridge Pub each nigh and generally enjoyed the slow pace of live in small town BC. We marvelled at scenery and the deer as they wandered around town and watched the old prospectors, miners and cowboys wander with about the same urgency.

Arriving at the front desk of the 'hotel' early ready to check out on the last morning in town the three of us found ourselves staring across a dark unmanned counter. We rang the bell and called and waited impatiently Eventually a guy in a suit (the first tie I saw the entire week that wasn't cowboy-bolero style). It turned out the entire staff had  been relieved overnight. The woman who took three day to find me an ironing board gone, the tank top and jean short sporting desk clerk gone, even the cleaning ladies that had been congregating in the room next to mine for morning coffee and cigarettes each morning were gone.  And no-one at the hotel had any idea how to check the three of us out. We were late already and left our room keys and email addresses and credit card information and hit the Crowsnest Highway one last time.

Flying back across the country I thought about what a blast I had had touring around that slow dry western part of the country. I thought about passing through the old prospecting towns and exploring lakes and valleys and mountain passes and most of all the chance meetings with strangers and conversations with people who have nothing to do but talk. People like Marge Gunderson, the nutty provincial park officer, and attractive girls and their grandmothers that sell fruit at the side of the road in the Okanagan Valley, and especially Art (.. or Bart or Bert) who appeared out of nowhere on a cold morning and treated me to a lift and a story.