On the plane with my Canon G10 and moleskine journal

It’s been about 10 days now since I got back. I’ve been meaning to get some writing done, some more photography done. Instead I’ve been coasting along on my vacation high. I’ll be back very shortly. I promise.

Paddling in Venice after midnight we pause by the entrance to the Arsenale, the Navy's docks and quarters.

Thanks to a close friend I made my first trip to Europe (outside of work) and spent last week camping in Italy and exploring the city of Venice by kayak. It was an intense and unique experience; a week I will never forget. I will be posting more images of course and doing my best to document what I saw and what we did.

The history of the city of Venice and the surrounding lagoon stretches back to Roman times. Over the past 2000 years, the region grew into a republic and major power in world history and then went into decline when attention and trade shifted to the new world. Today there are still many hints to be seen of that former glory. Three days on the water, which is the only way to see the real city, revealed a Venice that may forever slip beyond our reach if we do not soon find a balance between modern technology & practise and the natural environment that shaped this city’s history and culture.

For those who would like to visit Venice as we did I offer a caution, some suggestions, and an endorsement. Anyone who loves the sea and boats is aware that the water can also catch the unwary. This is definitely an outdoor adventure: to get the most out of it, you will need to be comfortable with some physical exertion, with water & being wet, and with boats. If you already have some basic kayak handling skills you will be ahead of the game and more able to appreciate the Venice you will be immersing yourself in. Finally, the entire adventure would not have been what it was without the excellent services and knowledge of René Seindal, historian and our kayak guide – VeniceKayak.com. Both Michael and I owe our thanks to him for a very memorable vacation.

Hi from the Sunshine Coast

.. and the sweat comes along naturally.

August long weekend and I didn’t have any specific plans. So of course I decided to hit the road and do a solo tour on my bike to Sechelt. I would also be testing out my gear for coming adventures. Mostly it was just a chance to have some alone time, away from the regular clutter, to be quiet and meditative.

That was the plan, and it mostly worked.

As usual I got a later start in the day than I had intended. I managed to catch the last express bus of the day from Stadium station to Horseshoe Bay ferry terminal.

As it turned out the 8:40 pm ferry was also late, and the icing on the cake was that they were training a new helmsman. It took him (I can only assume) a good 20 minutes of painful manoeuvring before he managed to get the ferry docked with a series of evil screeches from the tortured metal surfaces of the ferry and the dock. We all cheered when the green light came on the boarding ramp.

Because of all that I left Langdale and started my ride at 10:30 pm. Some of you who have known me for a while know that I have no problems with riding in the dark. For your sakes, yes I did have lights. I had a great ride: the air was cool and the highway deserted.

In fact it was so quiet I could hear the crickets singing as I rode along. On the highway around the bay coming into Sechelt, I could hear the surge and wash of the high-tide surf beat on the beach cobbles. It was magical.

My genius plan came to a halt though when I arrived at my destination. The gate at Porpoise Bay Provincial Park closed at 11 pm and here it was already 12:40 am. Instead of sneaking into the campground, possibly annoying the other campers or getting caught, I decided to make camp hidden in the trees across the road a little way from the main gate.

I used my headlamp as sparingly as possible, hoping I wouldn’t get busted by a ranger.

In the end, there were no worries. People really aren’t that observant. The next morning a steady stream of traffic whizzed by. I was barely 5 meters from the road behind a screen of ferns and low hanging pine branches and no one noticed me.

I rode into camp and found that there was plenty of room .. and showers! Yeah!

There was a couple next to me who were backpacking: an Aussie and her English bf. Across from me were a couple with their two boys: South African-Canadians originally from Cape Town. I had a nice chat with them as I made camp and had breakfast. The rest of the day I spent quietly reading on the beach. When it got too hot, I came back to camp, got my bike, and went into town to explore a bit and stop at the store to pick up a contact case because I had forgot mine on my desk here at home. I was making supper I made a friend, who introduced me to her friends, and then I ended up spending the rest of the weekend hanging out with them.

Before I forget I should mention the gear I was testing out. It has been well over 10 years since my last bike adventures. Some of my gear was still very serviceable, though a little dated. I include my Serratus panniers and Moss solo backpacking tent in this category. They were the best in category back in the day and still are bomber tough. I’m going to need a full failure before I can justify replacing them. Other bits and pieces in my gear closet won’t be nearly as tough to retire.

I have been using MSR stoves since the mid-80’s, so it pains me a little to write this. My venerable white-gas MSR stove is hopelessly outclassed by the latest isobutane/propane stoves for lightness and efficiency in general use, which bike touring is. I’m not throwing it out, but as of this weekend, it is now in semi-retirement. The Snow Peak stove I bought does everything my MSR did with 1/3 the effort and 1/2 the price of my MSR stove.

Same thing with my MSR alpine pot set. Way back when, the aluminum pot sets available were junk. Steel, though heavier, was tougher and cooked evenly. The GSI Pinnacle Dualist cook set I bought is made of a special teflon coated aluminum. Presto: tough, cooks evenly, and light, and cheaper. Not only that, you get two pairs of lidded cup/bowls & telescoping spork that nest inside the pot with room for a stove and isobutane-propane fuel canister. The clincher for me was that the pot bag doubles as a bucket-sink to wash everything up. Game, set, and match to GSI.

Anyhow, as I was trying out all this stuff a happy feeling of self-confidence came over me. Planning and executing adventures is a strong part of who I am; finding and using the right gear is a component of that too. This year, I was feeling down for not travelling as much as I have the previous two years. The situation came to a head a few months ago and I decided to just get back to adventuring on my own, with the means I had. I have been so much happier since that decision.

Riding back to the ferry, then on the ferry, then on the bus, we said our good-byes and when I finally got home, it felt like one of those epic adventures: as if I had been away weeks instead of just days.

Friday evening: looking north up the Arm to the Twin Islands

Less than 20 km from Vancouver’s Coal Harbour is a little fjord called Indian Arm. It is a part of Burrard Inlet, has salt water, is affected by the tides, and is populated with all the ocean creatures you’re familiar with: sailboats and power boats included. But really, the environment is like many of BC’s lakes.

Michael picked me up Friday evening after work and we made good our escape to Deep Cove through the traffic. We paddled to the Twin Islands the first night – about 5 km. Our plan the next day was to go all the way up to the camp at Granite Falls, but in the end we decided to camp at Bishop Creek instead.

It turned out to be the best thing we could have done. Granite Falls camp was as busy as a Skytrain station with all the power boats moored there for the day. We would never have got any sleep.

As it was, because Bishop Creek was quieter we saw several seals, eagles, and I saw a deer swim across the Arm and come out on shore not far from our camp.

To take advantage of the ebbing tide we struck camp and hit the water at 6:30 yesterday morning and by 10 am we were having breakfast at the smallest Tim Horton’s in the world. I kid you not. It’s got a drive through and store front but is barely bigger than a couple of garden sheds.

After school we went to Crescent Beach and let the kids play in the sand.

I heard about this program weeks in advance. Notice arrived in the form of an e-mail from the mother of my children. The preschool class the twins attended was going to have a special program in honour of Father’s Day. Could I attend?

I hate disappointing my kids. I would rather tell them no, they can’t have what they want, than say yes and not deliver. I’ve never wanted to be a dad who said, “Yeah, I’ll be there.” and then didn’t show; the cliche Disney villain dad.

I gave my standard response, “I don’t know where I’m going to be that week. If I’m in town, I’ll be there.”

A few days passed. I heard again, “Is Dad going to be there?”

“I don’t know.”

Fig. 1

Apparently this went on for days. It finally stopped, at least for me, the day I committed to attending the program. The plan was for their mother to pick me up at work and drive me to their school. I heard on the actual day of that they continued to nag and harass their mother about her ability to find my office and then drive us to the school. They did this with a daily tenacity that five year-olds seem to specialize in. I actually felt sorry for her.

I walked into the classroom and there they were. I could tell just by looking at them they were extremely pleased. At the same time they were being cool and restrained in front of their teachers and classmates as all kids are.

Fig. 2

Oddly I hope they never lose this capacity. Specifically: knowing what it is they want and then not stopping until they get it. Oh sure, I’d like for it to be tempered of course with the wisdom of knowing what’s good to go after, what isn’t, and of course when it’s appropriate. I can imagine the potential carnage without that restraint, but really, if they learn that, oh the places they’ll go.

Figure 1.  The twins showing me the cookies and gifts they made.

Figure 2.  We went to Crescent Beach after school to enjoy the sunshine for a few hours before an evening of homework.

Minolta 3Xi SLR, 200 ASA Fuji film

The ball of fluff kitten you see on my futon was the product of a Himalayan crossed with a Persian-Siamese. Basically you get a very warm, affectionate cat .. for just one person. In this case: me. Anyone and anything else got shredded pretty quick.

Animals and I generally get along, as long as I’m home. The problem is that I’m not a homebody. Therefore I am not a very good candidate for a human-pet relationship. The other thing is the amount of fur generated by these breeds is staggering. It was a strong incentive for me to not be home, which was not really fair to Chi. It wasn’t his fault or choice to have the cat heritage he had. For these reasons Chi and I were only together for a couple of years – which is pretty much the length of time it took to find someone he liked (read: could stand).

This was around 1998 I think.

He was such a quiet baby ..

The other Parental Unit had to avail herself of the facilities so I was admonished to mind the boy. He was sleeping, as newborns are wont to do, so I figured I ought to get a picture.

With the benefit of hindsight, I should have realized this was the calm before the storm. This one child out of the entire pack is responsible (usually directly, but often indirectly) for about 80% of the noise generated overall. If you’ve spent any amount of time around the Mighty M Five, you know it can get pretty noisy indeed.

Melissa and Maribeth at Lighthouse Park

It’s early, early on a Sunday morning on a Victoria Day long weekend where I am not camped anywhere else on the planet other than my own few square meters of it. I have spent over 15 hours give or take going through the past two years in word and picture, looking at where I’ve been and what I’ve done in that time. I am not really thinking about where I’m going. In some ways that is a foregone conclusion. My focus is instead on what I’ve been doing and what I will be doing (differently) in the next two year period. It’s an excercise I must complete shortly and successfully, for the sake of the two girls pictured here, and their siblings, as well as for myself. For now, I’m going to my bunk listening to the birds singing to a sun that none of us can yet see, but surely know is coming.

Giving my brother a haircut

The other day I realized that one reason why I feel close to my dad is that he has been cutting my hair since I was a toddler.  It’s an act of ordinary intimacy that has been a reassuring rhythm through the seasons and years of my life. I can see, hear, feel, smell all the sounds and sensations of countless episodes.

Usually I would sit on a stool or a kitchen chair. When I was younger, it was stacking stools so he would not have to hunch down to cut my hair. I’ve had my hair cut in the garden in the warm sunshine and recently on my balcony, or his. Most of the time it was in the kitchen: a place I consider the heart of the home.

I feel the nylon cape settle around my shoulders and then his hands fastening the snap to hold it in place.

Sometimes though, the snap or catch was missing and we used a clothespin instead or I had to hold the edges together myself.

The snap, buzz, click of the electric clipper tells me that he’s found an extension cord to reach wherever it is we’re doing the haircut. I sit up straighter, hold my chin down just a little so he can get at the hair falling around the nape of my neck. I feel his familiar presence move close and smell the machine oil from the clipper as his hands begin to sweep over and around my head.

Dad uses the clipper because it’s faster and less strain on the hands than old fashioned scissors. He’s cut my hair with scissors and he can be pretty quick with them too. Sometimes he starts with the clipper and then finishes the finer details with the scissors.

If you’ve never had a scissor cut, it is an exquisite act of trust. Hair cutting scissors are long and finely tapered so they can glide through your hair and cut evenly. The length of them makes for ticklish work around your ears. You must not move while the cold steel blades glide over your skin or risk provoking an accidental nick. They also sing while they work, like tuning forks but much softer.

There is no hum or buzz of an electric motor: just the snick, snick of the blades as they move together then apart, and an occasional tap tap to clear the bits of hair stuck to them or the comb. Silence, as they say, gets loud.

The silences have never been uncomfortable for us, for me anyway. Sometimes we talk, often we don’t. When we have it can be serious or light. Really it doesn’t matter. What does matter is the ritual, the touching, and the time. We are together for the haircut, but also to be father and son.

And then, it’s done.

Dad had a brush for a long, long time that he used to sweep the clippings away before taking off the cape. I don’t know when it disappeared, but it’s gone now. Instead it’s an awkward kind of pat down. The last part of dad’s custom is that he packs his tools away for his next visit to friends whom he also cuts hair for. It didn’t happen this last time because I had to fix the clipper. It works now, but it’s been on my counter for the past three weeks.

How could you not get close to the same person cutting your hair for almost 40 years? What will I do when he’s gone?

I couldn't resist one last shot of tulips dressed for flamenco

The tulips are almost done for the year again. It’s been a glorious four weeks. Bring on summer!