Tag Archives: Adventure

Creating A Day

 

Now that I’m firmly in place at the Tarandowah Golfers Club near Avon, Ontario, it’s time to compose a journey.  In my brain, I know that each day is one but I want that perception to become a deeper reality.  Centered on my days spent walking the fairways, I want to create a series of experiences that I can repeat many times.  Sort of an heroic quest … for breakfast … for sitting in a comfy chair, blogging or reading … for an evening meal and brew.

So I ventured forth this morning towards golfing heaven.  Where will breakie reside?  Avon doesn’t have any restaurants but the town of Belmont is nearby.  On a previous trip, I ‘d seen a sign for the Belmont Diner.  Just to be sure, I googled “Belmont restaurants” but no diner materialized.  Maybe the place is closed.  I remembered that there was a supermarket in the same building so I phoned there, and found out that the diner was alive and well and open till 2:00 each day.

I pulled into the parking lot and opened the door to a gaggle of conversation.  Six guys at one table, about twelve women at another.  Ahh … my kind of place.  I sat at the lunch counter and was greeted by a smiling waitress.  Later, she was there in a jiffy to refill my coffee when she saw the severe angle of my cup.  “It’s not my first day on the job, nor will it be my last.”  As I chowed down on my bacon and eggs, a conversation unfolded with a woman nearby, focused on our mutual love for Stephen King.  Very cool.

Next on my menu was that comfy chair.  I had discovered that Belmont has a library and that it was open today at 1:00.  And here I sit, tapping away.  Maria welcomed me and set me up with a library card.  Free Internet plus a space for me to enjoy Stephen or perhaps a book about the spiritual side of golf.  Oh … life is good.  It’s so quiet in here.  Just a customer or two.  And there’s a big old clock on the wall which reminds me of my grandpa’s farmhouse way back when.  Maria and I have chatted some about Belmont.  She’s even told me there’s a pub in town – The Barking Cat.  Hard to get my head around that name but sounds worth checking out.

I’m just about done here.  Even though it’s raining, I’m heading to Tarandowah.  Brought my umbrella.  I just might stroll the first fairway, with a song on my lips.

 

Adventure

I was driving into the big city yesterday to work out at the gym when I realized that our local junior hockey team, the London Knights, was playing in the evening.  These young players, ages 16 to 20, were battling the Erie Otters for all the marbles.  The two teams were tied at the top of the Ontario Hockey League standings with only two games left – last night in London and today in Erie, Pennsylvania.

“Go to the game, Bruce.”  Okay, who am I to argue?  Except that I figured all 9000 tickets would be gone.  I’m so glad that, even though my pessimistic voice has its time, I usually don’t agree.  So … I found a parking space within a block of Budweiser Gardens (Magic!) and strode towards the box office.  My hostess, after conferring with her computer screen, said, “We have one ticket left, sir.”  Oh my goodness!  I took it with considerable glee.

Hours later, there I sat in the arena heavens, not caring at all that I was miles from the action.  I was in the building and that was enough.  I wanted to experience  all those folks cheering for the home side.  I wanted to feel the energy, win or lose.

Before the opening faceoff, a gaggle of little kids trooped onto the ice for the national anthems.  As their leader swept into conducting, the children started “The Star-Spangled Banner.”  Off key and loveable.  And then … the voices stopped.  The young’uns either got too nervous, forgot the words, or something.  Silence.  But only for a few seconds.  What happened next will stay with me for the rest of my life.  I would say that a few thousand of us Canadians picked up the melody and ran with it.  We sang our neighbours’ song.  No Canada/US good/bad silliness.  Just kind people who didn’t want to leave the kids hanging.  Truly a wow.

The game was stunning.  And London won!  I sprang from my seat at every London goal.  Joy flooded the arena.  Ahh.

And now there’s one final game, tonight in Erie.  If the Knights win, we’re league champions.  If we lose in overtime, we’re still champions.  If Erie wins in regulation time, they’re the top of the hill.

As I drove back to Union, my mind exploded.  “Go to Erie tomorrow, Bruce.”  But there won’t be any tickets left.  (Sounds familiar.)  “Drive the five hours there.  Get a hotel.  Go to the game!”  I bet you can see where this is leading.  There were a few single tickets left.  Check.  The Albion Hotel, just a few blocks away from the Erie Insurance Arena, will welcome me.  Check.  I’m all gassed up.  Check.

Within half an hour, I’ll be on the road.  I love it.  Tomorrow morning, I’ll tell you more about my epic quest.  Much fun.

Personal Training

I worked out with my trainer today.  Marcin pushes me a lot and this afternoon was no exception.  We’ve decided that I need to be “fierce”, absolute gritting-the-teeth determined to complete all the reps.  I seem to growl inside towards the end of most exercise sets.  And I’ve never experienced myself as a growler.  At times since Jody’s death, I’ve let myself fall into “poor me” … a woefully weak energy and lack of engagement with life.  Strength training brings me back from that malaise.  Today Marcin wanted me to do bicep curls with a 45-pound bar.  I tried the first rep and nothing happened – the bar stayed at my waist.  I was appalled.  Marcin, however, was unperturbed.  “I’ll help you get the first one up.”  And he did.  Then I got going, with the occasional wee bit of help from my very fit friend.  “I’m doing it!  How is this possible?”

I’ve had enough of comparing myself to others and finding the composer of these posts wanting.  So Marcin and the other well-muscled gents in the gym are on their own path of development.  I’m on mine.  Sure, he assisted me some with that bar, but look what I did – 45 pounds.  Not so long ago, I thought 20 was an achievement.  I want to be strong.  When I’m 80, I want to be mobile.  I’m on the way.

Meditation brightens the moment, often with a sublimely peaceful energy.  Lifting weights also focuses me on the present, but with a completely different energy.  I’m so happy that I have both in my life.

***

I’ve decided to create some vacations for myself.  Two months ago, with no lovely woman in my life, I decided to go to Toronto for three days … alone.  No sense in just sitting at home and sighing.  So tomorrow morning, I’m riding the train, then staying in a hotel downtown, then going to three folk music concerts over the next few days.  There’s no way that I’m going to relegate adventure, discovery and joy to the past.

So off I go.  I love the window seat, looking out at the world without having to watch for traffic.  Searching for deer in the fields that lie far from any road.  Watching for the treasures that show up in backyards and industrial sites.  Other worlds.  I hope someone cool sits down beside me and that we have a groovy conversation about life.  And the train can be my vehicle for all this wonder.

***

I’ll let you know about tomorrow when tomorrow is done.

Day Thirty-Six … The International

The MV International is a wooden ship that was built in the 1930s.  It has plied the waters of Waterton Lake every summer since then.  Waterton is seven miles long and halfway down we enter the United States.  As a young man working at the Prince of Wales Hotel, I got free trips on the International.  I’ve been down the lake over the bounding main at least fifty times.  Yesterday was fifty-one.

As we walked onboard, I looked up at the little shelf in front of the captain’s cabin.  That’s where I always sat.  Not yesterday though.  A young girl from Calgary was fully in place with her still younger brother.  I told her my shelf story.  She smiled.

I sat with my nephews for the first half hour of the trip.  We were on the top deck, breathing in the sunshine and feeling the wind against our faces.  I was 24 again.  There were the valleys – left, right and straight ahead – where I had backpacked up to high lakes, staying overnight in the silence.  The Crypt Lake trail, with its 60-foot natural tunnel to crawl through, with vistas then opening to an aquamarine jewel, and with snow hanging above.  How very happy I am to have had those moments in my life.  More to come.

I moved to the front of the boat and soon Leonardo DiCaprio came through.  I raised my arms and gently shouted “I’m the king of the world!”  Some folks laughed.  Some stared.  I just wanted to know where Kate Winslet had got to.  I talked to all and sundry, people from here, there and everywhere, looking like they were loving the trip.

At the southern end of Waterton Lake, we docked at Goathaunt, not even needing passports.  I chatted for awhile with the captain.  He’s been the boss for 20 years and I knew him not.  I talked about the International captain whom I knew and loved – Galen Nielsen.  Today’s captain told me that Galen died a few years ago.  I was sad to hear that.  Captain Nielsen was a big guy, and such a kind man.  Once he led a group of us towards the summit of Mount Cleveland, just south of Goathaunt.  We made it to a point only a few hundred feet from the top when rain and slippery slopes forced an executive decision.  The captain said we were going back down.  We were all disappointed but we knew that Captain Nielsen had our backs and that he rightfully called the shots.

Lance, Nona, Jaxon, Jagger, Jace and I spent time on the rocky beach, skipping stones over the skin of Waterton Lake.  It was fun.  I saw Jaxon pick up a rock too big for skipping and I called out to him, “I’ll give you a thousand dollars if you can skip it more than once.”  The result?  One > Two. (!)  Good grief.  There goes my retirement fund.

As the International cruised north and we were nearing the dock in Waterton townsite, the PW loomed above us.  I looked to the same young girl, now standing beside me, and talked about my years at the hotel, that I saw how great people are, no matter where they’re from.  She smiled some more.  Seeing my opportunity, I told her I was a teacher and that I’d discovered kids really appreciate being given a math test in the summer, when they’re missing school really bad.  And I just happened to have one on me.  She smiled for a third time and lowered her head.  I guessed there wouldn’t be a math test today.

***

It’s all so much fun, this life of ours
Not always, of course
But enough to make my day

Day Thirty-Five … Bear’s Hump and the PW

We seven stood at the base of the trail up Bear’s Hump.  Ember was eager to go.  So were the Doram’s.  I wasn’t.  As they stepped purposefully upwards, I stood on the spot.  More remembering.  Forty-six years ago, Glen Reid and I had sat in the staff caf of the Prince of Wales Hotel.  It was after supper and we were bored.

“Glen, how about if we do something crazy?”

“Like what?”

“Let’s crawl up Bear’s Hump.”

(Unremembered response)  However, we did seek out carpet scraps and other padding for our hands and knees, and accompanied by several employee onlookers, we began our epic quest.  And yesterday I lingered at that spot.

As I began trudging upwards on the sometimes steep trail, I saw the exposed roots and lots of rocks sticking out.  After a few switchbacks, I found the little side trail that leads to a fairly level green meadow.  I spent about two weeks there in 1973, camping illegally in my little green tent (hoping I would be sufficiently camouflaged).  That was the summer I spent backpacking in Waterton, Banff and Glacier National Park in Montana.  I even tossed in a hitchhiking interlude to visit friends in Saskatchewan and Manitoba.

Back in the present, I wondered at how I had done the crawl.  How did I get around those rocks?  I remember Glen being faster than me and that I didn’t see him again till the top.  But some friends stayed with me, encouraging me upwards.  The knee pain grew.  Should I stop?  No.  I have no idea how long it took for me to summit but I sure remember the last thirty feet.  At that point, the trail was a slab of rock, and the pain was huge.  I was lost in some other area of consciousness.  As left hand replaced right, all I saw ahead was sky.  A little more up and still just sky.  A few more hand placings … and then … mountains!  The whole of Waterton Lake spread below me, surrounded by applauding peaks.  Such ecstasy flooded with such agony.

Yesterday, I stood at the lower end of that slab and remembered some more.  I heard myself talking to a young man, “Thank you, Bruce.”  And what came back to this current fellow was also “Thank you, Bruce.”  For the person I’ve become, I guess.

After sitting with my family for awhile, I went in search of a gravel spot that resided in my memory.  And there it was.  A few times as a PW employee, I slept there with my sleeping bag and foam pad, in the company of perhaps ten wonderful friends.  Such a view upon waking but more importantly such an unspoken love among us.

***

And then there was the Prince of Wales.  My home.  I worked there as a laundry boy (1969), dining room bus boy (1970), and laundry manager (1974, 1975 and 1976).  I can describe experiences I’ve had there, past and present, but words will totally fail to give you what I feel.  How can a large Swiss chalet hotel sitting on top of a windy hill do this to me?  I don’t know and I don’t care.  The Buddha talked about being home everywhere and sometimes I feel that.  Sometimes there is no yearning to stand anywhere else.  On another level of consciousness, however, the PW stands alone, a place where I learned to delight in the presence of many others, not just those who lived in the same city that I did – Toronto.

I walked up the highway and turned onto the access road to the PW dorms – three three-storey wooden buildings.  The gravel under my feet reminded me of a young man who once camped on this road after a rainstorm, next to the newly christened Dorm Lake.  Another memory was not so savoury.  For the last time in my life, I got thoroughly drunk at a party in someone’s room on the third floor.  I tottered to the end of the hallway, opened the fire exit door, stumbled down three sets of outside stairs to the ground, and ended up a few yards away under some bushes, where I vomited it all up.  I awoke in the morning covered with the stuff.  It was a pretty effective cure.

Monday, in a far more pleasant circumstance, I talked to a waitress from the Czech Republic about my history.  “You climbed that hill for five years!?”  The dorms are down by Waterton Lake while the hotel sits on the hill above.

As I climbed the path, I veered off towards the laundry, a separate building.  I walked in.  More storytelling, this time to Denny, the laundry manager.  I talked of things we did back then, such as taking a foot-long tube of grease, getting up on a chair and applying the stuff to big leather belts that were turning as fast as the eye could see.  He gaped and smiled.  We had a fine time, sharing common experiences that were separated by only 40 years.  I mentioned names that he had never heard of, naturally.

Next up was the staff caf, where Glen and I devised our crawling plan.  I had a momentary thought that I’m not a staff member anymore and therefore shouldn’t go through that door.  But I did.  “What the heck, I’m an alumnus!”  It was a lot smaller than I remembered.  The room must have been downsized, at least in my head.  I talked to a couple of smiling faces and then exited stage left.

Now into the lobby, with the huge dark wooden posts and the towering chandelier.  I just stood.  There were the comfy chairs and couches, the two-storey windows looking down the lake, and a harpist playing for folks enjoying afternoon tea.  Above me were four wooden balconies.  In the fall of 1974, Johnny Haslam, the hotel’s caretaker, invited me to stay on after the Labour Day closing, to drain the toilets and board the place up.  Sometimes Johnny was away from the hotel and I was alone in the PW.  I often leaned over the fourth floor balcony and sang.  Within the acoustics of the old girl, my voice was deep and rich.

I took the stairs down into the basement to look for my name.  Back in the 70’s, behind a closed door, there was a hallway filled with the signatures of former employees, some from the 40’s.  Way back when, I added mine, including the jobs I did each year.  Sometime in the 90’s, Jody and I visited the PW and I was shocked to find that the walls down there had been painted.  All that history … gone.  Such sadness.  In 2011, we returned with Lance and Nona, and magically names had reappeared, mostly from recent employees.  Again, I added mine, with a renewed appreciation of the human spirit.

On Monday, I looked at wall after wall for me.  Lots of big Sharpie displays but no Bruce.  I remembered doing my art work at about shoulder level but I just couldn’t locate that ancient laundry manager.  Until … I did.  Pretty indistinct but still seeable.  I sighed.  I was tempted to get a black marker and do it up right but then thought better of it.  Let my history at the PW be as it was.  No embellishment.  Good times and bad ones.  Mostly good.  I’m glad this grand old hotel has been a major part of my life.  She has coloured my spirit.

Day Three … Terry and the Monsoon

I started my travels yesterday with a visit to the Terry Fox Monument near Thunder Bay.  A long and winding road carried me past orange cliffs and stands of birch trees to the top of a hill.  With leafy lawns to the left and right, accented by picnic tables, I walked out into the open, with a 20-foot statue of Terry facing west, hobbling along on his one good leg.  On the walls beneath Terry were lots of writing carved into the stone.  I didn’t read them.  I sat on a low wall and gazed up at the man.  Terry ran about 25 miles a day for 143 days, starting from the east coast of Canada, to raise money for cancer research.  He had to stop near Thunder Bay when the cancer overwhelmed his body.

My eyes were wet behind my sunglasses.  Thank you, Terry.  He was a Companion of the Order of Canada because he wanted to “improve our country”.  And so he did.  And so do we all, with the little kindnesses we show each other, with letting someone else go first, with putting an arm around a friend.

I watched the folks who joined me on the outlook over Lake Superior.  One cyclist took off her sunglasses and wiped her eyes. Some folks, though, didn’t even look at Terry.  They came for the view.  Most people hardly glanced at the statue, but spent minutes reading the various messages.  Only a few lingered with the young man, no doubt imagining his pain and determination.  I wanted everyone to “be with” Terry, to let his humanity touch theirs, but that was not to be.  And it’s okay.

When I want to meet people, and there’s a couple or a group, I’ve discovered a surefire way to do it … ask them if they’d like me to take their picture.  At the monument I asked, and only about half of the people said yes.  I was sad that the others didn’t choose to record their closeness with loved ones.  “I don’t like having my picture taken.”  “No, we don’t need one.”  Okay.

For the folks who said yes, I had to sit on the stone floor to get both them and Terry in the photo.  Several people were amazed that I did this.  I don’t know why.  It just seemed like a natural thing to do.  No one left out.  We had good conversations.  One of the women I met lives three kilometres from me, in Port Stanley.

On the road again.  Somewhere north of Thunder Bay, I saw a storm greeting me in the distance.  I switched Scarlet’s digital display to temperature – 28 degrees Celsius.  Then the rain … intermittent wipers, regular wipers, fast speed wipers.  A logging truck leaned a little on a gentle curve, with the water leaping off the logs.  The temperature gauge started dropping and didn’t stop till it had reached 21.  During all this, I was listening to songs on a CD that a friend gave me years ago, including “Language of the Kiss” by The Indigo Girls.

“Oh the fear I’ve known, that I might reap the praise of strangers and end up on my own.”  Yes, I have felt that.  The wind blew and the wipers frantically swept the rain away.  I was alive, so very much.

As the storm said goodbye, I drove on, fixated on the temperature gauge.  22 … 24 … 26 … 28.  There was something about returning to the previous state of being that I liked.  Actually, the physical world so often offers me symbols that help me live my life.  I’m glad about that.

A dead black bear cub lying on the gravel beside the road.

A fruitless search in countless marshes for a moose sighting.  I know they’re there and maybe that’s good enough.

Slurping a chocolate walnut waffle cone in Vermilion Bay, followed shortly thereafter by a hunk of chocolate walnut fudge.

The corridor of asphalt through stands of welcoming pines near Kenora.

Waiting and waiting for the Prairie to say “Hi” west of Whiteshell Provincial Park in Manitoba.

And then …

A jolt of lightning touched the twilight horizon to the west, turning the length of a horizontal cloud a brilliant orange.  I turned south towards Steinbach as the storm hit.  Wipers on high right away.  Couldn’t see the ditch.  Barely saw the middle yellow line.  Slower and slower. Tailgated by some two-eyed monster.  And I was happy (really).  I was so engaged in life.  I knew that my guardian angels would see me through.  The Frantz Inn was on Highway 62, east of Steinbach.  All I saw ahead was darkness.  Had I passed it already?  I pulled off onto a gravel road and stopped.  A phone call to the hotel revealed that I had a kilometre to go.  And so to the parking lot.  Gas gauge reading = 0.  “There you go, Bruce.  Yesterday’s fantasy came to pass.”  I raced for the lobby and was immediately soaked.  After the paperwork, I ventured back out to get ta-pocketa off the trunk rack and into my room.  Since there was a lull in the liquid action, the task was accomplished sweatlessly.  Thank God.  As I re-emerged from the building to get the rest of my stuff, the hurricane had recommenced.  I threw my body into Scarlet.  And there I sat, for at least half an hour, as the rain threatened to destroy the windshield.  But I was safe.

Whew.  Life in Manitoba is lots of fun.  I mean that.  May I be so vividly alive for the rest of my life.

Day Two … NBD

It was a long day – 12 hours on the road – but miracles beckoned me left and right.  Small, dark blue lakes with expanses of white lilies.  Two Mennonite women riding their bicycles in long flowered skirts, one with a helmet over her bonnet.  Towering slabs of vertical rock, turned pink in the early evening sun.  Life was so big.

And then there was Bruce Mines, a tiny town on the north shore of Lake Huron just east of Sault Ste. Marie.  I thought it was pretty special that they’d named a place after me.  And there’s a sign for Bruce Bay!  Gosh, I’m everywhere.  Even though I couldn’t see any further evidence of Bruceness as I drove through, my rich fantasy life kicked into gear.  What if there’s a Bruce National Bank?  Or “Get your oil changed at Bruce’s!”  Or  Bruce’s Family Restaurant.  I bet they were all hiding just a block off Main St.

Along the north shore of Lake Superior, with its grand vistas and mini-islands, the road swooped, dropped and climbed.  I could feel my body move with Scarlet as we floated along at the speed limit – 90 kph (55 mph).  I got very excited when I looked in the rear view mirror to see a semi-trailer pounding down the slope behind me.  Every 10 kilometres or so, there was a passing lane but meanwhile friendly drivers were on my tail.  I decided to not let them dictate my well-being.  On I went at 90.  Then the passing lane, and the semi would blast up the hill beside me, its huge white mass blocking the entire world to my left.  I loved the power, the speed, the impossibility of that beast roaring past me.  Up and up and up.  I tell you, I just about had an organism!

Then there was my bladder.  I had neglected its needs when I stopped at Pancake Bay for a decadent chocolate peanut butter waffle cone.  They had only one size – huge!  Anyway, there I was motoring towards Thunder Bay with a liquid problem – one was building up and the other was running out.  The arrow on my gas gauge was moving towards the E.  Meanwhile I was discreetly pushing my thighs together.

I reckoned in White River that I had lots of gas and could just zoom on through.  The sign said 85 k to Marathon and Scarlet told me I had 107 left.  Piece of cake.  Surely no self-respecting retired person would stop at the station in White River.  C’mon, Bruce … push the envelope.  So I pushed, in one respect, and contracted in another.  Then another sign – 60 (compared to 80).  More squeezing.  Gosh, this was turning into an heroic quest.  Later it was 25 and 40.  I had visions of 10 k left, 5, 1, and even limping into Petro-Canada on my last fumes, with Scarlet coughing to a stop only feet away from the pump, with the nozzle just able to reach the gas tank.  Ahh.  What would I do without fantasy?  The truth was that the digital display read 18 when Marathon and I united.  That’s okay.  I had fun.

I have to admit that my first stop at the station wasn’t for gas.  I stood at the appropriate spot for quite a long time.  It would be indelicate of me to share the details so I don’t think I will.

This morning, I’m visiting the Terry Fox Memorial before winding my way through the woods of northwestern Ontario to emerge on the Prairies at Steinbach, Manitoba.  I’ll let you know all about it tonight or tomorrow morning.  I hope you’re enjoying my journey.  I sure am.

P.S. 1 … Nothing But Driving

P.S. 2 … 83 seconds, while pales in comparison to my 130 seconds achieved just off the I-75 in Michigan in 1990

Day One … Riding On The Wind

I’m off to Western Canada and to all the joys that await me.  I’ll be sitting in the living rooms of many fine people.  But not until Friday.  Before I get to Henry and Louise in Weyburn, Saskatchewan, there’s a big chunk of Ontario to meander through.

I left at 4:15 this morning to give me lots of time to reach the Chi-Cheemaun ferry that runs between Tobermory, Ontario and Manitoulin Island.  My first adventure was in the dark near Lucan.  Two baby raccoons scampered onto the highway, their four eyes shining in my headlights.  They must have been terrified to see those two big white things.  I slammed on the brakes and watched as my sudden friends threw themselves back into the ditch.  Someone behind me in a big vehicle was following too close and came within a couple of feet of crushing my bicycle ta-pocketa, who was hanging from a rack behind Scarlet’s trunk.  Oh my.  Thank you Jody, and other blessed beings for keeping my bike and me safe.

Up the Bruce Peninsula I floated at the speed limit.  Pass me if you need to.  I’m tired of going fast in life.  Such beauty all around me.  More and more coniferous trees until the water revealed itself in Tobermory.  I didn’t get much sleep last night so coffee and breakie was a relief.  And then, in a newly alert state … “Wow.  I’m on a road trip.”  Out and about.  Neither here nor there.  Following my nose, not to mention my map.

As the ferry left the tip of the Bruce Peninsula, I leaned over the railing on the top deck and found myself in a conversation with a lovely woman named Lori.  She and her two kids are on a vacation from Kentucky.  Lori is so hoping that they all get to see the Northern Lights.  Yes, may you see the shimmering green sheets in the sky.  Lori is also determined to get her son and daughter away from their “devices”, to have them gaze in awe at the water, the lights, the meadows and the trees.  To just stop, look and listen.

I told Lori about my wife Jody, about her presence in the trees and about the book I wrote about my dear one.  She was happy to receive a copy, and wiped away a tear or two.  Then it was family lunch time in the cafeteria so we said goodbye.  During the last few minutes of our talk, I became aware of another entity, one that was hovering nearby.  A single seagull followed us on our voyage.  For at least 45 minutes, I didn’t take my eyes off him or her.  The birdacious one sometimes came as close as five feet, checking me out with his right eye,  Then he’d swoop down towards the water.  After that he’d wheel high above the ship, but always returned to be nearby.  There were about 15 people on my high deck and perhaps 30 on the one below, but aside from a kid or two, no one seemed to notice our local acrobat.  Texting, reading, talking … all good things, but the curled wings working the winds was mostly an unseen miracle.  Such a loss of the present moment.

Maybe I’ll be an athlete gull in my next lifetime.  I sure was taken with this virtuoso flier.  It felt like there was a link between the two of us.  I know, you could say that he just wanted food, but I’m sure it became clear after a minute or two that I didn’t have any.  And still the seagull stayed.  I was glad.

Within ten seconds of the announcement asking us to return to our cars, my friend was gone.  Just poof!  Oh, the mysteries of this physical life.

This is fun.  I hope I have Internet access every day during the next six weeks so I can tell you what my eyes see and my heart feels.  Tomorrow I venture along the north shore of Lake Superior, visit the monument to Terry Fox, who fought so hard to run across Canada for cancer research, and finally lay down my head in Thunder Bay.  See you then.

Haida Gwaii

Haida Gwaii is an archipelago of 150 islands north of Vancouver Island in British Columbia, and an eight-hour ferry ride west of the BC mainland.  It means “islands of the people”, the aboriginal Haida people.  It used to be called the Queen Charlotte Islands.  Thank goodness Canada now recognizes its native residents by name.

I’m going there – in June, 2016.  I’ll be spending eight days on a sailing ship with seven other guests and a crew of four or five.  Wow.  I’m really doing this.  Jody and I wanted to explore the BC coast together, but alas, that was not to be.  Except that Jodiette says she’ll be at my side every wave of the way.  Thank you, my wife.

I’m likely to see humpback whales, bald eagles, dolphins, sea lions, very large black bears, and maybe killer whales.  I will listen to Haida elders talk of their totem poles and their spiritual life.  I will enjoy the company of my new friends onboard.  And I will meditate on God’s vast reach on our planet.

On a trip to Haida Gwaii a few weeks ago, here are some notes from the captain:

This morning we visited K’uuna (Skedans), and as we approached we had another humpback whale on the starboard side.  We counted 100 bald eagles at Skedans Islands.

I can anticipate, plan, expect and predict … but my journey will unfold as it should.  What if I never see a humpback?  Then that’s how it is.  What if my roommate turns out to be a macho young fellow.  Then that’s how it is.  What if it rains and pours for the whole trip?  So be it.  My heart will be open.  My spirit will soar.  Whatever happens, I expect to be stunned into silence every day.

I’m so glad I’m going.

The Concert!

I’ve never looked forward to a concert so much.  I drove to Toronto yesterday to hear Jackie Evancho, a 14-year-old girl with a celestial voice.  During Jody’s funeral luncheon, and at her Celebration of Life, I showed the video of Jackie singing “In The Arms Of An Angel”, which is where Jody is.  And to hear Jackie sing “Nessum Dorma”, an operatic piece usually performed by men, is to be transported into a heavenly realm.  This girl is far more than her voice, though.  She has an astonishing presence on stage.  I think she’s an old soul, reborn on Earth to bring joy and spread love.

I lived in Toronto for the first 21 years of my life.  Yesterday, I had a vague memory of a cheap parking garage near the Sony Centre downtown.  I knew what exit to take off the freeway, and after a few twists and turns, there was the garage.  Plus it was only $5.00 to park for hours and hours.  Yay!

An hour-and-a-half before showtime.  I thought a beer would be in order.  Right outside the garage, on a street called The Esplanade, sat an Irish pub.  Inside was dark wood, a seat at the bar, large screen TV sports, and a Barking Squirrel lager.  Oh, bliss is mine!  I talked to two of the servers, and they were both genuinely happy that I was about to hear one of the most beautiful voices in the world.  My soul was flying high, not to mention the rest of me with the beer.

7:15.  The show would start at 8:00 so it was time to mosey.  As I was walking out of the pub, one of my new friends smiled and said, “Enjoy the concert.”  Indeed.  It was only two blocks to the Sony Centre and my cells were singing.  As I rounded the corner, I wondered if the doors would be open yet.  Then I saw a fellow going inside.  Good.  I’ll just hang out in my seat (only ten rows from the stage!) and drink in the theatre.

Off the sidewalk now and approaching all those glass doors.  A corner of my mind noticed five 8 1/2 x 11 sheets of paper on the windows, but who cares?  Hand reaching for the door.  Eyes lifting to check out the sign.

JACKIE EVANCHO
IS CANCELLED

(Standing still)  (Staring)  (Gulping)