Tag Archives: Adventure

Deluge

All Jody and I were doing was watching an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation on our laptop last night.  Captain Jean-Luc Picard was saying “Make it so” a lot.  It was fun.  I was vaguely aware that it had started raining, but so what?  No problemo.  As Jean-Luc and friends continued to battle the forces of evil in the universe, the vague morphed into the absolute.  The drops were beating on our home.

Neal, a friend who’s living with us, came by to say, rather anxiously, that the water in our sump pump hole was rising.  I let Jody deal with the Starship Enterprise and went downstairs.  This was about 10:30.  Our main sump pump and the backup one were going full tilt.  I knew we had a few 10-gallon pails so I gathered them up, took a small red container, and started bailing water out of the hole.  Sooner than I had hoped, they were full, and the holey water was continuing its upward journey.  Still, calm was I.  We have an four-foot-high garbage can in the basement which we use to store flour, rice and the like.  I gently removed the contents and plunked the can down beside the sump hole.  Slowly, slowly, I dipped my red friend into the water and deposited the results in the can.  No sooner said than done – the plastic brute was full to the rim … and the sump water was only a foot down from the level of the floor.

Okay, so now someone I know developed a slightly elevated heart beat.  I walked briskly through the basement and climbed the stairs into the garage, where I hoisted the super-industrial-sized can which we roll out to the road once a week.  Semi-ran downstairs and continued bailing.  Looked up at the tiny window and saw water streaming down from it, from shelf to shelf and then puddling on the floor.  Back to the sump hole – eight inches from Defcon One.

Well, what can I say about my brain?  Neal asked me about the portable submersible pump we had, and I had completely forgotten about it, choosing instead the “no cheese down that tunnel” route of continued container finding and inspired bailing.  I found the pump and Neal went in search of a long hose.  Soon we were all attached and had run the hose up the garage stairs and out onto the driveway.  So there were now three pumps in the hole.  To my horror, the water kept rising.  I looked up at the window and saw that the water level was halfway up it.  And slow tides were spreading out on the floor, leaking from our foundation in several spots.

So much for decorum – I ran up the stairs, onto the driveway, and around to the backyard, where I found our big green cart for garden debris and two flexible plastic tubs.  Like a runaway shopping cart driver, I plunged back to the house, somehow got the cart next to the hole, and bailed anew.  One inch below the floor … and then level.  Refusing to go with the flow, I kept finding space among the three pumps for my little red pail to fit, and gave ‘er.  Neal brought two more containers.  I looked around … and time stopped.  I had a moment of amused astonishment within the panic.  I saw all these cans, pails and carts surrounding me, each brimming with water.  The line on the window was two thirds up.  And peace drifted down upon me.

Maybe a minute after every single container we could find was full, I looked down at the hole and saw that the liquid had dropped half an inch below the floor.  By grace we are saved.

The level continued its slow decline, and soon Neal and I could put the portable pump into the pool residing in our rolling garbage can, gradually sucking it dry, before moving to the other vessels.  We set to with a wet-dry Shop-Vac and a mop, sucking up water, plunging the pump in, sucking some more, pumping some more, getting cardboard boxes off the floor, unplugging electronics, running around like crazy men.

We finished, in a manner of speaking, at 1:00 am.  Really not much damage – to our possessions, that is.  And actually no real damage to our souls.  We imperfect human beings did all that we could.  It was enough.  Good for us.

The Tour du Canada

Yesterday afternoon 25 cyclists slogged up the two kilometres of Signal Hill in St. John’s, Newfoundland, completing their journey of 7550 kilometres (about 4700 miles) across Canada.  They had started mid-June in Vancouver, BC, and averaged around 130 kilometres per day.  My goodness.

For at least ten years, I’ve dreamed of joining them.  It’s an adventure which I will experience before I die.  I can feel that deep inside.  My plan was to do the ride this summer, right after retiring, but Jody’s illness prevented that from happening.  I need to be at her side.

Let’s say I cross my country in 2016.  I’ll be 67 then, not exactly the oldest rider to do the deed, but getting up there.  As a 50-year-old, I defined myself as a slow cyclist, so what about 17 years later?  The bottom line question: Would anyone in the group be willing to ride with me on the daily spin, or would my time on the bike be spent alone?  I like to think they’ll be a few takers.  Speaking most stereotypically, I don’t expect my companions on the road to include any 20-year-old men.  I bet they’d be busting their buns to be the first ones into the next campground.  Oh well.  Sometimes I dream of speed, but not much.  I want to see the world passing by, not be gazing at the rear tire of the rider ahead, only six inches from my front one.

Here’s some more wants:

1.  To become friends with my fellow riders, perhaps at a level that I’ve never experienced before.  After all, we’ll be fighting the wind, the rain, the hills, injuries, illness and our own emotions.  Each of us will have off-days, times when our self-esteem hangs by a thread, times when someone else’s personality will be oil to my water.  We have to take care of each other.  The possible overwhelm could easily lead to tears, even male tears.  I need to be kind, and graciously receive others’ kindness in return.

2.  To meet Canadians all across this fair land.  If I’m riding through a Saskatchewan town, past the general store, and spy an elderly gentleman sitting on the porch, pulling on his pipe … I’m going to stop and say hi.  Have a nice chat about the Prairies and about riding (assuming that he’s fine with talking).  I know that many communities, ones who welcome Tour du Canada folks year after year, put on breakfasts or dinners for the riders.  Truly a golden opportunity to blab at length to every Mary and Bob that I can find – young, old and anywhere in the middle.  I like to think that my spirit will flow into them, and theirs into me.

3.  To blog my fingers off from Vancouver Island to the Maritimes.  The organizer of the tour told me that most campgrounds which they use are wireless, so I can cozy up to my laptop for half an hour each evening and wax poetic about the events of the day.  I’ll be sure to mention lots about the peanut butter and jam sandwiches that are a lunchtime staple.

As is the case with the blog you’re reading right now, I won’t know if I’m reaching a lot of people or just a few.  Now and in the future, both results are fine.  As long as someone is out there, I’m good!

As wise people often say when thinking about a life experience, there’s the anticipation of the event, the event itself, and the memories.  I know that all three will be mine.  As for now, Part A is a lot of fun.

 

No Deficit

The idea was that I’d wake up this morning in Utica, New York, but it just didn’t turn out.  Many months ago, I registered for a ten-day retreat, from August 1st to 10th, at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, Massachusetts.  At that time, I didn’t know what Jody’s health would be like when August rolled around, but if I didn’t register early there’d be no way I could attend.  Jody is making remarkable progress in fighting her cancer but I need to be with her every day.  So a couple of weeks ago I cancelled the registration.

I’ve been to three previous retreats at IMS and I’ve loved the rhythm of my travelling to and from each time.  I take a day-and-a-half and drive on quiet paved roads through Southern Ontario, New York and Massachusetts to Barre.

I would have left Union yesterday, about 8:00 am.  As the time approached, and ever since, I’ve been fascinated by the smile gracing my face.  Does part of me wish that I was on the road to IMS?  Yes.  Am I sad that this isn’t happening?  Strangely, no.  I’m happy to be with my wife.  I’m smiling about the great memories I accumulated on the other trips.  As I sit here right now, I feel like an open window, and the breeze is blowing through.  Sublime and wondrous.  Still, do I want to go back to IMS?  Yes.  Would it be okay if I never did?  Yes again.  And one more time … how can that be?

Okay, Bruce – enough.  Time to stop the analysis and just bathe in the moonlight.

Here are the moments I’ve been happily reliving.  So much for the here and now, but that’s okay.  The reminiscing has made me happy.

Thursday, July 31

Setting off in Hugo for the great beyond.

Driving only the speed limit in Ontario on the way to Fort Erie and Buffalo.  Glad to see the trees, fields and animules.

Chatting with the US border guard in Buffalo.  I was looking forward to the contact.

Getting lost in Buffalo (every time) as I tried to blend from freeway to the slow but sure Highway 20.  Finding a Buffalonian to give me directions.

Bipping eastward along New York 20, without a care in the world.  Loving all the American flags I see on people’s houses.

Stretching to get to Seneca Falls near the Finger Lakes before 2:00, when a cute greasy spoon on Main Street closes at the end of lunch.  Success rate: 1 out of 3.  Good conversation with the owner and the waitress.

LIngering a bit at a gift shop in downtown Skaneateles (pronounced “Skinny Atlas”) at the head of one of the Finger Lakes.  More good talk.

Turning north off 20 at Bridgewater, heading to nearby Utica.  I always take the downtown exit and always get marginally lost before I find the street containing Denny’s, Babe Macaroni’s, and the Red Roof Inn.  It’s fun, actually.

Unpacking at the Red Roof, far from any ice machine.  Just me and my room.

Haltingly, I locate the Utica train station, with its marble pillars and high ceilings.  This holds the only pay phones I’ve been able to find in town.  I phone Jodiette and have fun telling her of the day’s adventures.  One time a wedding reception filled the station.  Jody loved my descriptions of the glittering celebrants.

Off to supper at Babe Macaroni’s, your basic fun roadhouse.  Pigged out on a burger or some such, a large beer and big screen sports.

Walked downtown to see what was happening.  Most places were closed, which was fine.  Felt a teensy bit like a Utica resident.

Back to my room.  Pooped.  And so to bed.

Friday, August 1

Up early, shower and shave, short walk to Denny’s for breckie.  On the way, leaned over the bridge to check out the sparse traffic on the canal.

Lots of food, including yummy fruit.  Always a friendly server.  Talked a little about meditation to one of them.

Off Hugo and I go into the wild blue yonder eastward.  Hills getting higher, traffic stays easy going.  It’s all lovely.

I arrive at the western edge of Albany, New York.  I avoid the freeway that skirts the city and point my nose downtown.  Gorgeous century homes on either side.  And … I always get lost.  Just can’t seem to find my way across the river to Troy and beyond.  Love it.  There’s always some helpful New Yorker to show me the way.

Hugo climbs the western slopes of the Berkshire Mountains in a low gear, till we crest at the border of Massachusetts.  Treed right to the top, those mountains.  I look for James Taylor on the roadside but never locate him.

At a hairpin turn above the movie-settish North Adams, I wave hello to the Golden Eagle Restaurant, which offers a “way down there” view from its balcony.  On my return trip west, I’ll definitely be having a broad view of life as I eat supper there.

Curvy road by a lake, lots of big trees, as I wind my way towards Barre.

I roll into the town common and saunter over to the window offering a huge bell for customers to ring.  And I just have to ring it!  Order a Moose Tracks waffle cone and settle down on a park bench for slow licking and contemplation of the next ten days.

At around 3:00 pm (today!) I drive three miles up Pleasant Street to find an old mansion on my right, the home of the Insight Meditation Society.  Home indeed.

Right now, it’s about 11:00 pm.  In my reminiscing life, I’ll have enjoyed an evening talk given by one of the teachers, sipped my tea on a moonlit bench outside the front door, and toddled off to bed.  Sleeping softly right now, I’d wager.

It’s as if I’m there, so very much there.  And it’s truly okay that I’m not.

Just a T-Shirt

Jody and I were sitting in a breezy beach restaurant in St. Lucia in 1995, sipping our tropical creations.  Such fun.  The bikinis were scenic and colours were everywhere.  I glanced over at a black woman on the far side of the room.  She was wearing a classy black dress, and was sitting alone.  She was also looking at me.

We had just got off the sand after a major tanning and reading session, and were garbed in t-shirts and shorts, me with a “London Road Race” logo on display.  Whatever that cream drink I ordered was, it was yummy. And everything just seemed so … slow.  Perfect.  Sometimes Jody and I talked but much of the time we were silent.

I looked up again to see the elegant woman walking towards our table.  She smiled and said, “Excuse me.  Are you folks from London, Ontario, Canada?”

“Why, yes we are.”

“Did you graduate from UWO [our local university]?”

“No, but Jody did.”

“So did I.  You must come to dinner.”

We talked for a few minutes, with smiles all around.  The woman’s daughter would pick us up at our hotel at 5:00.  Fine with us.  I had a twinge of fear, but it floated away into the brilliant blue sky.

Five o’clock it was, and we were being whisked along the byways in a fancy Mitsubishi sedan.  Very talkative and friendly, the young lady.  Mom and daughter’s home was laden with art and soft leather.  Dinner was exceptional and our hostess offered us a fine red wine, vinted many years before.  The best though, was the talk.  Old friends reminiscing about London landmarks, party times and the rigours of study.  Turns out that our hostess was from a wealthy family and came to Canada to get an education.  We also learned that she was currently a member of the St. Lucia Senate.  Certainly a powerful woman but far more importantly a nice person.

Over dessert, there was a knock at the door, and in walked a tall, elegant black gentleman, dressed in a white suit.  (I sure wish I could remember these people’s names, but they’re not coming to me.  Oh well.)  He was a most gracious fellow, gentle and soft of conversation, and he clearly was good friends with the senator. Eventually, he got up to leave, and actually bowed to us as he bid us adieu.  “So I’ll be seeing you later.”  And he was gone.

What did that mean?  “It means that he’s invited us to his place for drinks,” smiled our new friend.  An hour later, we were back in that Misubishi, wafting our way to an unknown residence.  Miss Senator told us on the way that the man was the only importer of cars in St. Lucia, and as a result was extremely wealthy.  Okay.

Along the nighttime roads we rolled, finally making a turn onto a steeply uphill dirt track.  And up we went, seemingly on a spiral around a high hill, till we reached the top … manicured lawns, tropical trees and the white glow of a home that seemed to have no exterior walls.  After we had stopped, the woman told us not to get out of the car.  Soon there were three really big dogs right up against the doors.  Mr. Mitsubishi, still in white like his house, was strolling towards us.  With a snap of his fingers, the dogs were gone.  More smiles.

There were indeed no exterior walls, and filmy curtains floated within the sweetest breeze.  I remember a huge living room, vibrant with the white and the tropical colours.  This can’t be real, my brain poked at me.  Except it was.  More soft couches, more fascinating talk and mellow drinks.  Just little old me and little old Jody from Canada being welcomed to the Caribbean.

I kept looking at the grand piano in the centre of the room.  Our male friend noticed, and asked “Would you like to play?”

“Yes, I would.”

So the curtains stirred, the candles glowed and I got to tickle the ivories.  Simple stuff, but it made everyone happy.

That evening was nearly twenty years ago, but it remains vivid for me.  We never saw those fine people again.  And that’s okay.  A gift they had given.

Serendipity

 

Facing Death in 1970

I can only think of three times when death has been at my door, and they all happened during the summer of 1970, when I was working as a bus boy at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Waterton Lakes National Park, Alberta.  What was that all about?  What was I being asked to see?  Here’s one of the days that changed my life:

I loved hiking with friends in the mountains.  Our group had just passed over the Carthew Summit, a low point on Carthew Ridge, and were heading down to the three Carthew Lakes.  Bare scree slopes and below that we could see meadows of tiny white and yellow wildflowers.  What could be more beautiful?   Some of us were fast.  Carol, Paul and I, however, were drinking in the sights.  Off to the left, we saw about ten bighorn sheep,  and the curls on those horns were sure new to us rookie mountaineers.  A bit scary too.  Even more scary when the sheep started ambling towards us.

I panicked.  I didn’t know anything about sheep.  I had us run downhill towards some big rocks.  Between them, the scree slope gave way to a steep snowfield.  We nipped into the cleft between the rock and the snow, breathing hard.  I poked my head out from our sanctuary and saw a bighorn just above.  “They’re coming!”  I grabbed Carol’s hand and pulled her onto the 45 degree snow.  We were wearing running shoes.  I caught a glimpse of the turquoise lake perhaps 100 feet below – the snow dove right into it.

I lost my footing and started sliding on my stomach.  I smashed my runners into the snow and grabbed Carol’s ankles as she fell above me.  “Toes in!  Toes in!”  I didn’t think that but I guess my body did.  We somehow stopped, and I held Carol, as the white pressed against our faces and hands.  And there we stayed, with the numbness slowly taking over.

“My God, I’m going to die,” said my brain.  “I can’t swim and I’m going to die.  Carol too.”  As I let a likely death flood over me, I heard Paul above us say “I’m coming down.”  With rescue on his mind, Paul took a few steps onto the snow … and down he went.  The toes didn’t work for him.  He slid past us, way past us, and plunged into the lake.  Paul had told me at some point that he was a strong swimmer but that didn’t help him much now.  Carol and I heard huge inhales of air, and over my shoulder I watched him struggle in slow motion towards the shore.  His head went under a couple of times.  “O my God, I’m dead,” came from within, as Paul collapsed at the edge of Upper Carthew Lake.

Minutes later, once Paul had dragged himself upright, he said that he was going to run to Middle Carthew Lake to get the others.  Someone with hiking boots would save us.  And off he went.  Carol and I continued our numb embrace of the snow.  How long could I hold her up?  Would she just fall into me and take me into the water with her?

Finally, we saw little dots running up the trail towards us.  Once they reached the edge of the snow slope, they just stared at us for a bit, and then someone uttered some words of encouragement.  The snowfield must have been 100 yards long, and Carol and I were somewhere in the middle, about 40 feet above the water.

Ron, one of the hotel bellmen, said “I’m coming to get you.”  He started gouging steps in the snow with his hiking boots, and worked his way across with infinite care and slowness.  When he reached us, Ron cut steps just downslope from my feet.  I edged into them, and together we lowered Carol into other footholds.  She and I were dazed but standing up at last.  Ron turned back, and led Carol and then me across the face of the snow.  So slow.  As we got within conversation distance of our friends, a supremely loud “Crack!” noise assaulted our ears and the whole 100 yards of snow fell away into the lake with a “Thwump!”  I watched the snow crack away no more than two feet to the left of my left foot, and we later saw that the fallaway was undercut below our precious footholds.  We all ran … into the arms of our friends.

To be almost dead is to be very much alive – in the body and in the heart.  Forty-four years later, I often relive our Carthew adventure.  It wasn’t time for me to be taken.  There was a lot of living and giving to be done.  And there still is.