journey east: day 6

By this point we knew we weren't going to make it into the back country in any substantive way. We weren't prepared to tackle the Skoki Valley and most areas seemed, for the most part, to be closed. Besides, we now had a mission to complete: the recovery of Derek's Costanza-sized wallet.


Derek tucks his wallet safely away. The final image proving the existence of Derek's wallet. How could you lose something that big?

June 7, 2006

We returned to the trailhead at Emerald Lake Lodge at the end of a day of hiking left with the unresolved issue of what happened to Derek's wallet. Having taken yesterday off, not without twangs of regret, I was both delighted (sorry Derek) and dismayed to hear Derek had lost his wallet, likely at a point not too far from the high point of Yoho Pass. Credit cards aside, Derek was in the habit of travelling with a hefty wad of cash and he wanted it back. In this case the loss of the wallet meant he was travelling a few-hundred dollars lighter. Ouch.

So we headed out in the morning to hike to Yoho Pass. Again. At least for me it was a bit of a reprieve. On the other hand, for Greg and Derek, it was likely a most unwelcome turn of events. Definitely so for Derek. I can just imagine the sinking feeling he has in the pit of his stomach. The irony is that Greg saw Derek's wallet on a snowy patch next to a log Derek was resting on, but didn't say anything. It was more of a hindsight recollection that came to him when the two hikers returned to Field at the end of the day to stock up on goodies and junk and Derek realized his wallet wasn't with him.


Looking north from the alluvial plain toward Emerald Basin.

Today was the hottest, sunniest day yet. Crossing the alluvial plain deposited by Emerald Glacier it was apparent the hiking ahead for us was going to be hot. Spring melt water flowed heavier than it had in October, the last time we were through the area. Close to two hours of hiking lay ahead of us as we climbed up and across a skree slope. Begetation was slowly creeping up the incline of jumbled boulders, stone and gravel. We marched through a couple of budding stands of what looked like aspen. Fir trees dotted the slope and plains below.


Derek and Greg rest in the face of the President Range of mountains.

A litre of water was enough for all the hikes I had done to this point. Today I would use more. Walking up through the partial canopy of Yoho Pass the air cooled. It cooled because of the shade and because of the increasing amount of snow. Trudging through the crust of leftover winter snow I worked up a sweat. At times I was thigh deep in crystally white drifts littered with blackened pine needles and dirt. It was far from a winter wonderland but stunning none the less.

And it was a wonder to be there. I walked on ahead by myself while Greg and Derek searched futilely for the missing wallet. It was another few hundred metres to Yoho Lake and the campsite we had stayed at the previous summer. I came to the outhouse and soon was at the shore of the lake. The wind was gentle and I could hear birds in the forest.

I was the only soul in the area at it was wonderful. I wanted so badly to catch the colour of the water with my camera, but I don't think any image would do it justice. I looked at the water, thought about my half full bottle of water, and so wanted to drink straight from the lake. It looked so clear and pure. I didn't linger long. Time was short and I knew I should get back. As well the dreaded thought of meeting a hungry, grumpy bear rapidly played through my over-active imagination.

I talked to the woods on my way back through the crusty, unpredictable snow to where Greg and Derek were. They were still engaged in the great wallet hunt of '06. I was talking to the unseen creatures of the woods, letting them know I was there and hoping none would find my sound, or sight, appetizing. It was like I was walking through a stranger's campsite. I tried to walk casually.

We joined back up as a group, without the wallet, and headed back the way we had come. Once again we emerged onto the skree slope and it was like walking into an oven. We walked in the oven all the way back to the parking lot.


Greg and Derek heading back to the parking lot. Mt. Burgess in the background.

journey east: day 5

This was our third camping adventure together, and our second one to Yoho, though this time Yoho wasn't our intended destination. In a few months we'll gather once again for an outdoor excursion, this time in Newfoundland. These trips are as much about leisure as they are about hiking. It's hard to say what part of our WCT trip gave the greatest pleasure, wandering from campsite to campsite exploring beaches and old growth forest, traversing bridges, and climbing ladders, or the down time at the end of the day when we would build a fire, rest our weary feet, walk the beach and luxuriate in the notion of having nothing really to do until the next morning.

One of my favourite leisure activities, something that's carried through all three trips, is playing Yahtzee. Before the WCT adventure I hadn't played the game. What an introduction. Now, five dice always travel with us. Fortunately no one has lost an eye, yet, from hurled dice.


Not sure who Tracy is but this is one of my score sheets from Yoho 2006. The initials at the bottom indicate the winner of each game. Another sheet here.

June 6, 2006

An interesting date (6/6/6) considering the following. The last words from Greg this morning, aside from, "No, I don't want any trail mix," was, "If we're not back in the morning go to a warden for help, but not that guy who said 'you will die." Derek's last words were, "I forgot my socks:" I wonder how close to Field they were when Derek realized he'd forgotten them and turned back. It was a very brief return visit.

They are off to hike the Burgess Highline Trail. I hope all goes well. I've taken the day off. No hiking. My body is not feeling up to it. Besides sometimes goofing off is just what the soul needs.

I made a trip into Field around noon. It is hard to peg the size of the town, the permanent population that is. Bed and breakfasts abound. Along Kicking Horse Avenue most of the houses are b+bs, and many have vacancy signs in front. Stephen Avenue is the only other named street in the town. There are probably 80 houses in town, so population around 250? Why would a place with only five roads have both a First Avenue and a First Street. I imagine a point in the distant past when a debate rose over the naming of streets Field. Likely numbers were chosen because names were too political. However, the folks in Field might find added quaintness if they now changed the numbers to the names of local features, like Takakkaw (Falls) or Ogden (mount.) Mind you, there's something quaint about numbered streets in such a tiny place. Perhaps Field never became the town its original founders (likely the C.P.R) thought it would. And a more likely scenario is the town manager for the C.P.R. used numbers because it was easy.

I have spent most of the day puttering: washing pots; looking for stuff-I'm missing a nalgene bottle; sorting the seemingly endless volume of travel information I have, most of which will never be of use but I'll hold onto anyway, just in case; making tea and meals; and lounging in my easy chair.


Mt. Stephen's presence at the campground was hard to ignore.

The mid-afternoon sun is moving swiftly across the sky. I've been following a small spot of sun as it tracks across the campsite through a small hole in the forest canopy. In the past hour, while writing, I've moved a fair distance. I'll have to move again soon.

There is barely a whisper of a breeze. If I think about it I can feel cool drafts wrap around my forehead and gently tickle the hair on my arms. For the moment there are no trains rumbling through to Kicking Horse Pass and there aren't any trucks barreling down the Trans Canada Highway with their engine brakes thundering as they sweep west from the pass. It is quiet. The sound of the Kicking Horse River filters through the forest and birds above and me whistle. For most of the day so far magpies have been scouring the campsite looking for worms, grubs and free lunches. I left a bag of trail mix alone for five minutes and a magpie got into it. I watched one magpie pluck what looked like a caterpillar off the table. It stood on the ground and holding it in its beak beat the thing into submission. It was a ferocious mashing of caterpillar into earth. At some point it must have felt confident in having subdued its prey and flew off, presumably to eat in private.

So far it's been a gloriously lazy day. I think I'll read for a bit.

Some time passes.

In the six or so hours Greg and Derek were gone, and for an hour after they got back, I read 80 pages of a book. I note this only to set my progress against Greg's prolific ability to consume books at a rate probably four times that of me. I'm trying to write by firelight. It's tricky fumbling in the dark this way.


A typical end to the day.

Clearly, Derek and Greg returned from their hike. However, things didn't exactly go as planned. There was still a lot of snow on the Burgess Highline Trail and the two intrepid adventurers weren't able to get far enough along the trail to ever put their lives in danger-although it could be argued just puttering around the campsite is enough to put both in danger. Rebuffed by the snows of Burgess, they ventured off to cross Yoho Pass. Again, they were stymied by heavy snow pack. But before they finally turned around they had a rest and it is at this resting point where Greg and Derek both last witnessed the existence of Derek's Costanza sized wallet resting in the snow.


Some of the last photo evidence of Derek's wallet. I shudder to imagine the size of the raven or squirrel that may have made off with it.

Where it went from there will forever be the subject of great postulation and speculation involving rogue Grizzly bears and Kodiak sized ravens and squirrels. On a happy note, sorry Derek, it meant I would have an opportunity as well to hike up to Yoho Pass. We were destined the next day to retrace Derek and Greg's footsteps to see if we could find the missing wallet, or the fiendish beasts of the forest that may have absconded with it.

journey east: day 4

I wrote most of my journal entries at the end of the day. Some days, as was the case with my photography, I was fairly sparse in my thoughts and recollections. On other occasions, like this day, I had plenty to say and at times was perhaps a little too heavy with details. This day was one of those days. Sure, there are memorable moments recorded here, but there is also plenty of the mundane. It strikes me that the combination of photos and words work well together to keep me refreshed of what was memorable for the day. They augment each other, and the photos especially trigger memories of the original condition of the moment.

June 5, 2006

Rain is falling. We tried to put up with it at the campsite for awhile but finally relented. We are now comfortably ensconced in a shelter with a fire going in the stove and are playing Yahtzee. We are into our fourth game and already a couple of Yahtzees have been rolled. "Yahtzee!"

Greg has apparently rejected Blue Highways and in turn is reading a book Derek brought: Journal of the Dead, by Jason Kersten. Apparently it starts with a murder. In the time it has taken to play three and a half games Greg has read 72 pages. Just moments ago he declared, "I'm hooked,"and promptly buried his face once again in the book.

Greg is a reading prodigy (it sounds like I'm talking about a three year old.) He fills a lot of his down time with reading. The Journal of the Dead will be done by tomorrow and he'll want more. I'll serve up Cloud Atlas and A Year in the Merde to him. One will surely grab his attention. He reads in the morning between waking and hiking. As soon as we return from a hike he picks up a book and rarely puts it down until he goes to bed. It is quite remarkable actually. Given the opportunity, I drink scotch and beer, and smoke cigarettes and pot. Greg reads. That is his vice, and cigarettes, but we won't get into that.

We climbed a long straight ridge today that climbed the spine of a timber draped furrow of stone. Onward and upward we went. The nature of the landscape changed step by step. The views expanded as we climbed, but the details got lost in the scale of the landscape as we neared the top.

Once again there were plenty of flowers. No mountain lilies though. There were daisy like flowers and wonderful purple flowers whose name I should know but don't. I had seen them at Paget Peak, but not nearly as plentiful.


someday I'll learn the name of this flower.

So much opportunity to take photos. I took wide-angle shots of mountain ranges flanking long green valleys, and spent plenty of time at ground level taking photos of flowers. And I took photos of Derek and Greg and the land we hiked in, and what a wonder it was to wander the area.

There were times though, as we crept our way to the top, that tedium led me to count my paces, 500 at a time. Gotta love mental dreariness while surrounded by nature. Hiking is a time for thinking and a litany of thoughts always course through my mind, just sometimes these thoughts are more riveting than others. Books aimed at enlightening foolhardy adventurers willing to risk a journey into the outdoors, like strolling along the paved paths of Lake Louise, advise lots of noise making. They suggest talking so the bears hear you coming. Right. Does this also work for hungry cougars? Why do I want to tell predators were I am? Besides, people can't sustain continuous conversation for five-hour periods. We hike in silence for long stretches. Our thin line of three hikers gets drawn out, but rarely out of earshot.

In the Guide to the Rocky Mountain Parks are instructions on what to do in a bear encounter. What you do depends on, according to the guide, what mood the bear is in. Is it defensive? Protective? How am I supposed to know? It's a bear. I always know where my bear spray is. I toy with the trigger as I walk. I feel it. I know there will only be bad with it in the end. More likely than not Greg or Derek or both will stumble bleary eyed from the woods as a result of an itchy trigger finger. And to think we each have a can of it. Now that I think about it I sort of feel sorry for the bear that runs afoul of us. And I guess it's three times as likely there will be some sort of horrible eye-watering accident.

Our trip up Mt. Hunter was on our sunniest day to date. One of the things I like about hiking in the mountains, especially at higher elevations, is the sparseness of the forest canopy. Times in the directness of hot summer sun are tempered with moments of relief in the shade. It makes for a pleasant hike. Mt. Hunter was one of those hikes. And though it wasn't the longest hike we've done, it was notable for its steady, plodding progress into the sky.

Mt. Hunter is tucked just inside the western boundary of Yoho National Park. Midway along the ridge to its summit is a 10 metre tall fire tower. A ladder leading up to the cabin at the top of the tower beckons to be climbed. For added enticement, like a lure for the weak, a crude hand-crafted log ladder was propped in the two metre gap between the ground and the bottom rung of the steel tower's ladder. How could I not climb it? There was a pretty good wind blowing and the steel was cold. At the top of the ladder a hatch was pushed to the side, it's latch smashed. The paneless windows were great for photos and lousy for instilling any sense of security, not to mention, again, the gaping hole in the middle of the three by three metre octagonal floor.


view from the fire tower.

But the view. 360 degrees off mountains and valleys, and the long ridge we were travelling. Our ultimate destination loomed to the north, set atop a sheer cliff at least 100 metres high. In the valley below large swaths of the forest were streaked red, presumably the result of a pine beetle infestation. As sad as the effect the Mountain Pine Beetle has had on B.C.'s forest industry, the landscape in this area is now offered with colours as vibrant and varied as those found in the fall in the maritimes. Just trying to make some lemonade.

Near the base of the fire tower was a cabin with a deck where we lounged about in the sun for awhile. Then we headed off on the last push to the top. 2,600 metres from one fire lookout to the next. It was more of the same to follow. Ever expansive vistas, more flowers, and lots of trees, though the type was different. The grasses near the bottom of the mountain gave way to yew-like shrubs. Each footstep was a plodding footstep, higher up trailing switchbacks until the top was reached. we probably could have gone higher, but the trail ended and there didn't seem much to go to, other than the top, wherever that was. From the second lookout there wasn't a visible peak.

There was a small cabin at the second lookout and three concrete pilings off to the side. I wonder what used to be mounted there. A tree grew where it looked like a fourth piling should have been to complete a square. Again, we lounged on the deck of the cabin. It was the third time in two days a cabin had served such a useful purpose. The park's vigilance for forest fires used to be pretty intense. It probably still is, but human eyes on every peak aren't needed anymore. It's nice the cabins have been repurposed. No fees, no service.

The rests are always nice. We stopped three times along the way to ease our feet and fill our bellies with food and water. Nothing is more pleasant than sitting on a rock, while being washed over by a gentle warm breeze. And the absence of sounds of human activity, like cars and trucks and radios and machinery is a well earned moment of bliss.

What took three hours to climb we descended in 45 minutes. Not far from the top we came across three mountain bikers and a dog headed to the top. One of the girls hushed at us not to tell. I thought she meant the dog of its leash. She was more concerned about mountain biking in a no mountain biking zone. Shame on them. Whatever, it didn't seem like there were hordes of mountain bikers headed for Mt. Hunter. The trail remained in good condition. I was surprised they didn't pass us on the way down.

At the bottom, we checked for flattened coins. A few hundred metres from the trailhead the path crosses train tracks. I left a looney, Greg left a dime and a quarter (not sure how he'll equitably split them with Ben and Sam,) and Derek left three pennies all in a row. All six coins were sufficiently flat and two of Derek's pennies were fused together.


Greg straddles the rail where he's left his coins. Derek wonders how he could cause a train wreck. John takes the picture.

journey east: day 3

June 4, 2006


We've stopped for a moment near the summit of Paget Peak. There is an old fire lookout here that dates back to 1944. It is the oldest surviving fire lookout in the Rocky Mountain national parks.

My left knee is bothering me today and my body is clearly not in the same shape it used to be in, so the hike to this point has been a slow, plodding affair. Greg and Derek have continued on higher, presumably to reach the summit. 2,565 metres.

Despite overcast skies the view from the lookout is grand. To the west, looking back toward Field and the town's namesake mountain, is a range of mountains hemmed in by clouds. A dark ceiling for a magnificent view. To the east is Alberta and the scars of the Lake Louise ski area are visible on the side of a mountain. Beyond, the beginning of the Front Ranges, starting with the Skoki Valley. We're still unsure about the prospect of getting into the valley, but so far the news isn't good. There's a lot of snow on the ground and we just don't have the right equipment.

In front of me, to the south, beyond the abyss formed by the Kicking Horse Pass, stand the mountains that guide Cataract Brook on its short journey down from Lake O'Hara. Lake O'Hara is perhaps the loveliest camping and hiking area in all of Yoho.

Six or seven hours have passed since arriving at Paget Peak. We hiked most of the way back down and then humped over to Sherbrooke Lake. Along the way we came across some bear scat. We stopped for a moment. It was deposited right in the middle of the trail. Was this lump of seed speckled scat a warning? We looked at the scat. We looked at each other. We looked at the scat some more, scanning for signs of freshness, like steam wafting off it. None were willing to stick a finger in it to check for warmth.

I took plenty of photos today. Flowers, lichen, Greg and Derek, mountains, lakes, etc. Mountain Lilies, as I learned they are called today, are these delicate, sad, yellow flowers that grow in abundance on Paget Peak. Barely the width of a two-dollar coin Mountain Lilies peppered the side of the mountain, growing thicker as we climbed higher. Shortly after we arrived at the fire lookout a man came down from the mountain who had been taking photos of the flowers. He was pretty excited. He said this was supposed to be the best spot in the Rockies to take photos of Mountain Lilies.

Back at camp a fire burns and the meager light left to write by is quickly fading to non-existent. Derek is staring submissively at the fire, for the time being given in to a primal connection with flame.

Maybe later we'll play Yahtzee.

On the way back to camp we stopped at the Yoho Brothers Trading Post. Greg commented that the girl working there probably muttered something nasty under her breath: great, here come these dirty losers again. I left with Coffee, orange juice and a bag of Doritos.


mmmmm, what a yummy lifestyle we maintain.

Aside from dozens of trains going through town every day, and Yoho Brothers, what excuse for existence does Field have? Why is it here and what is the lifestyle of those who live here? Are they Fielders? Fieldites? Fieldonians? I should look into it.

Open for discussion today: Blumkin and felching- you don't want to know details; the naming of mountains - and all the fighting that accompanies the activity, not to mention the rabid consulting of the map to see who got the name right; driving habits; GT talked about working jobs to the limit , all consuming and some of the requisite familial battles that went with the pace; Derek explained forensic findings from the battle of Little Big Horn - Custer's last stand didn't happen quite the way the conventional lore would have us believe.

Dusk has long passed into deep night. I'm watching over the last embers of the fire and again, echoing across the valley, the lonesome sound of locomotives hauling tonnes of rolling stock and goods eastward.

Gentle drops of rain are falling, thus the change in pen. My other pen, a uni-ball vision, doesn't stand up well to rain. The ink runs. That's a hard lesson I learned at the Eagleridge Bluffs protest last week as evidenced by the blurred ( and apparently incorrect) cut line written at the back of this book.

Greg and Derek went to bed a while ago. I done' ever like to see a day end, especially a day spent in the mountains. Mountains are a basic presence in my life. My perception of the world, at a very basic level, is similar to my perception of mountains. Mountains are indelibly rooted in time. When looking at the striated layers of stone that make each mountain distinct in shape and colour, the only possible explanation for their existence is that of patient abiding. How can stone be anything but patient? How can I?

When I look at a mountain I want to be on that mountain. I am not driven by any urge of conquest or achievement. I just want to see what the mountain sees. Each peak's view is different. Skree slopes battle with fledgling forests and trees creating grey and green skirts, each mountain's garb slightly different. From top to bottom, mountains feed my curiosity and I know I'll be back one day to climb them some more.

It was nice to relax at the Paget Peak fire lookout. Sure, I missed the grand view from the summit, an opportunity rarely passed up, but I just wasn't feeling a push to the top in me that day. Derek and Greg also had a rest when they returned to the shelter. It gave a great opportunity to capture the job Greg did on his glasses.



"you should see the other guy."

journey east: day 2

June 3, 2006

It rained a fair amount last night. The rain wasn't hard, just steady. By the time I roused myself though, the sky seemed to have given its all. As a I crawled from the tent, which stood quite proudly in denying the rain entrance to the cavernous inner-sanctum, sunlight was bathing the eastern face of Mt. Field. The sun stayed throughout the day, sharing the sky by times in equal measure with fluffy white clouds.

GT and I headed out almost immediately on foot for Field, four kilometres west along the Trans Canada Highway. GT plodded along the shoulder of the highway while I wandered and weaved my way parallel to him along the former flood plain of tthe Kicking Horse River. The part I was on is cut off from the river by the raised roadbed of the TCH.

I wish I could name the plants growing in this hard scrabble sediment. I recognized fireweed though, and spent much of our journey with my eye to the ground, looking for objects to take photos of.


paintbrush, not fireweed as I thought it was.

I was motivated by more than just exploration to take the less beaten path to Field: the 18-wheelers on the highway scared the crap out of me. Barely ever more than a minute passed between trucks, sometimes four or more in a row, blasting past at 100 kilometres an hour. I couldn't take it; made me jumpy. White was the ubiquitous cab colour of choice.

We were back at the campsite by 10:30 and Derek told me of the 'incident'. I had left a bag of six dice on the picnic table. A raven or magpie got to it, opened the bag, and scattered the contents across to campsites. Now we only have five dice. Somewhere in a magpies garden a blue die waits to be played with.

The prospects are not good for back-country adventure in the Skoki Valley around Lake Louise, the main target of our trip. So we humped off to Emerald lake this afternoon. I think I hurt myself. I really should be better prepared for these adventures. Tomorrow will have to be paced.

We walked around Emerald Lake and cut up and over to Emerald Basin. No snowball fights. 62 healthy piles of deer droppings along the last open section of the trail.

There were long periods of silent walking in the woods today. Then, a flurry of conversation would babble through the trees, and as suddenly as it started the walk dropped back to silence. I wonder which one of us most often has the last word?

two samples of conversation:

• How many ways are there to execute a person? GT talked about a book he flicked through at the grocery store the other day. 107 ways to execute a person, or something to that effect. I am not sure how much time he spent 'flicking' through the book, but he was able to ramble off an exhaustive list of man's ability to be cruel to his fellow man. Sewn into the body of a dead donkey? Ewww.
• Derek is reading a Pierre Berton book, Vimy. I really should read more. Newspapaers and web-sites only marginally help me understand the world around me. And those two sources occupy a substantial amount of my time.

At the end of our hike we stopped at a cluster of interpretive signs at the edge of the lake near Emerald Lodge. English and French side by side, facing Emerald Lake, Burgess Mountain, Mt. Wapta, Mt. Field and the Burgess Shale. The signs tell the story of the discovery of the Burgess Shale and its significance.

On the way back to camp we startled a Moose, much to the chagrin of the people in the RV pulled off to the side watching it.

Chili Tortilla with Beef for dinner. Mmmm, a hearty reconstituted meal. I'll wind down and see what is on for tomorrow.

This trip deserves to be shared with Meaghan. In a sense, the person to whom I write is Meaghan. I expect she'll see me in the words. Beyond the journal, postcards are little wee condensed messages. I am writing to her, and to my friends I've left behind and those I'm driving toward.

GT sat on his glasses. The shearing of the left arm from the frames made a popping sound, or was that the sound of the lenses slapping against the surface of the stump he had left them on. A minor set back.

"Asshole, prick," exclaimed GT upon learning I had written about his unfortunate event. Fuck, how Derek and I laughed. It was hard not to.

Another night, another fire. The odd star flickers through gaps in the thin forest canopy. The moon has sunk behind Mt. Field. I can hear water flowing in the distance. Not far away a creek. I don't know the creek's name, if it has one. It doesn't matter. Name or not, the water keeps flowing.

Beyond the creek, in distance and volume, a train shudders along the left bank of the Kicking Horse River. Rails hug the cliffside. The diesel's drone disappears, fades really, as it passes into the tunnel. During our morning walk to Field I watched three trains head east. At the head of one of the trains four engines hauled cars stretching a kilometre. Another train had two locomotives at the the frontt and one puching from the rear. More will pass through the valley and at some point tonight I'll wake to the sound of the engines drone.

Update on the Moon: I must have lost it in the clouds earlier because it is still visible and has a way yet to go before sinking behind Mt. Field.

It was a good day of hiking, both in the morning to Field, and in the afternoon around Emerald Lake and up into the Emerald basin.

Before heading to Emerald Lake we stopped in at the Parks Canada office in Field. One of the men who works there has a fairly sarcastic edge to the way he deals with you. It works okay with me, but I could see it rubbing some people the wrong way. GT thought he'd like to hike Burgess Pass trail, a route we took the previous fall. Parks Canada guy's response was simple: "you will die." Hmmm. We opted for Emerald Basin.

But getting to Emerald Basin wasn't as simple as it sounds. Emerald glacier snakes along the President's Range of mountains a few kilometres to the north of Emerald Lake. Over the years the run-off from the glacier has formed an alluvial fan that leads to the shore of Emerald Lake. Somewhere, while crossing the rocky wasteland of the alluvial fan, we took a wrong turn and it was many hundreds of metres before we fully realized our error. A quick backtrack and we were back on course.


Derek and GT learn we've erred in our ways.

journey east

June 2, 2006

I'm not sure how far we travelled today. I'll look in the morning.
GT and I had a 9:30 departure from North Vancouver and a 6:30 arrival at the campground in Yoho. We stopped along the way: in Kamloops for coffee and GT had to pee; in Revelstoke for chili for me and a sandwich for GT at Tim Horton's, and we got two donuts, and I had to pee this time, and we needed gas, and GT and I both needed something to drink; in Golden for beer, ice and socks. The socks were for GT.

Funny he would wait until Golden to mention his sock deficiency. It was late in the day and choice in Golden was probably not going to be great. I predicted a Saan department store, and sure enough we found one on the way out of town. We were the only customers in the store and were matched one-to-one by staff.

Finally, around 6:30 in the evening we arrived in Field and set up camp at Kickinghorse campground. Derek arrived shortly after we did. We pitched our tents and tonight I will christen my MEC Wanderer2. I wish Meaghan was here.


On the fifth try we got a fire going. The wood in the lot was a little damp, so having a fire log helped as a last resort.

It's late now. In the tent listening to train running the CP line west to east. It's started to rain. The pattering of drops at the fly magnified like a drum. Minutes pass and the trembling of the engine pauses - passing into the first corkscrew of the spiral tunnel at the base of Mt. Stephen.

Our third annual excursion coincided with my permanent departure from Vancouver. I've made the trip to Field many times and didn't feel inclined to take any photos along the way. The one above is one of two taken that day. For my entire trip east there were only two other days I didn't take photos. One would be in a few days, while camping in Yoho, and the other on the long haul to Winnipeg.

GT is a good person to travel with. No hassle. He slept a good chunk of the way up. I still giggle at the thought of letting the car drift onto the rumble strips at the road's shoulder while screaming "we're all gonna die, we're all gonna die." I never actually screwed up the courage to do it. GT is a pretty reasonable person, but when faced with death who knows what a man is capable of. Now I wish I had done it. The car upholstery is Scotch Guarded.

Along the Coquihalla highway we saw a black bear sitting on a hill at the side of the road. It was watching the traffic from just the other side of a wildlife fence. Although cruel, it would have been a great opportunity to test the effectiveness of our bear spray.

saint john river

saint john river, April 1999
Originally uploaded by searmid.

It's been cold lately. Really cold. This morning it was -22C and I don't think the temperature through the day climbed any higher than -16C.

The Saint John River is frozen solid from one bank to the other. At least that's how it appears. I spoke with the head forester with Fredericton's parks department a couple weeks ago about ice on rivers and lakes. He said the Saint John River is never safe. Even if the ice is two feet thick. He said it wasn't always that way, but things changed when the dam went in at Mactaquac. As flow rates are increased or decreased through the dam, the height of the river fluctuates. The ice might look solid, but it stands a pretty good chance of breaking up underneath you.

Try telling that to the locals though. Tales abound of having drag races in the middle of the night out on the river. I spoke with a fellow who had a stripped down VW bug he once took onto the river. He said he was speeding up and down the ice along the city's river front. The next day, not too far from where he was doing donuts, he said a car went through.

Venture down to the banks along the Northside of the river and you can see the tracks of snowmobiles driven out onto the river. Parallel lines run up and down the river. Those who ride the river claim to know the river. They say they've been doing it all their life, and nothing ill has come of it. Over on Union street there are even houses with snowmobiles parked in the front yard.

one a day #2

worth 10,000 words, originally uploaded by searmid.

A picture a day. It's not my intention to post exclusively one-a-day images, but two out of three days indicates such a trend. I'm not one to follow trends.

I wasn't a photographer when I met Meaghan. I never owned a camera of my own, and the one we had for our trip was a little on the fritzy side. Our thumbs were a little fritzy too - I've never seen so many thumbs.

More than ten years have passed since that trip. The photos from it that I cherish can be counted on one hand. The memories that I cherish can't be counted. So I wonder now, living in a world where I spend so much time taking photos of events, processes, and moments in time, if the photos really matter.

Had I been the photo guy I am now when Meaghan and I travelled across the United States would there have been the same opportunity for magic? We spent a lot of time talking. We drove long days, took long walks, and sat for long stretches of time around campfires, and all through that time we talked. There were the odd private moments for each of us, enough time to give us space - for me I wrote poems - but for the most part we just hung out. The photos taken, for the most part, weren't thought out. They were spontaneous, taken in the moment. I didn't know anything about composition. I just looked and snapped. Meaghan did the same.

When I take photos today, I put thought into them. I look at what I'm seeing, think about what I want to convey, and try my best using the tools available to me, to capture the image as appropriately as possible. I enjoy a finely crafted finished product, but does the process get in the way of maximizing my enjoyment?

Lately I think it does. I mentioned something in yesterday's post. I've lost the gift of wonder - perhaps misplaced is a better word - and I'm coming to the realization that wonder is integral to a healthy engagement of the world around me. I want to be awed.

My writing lately has been awkward. That will change. My photography has been tight. This too will change.

good luck.

one a day #1

one a day #1
Originally uploaded by searmid.

This is the beginning I guess. We'll see. I've had plenty of beginnings in the past and many have ended long before their best before dates. Inertia I need.

Up until this point, this placing of words with this image, I thought I was involved in an exercise in photography. Apparently not.

This is more than photography.

It's appropriate that the first photo posted is a reflection. I look at myself in a mirror.
What do I see?

Aside from a man long overdue for a haircut I see a certainty in my eyes. It's a certainty that is always lingering in my heart and soul, but rarely makes it through the clutter to the surface. I see eyes that desire only to see, to understand, to penetrate.

It's been a long time since I was in the habit of writing down my thoughts. The observations of a man on the street, for that's what I once was, living in another city, the one in which I was born. I was a writer of words, of verse, of prose, of nonsense strung together on pages bound together between black cardboard covers; all born from my desire to see.

The black bound books sit on the bottom shelf of the giant ikea monolith hovering over my shoulder. A dozen plus volumes - I think a fairly prolific generation of words considering the short time period they cover. Then one day the writing stopped. I thought about that today, about a poem I wrote about John McDermid, and wondered why I don't write poems about John McDermid anymore, or for that matter, why John MacDermid doesn't write poems anymore.

I don't think it's completely answerable a question. But i have an inkling it has something to do with wonder and the exercising of certain parts of the brain.

So, this is day one of one-a-day.

goodluck.

smokey haze

walking bridge
Originally uploaded by searmid.

I dropped Meaghan off at the usual time this morning and headed for the river. From up the hill I could tell there was a fog of some sort making its way down the valley. By the time I got to the river it was obvious it wasn't a fog. It was more like smoke. Probably coming from one of the mills up river.

I hadn't thought about it until now, but events like this probably aren't all that uncommon. Living in Vancouver the same thing would happen. All the exhaust from cars and industry up the Fraser Valley lingered in the air. We often looked down at the city from our North Vancouver apartment at an ochre haze.