Industrial spray season, vol II

Six years ago my forestry summer job dried up before it even started.  This year it happened mid season.

Both times, a minor scramble followed to get myself back on someone's, anyone's payroll.  I had to expand my search outside of the community I live(d) in and the forest industry that typically employs me and settle for employment outside the province.

Like last time, I've signed on with Ace Vegetation.  As before, it's just for now, to tide me over, help them finish off their spray season.  I haven't decided if supervising suits me better than spraying but it's certainly more flexible.

It's definitely not a long-term fit for me, but it'll do for now.  

Kananaskis snowshoe

Midweek four no-work-today friends set off for K Country from Calgary.  Frank and Mel clipped into their cross country skies while Robyn and I slipped into borrowed snowshoes.  A short journey compared to Frank and Mel's usual 25+ km skis and a massive change of scenery (and temperature) for me it was truly a treat to explore the trails with friends and family without the weekend traffic. 

 Mel and Robyn

I missed you mountains

 Robyn respecting the groomed trails

 The Dream Team

Farewell snow, friends, family, lover

I have temporarily left a close-knit northern British Columbia community where back doors are routinely left unlocked, where I didn't receive a house key to my summer rental property for that very reason, where popping out for milk entails running into a minimum of three people you know, where driving is unfortunately still king, where mountains can be seen from downtown, where my social circle could be found - usually walking their dog, stroller or each other - in a 10 minute self-powered radius from my house, where BBQ and fire invites were shouted as you strolled past, where family dinner nights reveal that all our collective university degrees have given us is a fascination with penises (penisi? penes?), where world-class outdoor recreational opportunities were mere hours from doorstep to summit, where I have a man who knows that wool socks are sexier than lace, canoe journeys are foreplay, supports my wandering ways and creates homemade pizzas with unequaled gusto. 

And for what?  A reckless rush into the unknown with others who have similarly left friends, family and lovers strewn across the globe?  A warm winter?  The thrill of returning?  Untold underwater adventures?  Lazy afternoons in a hammock with a novel and crazy big beer?  Some kind of reward for busting my ass this summer?

All of the above?  Regardless, I'm flying into Singapore Thursday morning and have a small question mark (downsized from Big Fat Question Mark earlier) for after the 12 November.  A pre-departure catch up and chat with Robyn in Calgary ought to point in some sort of a direction. 

In the mean time, I have another packing bomb in the basement to diffuse. 

On returning

“Welcome home!! Whatever that means these days,” reads an email from a childhood and dear friend who is similarly ailed with itchy feet. I smiled, resolved to ring her and was pleased that she gets it. It being that “home” is no longer a physical place and likely will never again be the geographic location of where we grew up. “Back to where I started” is my preferred phrase because it accommodates a degree of vagueness and openness to interpretation. It also solidifies the self-imposed limbo I live in.

Rarely in one place for more than four months (eight months if uni years are considered) for the last eight years, I am never completely anywhere. Both feet are often firmly planted elsewhere – one in where I just came from and the other in where I’m off to next. While this caters well to my anticipation for upcoming events and desire for reflection, a wake of disposable, temporary relationships inevitably follows as individuals I know turn into people I knew. In a constant struggle to create, never mind maintain previous social circles I repeatedly leave friends, lovers and family scattered about the globe in favour of reckless rushes into the unknown.

When I return to previously created communities I paradoxically expect and inwardly hope I’ll be walking in as I left. Warmly welcomed and easily integrated back in, I’m shocked when all has seemingly changed. Friends are in or have fallen out of serious relationships, working on producing a CD or house shopping, work supervisors retire, coworkers suffer incomprehensible romantic trials, lovers turn into someone else’s, uni houses are populated with other students and the price of beer has skyrocketed.

While grappling to grasp these new developments and comprehend friends likewise venturing out to far-flung ports and outposts themselves, little has mercifully changed too. My aunt still loyally recommends novels, a friend who has always wanted to be more than a friend is still keen, Bonnie Doon’s handsome Tuesday morning aquasize instructor from more than a year ago is still not only teaching but recognizes me, my sister continues to make irresponsible (but remarkably sexually safe) decisions and my mother is pumped at the prospect and actualization of my return – even if it’s just for awhile.

At either end of a travel or binge work contract, as I cycle caulk boots and ribbon for dive masks and quick-dry towels, I find myself begging for that one concession novelist Zadie Smith says we rarely get more of: time.

Time for another dog walk with Gough, who truly and unselfishly means it when he says, “anything for you.” Time for another crib game with Brenda. Time to explore another temple with just-met-yesterday friend Lindsay. Time to hungoverly linger on the pier with Dan as crab traps are pulled up. Time to crawl under Robyn doing back stretches next to a bomb shelter. Agreeing with Smith’s husband Nick that time is how we spend our love, it is the shelter of each other she writes of that truly is the greatest place to return to.

Abroad and where I started, it’s about connecting with people. Sure, I’m embedded in stunning scenery in both places, but it’s not the rolling hills in Laos I pine for, or the glacial lakes of northern B.C. that quietly and persistently beckon me back, or Scotland’s Highlands dotted with sheep, shaggy surfer-dude Highland cows and heather, or Bahamian hammerheads or even Alberta’s truly big sky that I leave and return for, it’s the people, local and otherwise, I shared places with that are the most memorable.

While my address book is swollen with new entries spanning the Norwegian couple that’s still maddeningly in love with each other who tipsily insisted on picking up my Tiger tab in Vietnam to the Serbian model who campily posed with a toothless Filipino man in traditional garb and later Empire hungoverly took up dull spears against him to Roz whose dress was either plastered up on her top or tempting the locals with shoulder sex for sharing an Angkor tuk tuk for two days and cheap drinks for slightly longer to a gorgeous NYC lawyer who brazenly chided our jungle guide for the “free night trek,” I’m soberingly and achingly reminded that in addition to people worth their weight in gold and pho, there’s d-bags all over the globe.

Calgary’s car jackers, Saigon’s midnight muggers, Kratie’s sexually bold moto-taxi drivers and disgusting Filipino construction workers, divemasters, shop keepers and general disrespectful male population take away from a pleasant vacation but more importantly point at greater underlying social and societal discrepancies from the Western and “other” worlds.

In Edmonton for the month before heading north for work, I am homesick for a place that isn’t my home and dearly miss motorbikes, kitchens carried on either end of sticks, livestock big and small and dodging pushcarts and sadistic bus drivers while meandering about the city.

This too is temporary as I’ll likely be back in SE Asia for the upcoming winter, but in the mean time, I am somewhat grudgingly settled (read: most of the contents of my bag are no longer in my bag) and I have the time to reflect, enjoy and appreciate my life for the adventure it is.

Givin' 'er in Campbell River

"That's booty!" Mike excitedly exclaimed as I bent down to retrieve a pair of pricey, polarized, wear-over-existing-prescription-glasses sunnies. While he admitted to being slightly hungover from his wife Barb's birthday the night before, minor overindulgence wasn't going to slow Mike from showing three long-time travelers around Campbell River.

Mere minutes after walking in their door two days before, Quadra Island wine was in my hand, Barb was giving me my weight in Canadian hardcovers and Mike was jumping on the sofa chanting "D-bag, d-bag, d-bag," as I recounted yet another too familiar tale of a man being too good to be true. Lesson: Inquire if lovers are betrothed.

Hungover and happy, I set out with Mike and Barb to cycle what felt like the entire Island, hike a secret path to waterfalls, pop into a sunny pub, relax in their hottub and dig out my one clean top for Barb's birthday. NDP supporters, generously flowing booze and killer food compliments of fellow travelers and Mike and Barb's "new children" Kelsey and Ty solidified the evening as a returning-to-Canada highlight.

(Mike and I at waterfalls via a secret trail)

(Mike and Barb taking in rare Island sun)

I rolled into CR on the high of reconnecting with a friend in Tofino. Blessed with long sandy beaches, a town vibe that's All Island, struggling industry and wronged Aboriginals and the most impressive crew/camp house I have ever seen (they have a housekeeper!), catching up with Andrew after too many summers was seemingly secondary to the stunning islands, big wooded coastal trees and sunsets that held us long after our beers were finished and the actual event over.

(Looking out from Tofino)

(Waiting for the water taxi)

(Bedroom view!)

No Island visit is compete without a stopover of some sort in Victoria and I was fortunate to have two one-nighters with Chetwynd friends. In town for a teacher's conference, Gus met my float plane from the Sunshine Coast and we promptly got to the bottom of several pints before he passed me off to his lovely wife Rachelle. More afternoon brews, light shopping and an evening meal crawl followed before being passed off to Gus again. Several pubs later, we were exploring the Leg grounds and poking around the Empress telling ghost stories.

After meeting downtown Dan and I too set about getting to the bottom of several Island-brewed bottles before hitting up a uni pub. A few hedge dives, horrific nachos and cheese that are always a good idea at the time and a hungover farewell to the sea, I was Alberta and snow bound.

Fort McMurray’s ban on plastic bag bylaw

Fort McMurray, Alberta, the Tar Sands Capital of the World, passed a bylaw on Tuesday that bans single-use shopping bags in an attempt to clean up both its image and the environment.

Ironically the rest of the province should look to this north-eastern Alberta community, not exactly known for its progressive green behaviours, as an example of environmental action and community initiative by a young person.

An ambitious high school student in the community collected a measly 2,500 signatures from the city’s 64,441 residents on a petition in support of a ban on shopping bags such as plastic and paper or biodegradable shopping bags last year. The petition was tabled by council in the spring.

Mayor Melissa Blake said there was surprisingly little opposition to the bylaw. “My initial reaction was surprise about how much public support there really was throughout the entire process," she said.

Of course she’s surprised. Won’t this ban cut into oil profits for the region?

While they’re not shutting down the tar sands or slowing the pace of development, their effort needs to be recognized and lauded.

With files from Cigdem Iltan, Edmonton Journal