Reviewing 2019 - mostly highs, then a walloping heartache

2019 was all-round a solid year. Notable highlights included:

• My mother visited after a six year hiatus. Mind that it was to help open a new Save On store, but the effort and her presence was appreciated. I was on strike from going to Alberta until some immediate family visited me here. While I do not want my brother to visit and suspect my sister never will, I will now dutifully return to my hometown in the spring. I was thrilled Mom was able to take in my year-end swim meet, even if she was too tired for me to properly show her around the rest of my life in Dawson Creek.

• SO MUCH HIKING!!! From Toad River to Mount Robson and numerous trails in between around Tumbler Ridge, I covered hundreds of kilometers this summer with an ever-changing crew of soccer team mates, friends, and coworkers. They even politely listened as I identified and rattled off random botanical facts.
  
• Swimming as part of a triathlon relay team in the local race. Our entire team bested their time expectations and enjoyed the race-day atmosphere. Unfortunately I was soured against training with the summer competitive club in the future. Largely ignored during practices with no technique corrections given, I dutifully dragged my race-anxious self to the required number of meets and puked my nerves out. I’m well aware that I will never be a provincial champion, but I was still paying to be in the pool and wanted to benefits of being coached.
  
• QUIT MY JOB!!! More specifically I quit a barely-qualified, disengaged supervisor who set poor time management objectives and even worse attendance expectations. I readily took a pay cut, returned to seasonal employment, and joined a high-functioning emergency response agency.
  
• Many, many hours at the pool. As staff on deck as part of a fun, trusting aquatics team, and in the water training alongside my lane besties. 

Lowlight delivered early December:

• Ending an eight-year relationship. Because kids. I would rather jump off a bridge than contribute to overpopulation. It still stung to abruptly have a treasured confidant, adventure buddy, and lover be no more.
  
  I had a lollipop moment after I told one of my girlfriends. She simply texted, “I got you” and again whispered it in my ear as we hugged goodbye for the night, tears streaming down my face. That simple phrase allowed me to re-focus on who I still had and wanted, needed even, to be part of my child-free life. My girlfriends, teammates, lane buddies, co-workers, yogis, dear friends near and far, and even some of my family. 

Hiking tea party in Sri Lanka

Haptule's mosque is meters and meters away from our rooms

"Would you look at those speakers!" Jenny, a recently retired Aussie school teacher and Sri Lanka tourmate, exclaimed as we oggled the imposing green mosque adjacent to our hotel. 

"There's roosters out the front," Paul said joining us as we marveled how the size and sheer number of speakers was disproportional to a) the size of the mosque and b) the size of the town.  Cursing our good luck we wouldn't need an alarm clock the following morning the multi-national Intrepid tour group keenly walked around Haptule after a stunning - and predictable delayed - six hour train journey from Kandy. 

Female pickers in the fields

Impossible slopes supported one of Sri Lanka's biggest exports - tea.  Nestled in lush valleys, the train skimmed along the ridge to a dizzying height of more than 1800 meters before descending into the mist.  Workers (mostly female) precariously perched at all elevations were clinging to the hillsides to collect their quota of 18 kilos. 

Gaaahh!  The gradient!

 After an interrupted night acclimatizing to the elevation and cooler night temperatures, our group set out for an overnight hike into the tea plantations.  Using the roads (and that's a generous term) and pathways the workers or lorries do to move the raw leaves and later final product to market gave our group an appreciation of the physical effort involved in a morning cuppa. 

Ten kilometers over a ridge, through villages and vegetable patches, we arrived at our hillside house. 

Mercifully unplugged from wifi and phone signal, our group was expected to provide musical or dance entertainment for our hosts in the hills.  They sang traditional Tamil songs accompanied by a sorry looking but powerful drum and we countered with national anthems, Waltzing Matilda and Savage Garden hits from junior high. 

Much giggling and a too many rounds of carrom later, we dropped into comfortable beds and waited for the neighbour's roosters to rouse us.

Guide Siva explaining a typical day in the plantations

Keen to get moving before the heat of the day, we set off along the tracks dodging sluggish tractors, transports and motorbikes.  How they gained traction and had confidence on the paths was mind boggling. 

Our knees were crying out on the downhill, we struggled to adequately replace the sweat that drenched us and we stopped often to inadequately photograph the stunning surrounds and still we slipped and slid down the paths. 

Glimpsing Sri Lanka's highest water and later the bravest of the boys swimming in its plunge pool we were refreshed and grateful to be back to our starting point in Haptule - even if it was in the shawdow of the town mosque.  

2013 highs and holidays lows

Winter is reserved for dreamtime in several aboriginal cultures around the world.  A time of reflection, rebuilding, contemplation, planning, cleansing.  As 2014 looms on the horizon for the western world, I, too, am meditating on this past calendar year.

Along with my boyfriend, cousin and friends I hadn't met yet, I journey to the Great Continent after my usual months of Canadian employment.  Stunning diving; sunrises over sand dunes; terrifying car hires or, more specifically passing; seeing amazing creatures rumoured to be and actually in decline from poaching and habitat encroachment; coming face to face with the aftermath and rebuilding efforts of South Africa's apartheid; hilarious hostel mates all awaited.

A proposal to move in with my sweetie came while we were in Johannesburg.  I immediately dismissed it.  I reconsidered after my girlfriend that I usually rent from announced she was selling her house.  Mostly in cohabitation bliss, I was keen to add animals to the mix.  Every other week I was dog sitting, feeding cats or checking on fish but I wanted some critters actually in the house.

Enter: On Our Way Home Animal Rescue.  Within two days of expressing interest in fostering, we had two fraidy cats in the basement hiding in the walls, drawers and under the sofa.  They went to a barn where I hope they're chasing mice and snuggling together.  Two kittens (adopted quickly) and another adult female cat (that we'll likely keep) followed.

It has been my favourite volunteer gig.  There's always the 'isn't it hard to give them away when they're adopted?' question from others outside the Rescue.  Naw, I'm pumped that they're desexed and rehomed to loving and worthy owners.  It's also heartbreaking as hell when parvo rips through a foster's home and puppies die.  Despite the setbacks, it has been very rewarding to be a part of this great organization and watch its influence grow.

A few slow starts and underemployment marked this past summer and I finally had the time to take the Level 3 first aid course.  A rewarding and challenging two-week course that currently has me examining options on the way to paramedic.  Sitting on a construction project from Dawson Creek to Chetwynd reading my weight in novels every two week shift has been the reward.  And a fist full of cashola.

Dan and I recently returned from a great holiday that covered off Victoria and Calgary.  I am consistently blown away by the love within and generosity of his family.  I genuinely attempted to make it to Red Deer but Alberta in the winter still has tricks up her sleeve and our bus was turned around when the highway was closed due to REALLY scary conditions.

Bummed I wouldn't get to spend more time with my mother but also pleased I didn't have to watch my brother treat my mother SO poorly, I see it was a mixed blessing.  How much of Kevin's awfulness is brain injury and how much is him truly being an acewipe I do not know.

More cousin visits and playing pictionary into the night instead.

I have two favourite aunties.  One of them kindly and immediately opened her doors in Calgary when Dan and I were not able to make it to Red Deer.  Her father has been doing poorly for years and he finally passed in to the next world to join his wife.  I didn't know him well but truly I felt the joy and release of his ailing, tired and shell of a physical body.

So, thanks 2013 for new places and faces.

2014, Here's to health, fitness, travel, family, friends, job insecurity and animal rescue!

I haven't seen this month in a while

Normally countries and countries and countries removed from Canada at this point in the calendar, my body is rebelling at the temperatures, shortening photoperiod and difficulty of cultivating even window box herbs.  I repeatedly resemble a sleeping bag whenever I venture beyond centrally heated buildings or warmed vehicles.

Last week, as temperatures dipped in the mid thirties on the minus side accompanied by teeth-shattering north winds, I repeatedly questioned "What the F am I still doing here?"  Mercifully I was spared from working in it as I was on my scheduled week off and snuggled under most of the blankets in the house wearing at minimum four sweaters with a cat furnace somewhere in the mix.

Maybe Dan has a firmer hold on my heart than I have outwardly acknowledged.  Perhaps it's that the foster kitties continue to be SO freakin cute!  Or I am pumped to be meaningfully involved in the community as a volunteer, book club joiner, yoga doer, lady who lunches, member of the Chetwynd Outdoors Society and small business advocate.  All of the above in combination, sure.  I may be dreaming of warmer climes to come, but for now, I'm enjoying tea parties and hot meals with friends while gaining some first aid experience.

Well, kinda.  Nobody has needed my services yet.  It's still very puzzling to me that the job I am hired to do/requirement I am to fill I have yet to actually do.  

Visitors

Currently relocated to Dawson Creek for newly found work as a First Aid Attendant on a BC Hydro construction project, I was over the moon when Dan and the current kitties visited last night.  True, I have only been here a week, but a week away from where I'd rather be none the less.

Work days have been slow and the crew has not given me any business (good) I gave myself a goal of finishing one novel every two days.  A few town days and training sessions and I'm still on track.  Yan Martel's Beatrice and Virgil - spooky, twisted ending; Rajaa Alsanwa's Girls of Riyadh that points out the common threads of women everywhere; and Paul Theroux's latest and rumoured last travel memoir The Last Train to Zona Verde: My Ultimate African Safari - a brilliant first hand account of western Africa travel - are on their way back to Chetwynd's library.

When the temperature plunged to -29 with a windchill of -36 I earlier this week, I undoubtedly confronted Theroux's driving question: What am I doing here?

Taking advantage of a bigger center's Arts Scene, I was pleased to drop in on a great acoustic session by Winnipeg's Chris Carmichael.  Dawson Creek's Art Gallery hosts concerts throughout the year and Carmichael visited on Tuesday. Among the sparse audience numbering fewer than a dozen, his original rock, alt/country, blues, surf blues and cover songs were a welcome break from hanging out in my fancy, furnished apartment yearning for my friends and family elsewhere.

I'm baaaaaaaaaaaack

"And do you have a driving license?" the policeman asked my passenger Robyn when I failed to produce mine at a routine roadside checkpoint.  Robyn's was also back at our holiday flat facing the sea.  Facing a stiff 1000 rand fine (or likely lesser bribe) Robyn offered to stay with the policeman while I drove the four blocks back for mine.  We revealed we were going a mere half block up the hill, and, satisfied with the destination, he simply waved us on with a parting, "you should always carry your driving license."  Shaking our heads in disbelief at our good fortune, we simply did, what as travelers we're so accustomed to do, and carried on.

On the other side of another winter away and uncharacteristically looking forward to temporarily resettling in British Columbia's north, these past three months have not clichely "flown by."  There's been sufficient variety in scenery, animals, people, food and culture that's it's a great mystery to me it was ONLY three months.  

From an English wedding in an impossibly gorgeous (and likely haunted) hotel in the countryside to a home-cooked tajine in Morocco's High Atlas Mountains to Zanzibar's perfect beaches to participating in a Malawian dance night to kayaking alongside seals by day and is-this-real? stargazing in Namibia to OMG scuba diving in Sodwana to exploring what's likely Africa's most beautiful city, Cape Town, it has undeniably been an action-packed trip.  

So much so, apparently, that I've neglected posting.  My schedule has been chockers with fun and little sitting-in-an-air-conditioned-internet-cafe downtime to properly process and share interactions, musing, observations and photos. 

In summary, then:

South Africa is a beautiful, puzzling nation where I felt mostly safe.  While the country has made spectacular post-apartheid progress, it is far from finished.  

Namibia, wow.  I hadn't even heard of this safe, English-speaking (mostly), stunning country until I was looking into visiting Africa.  Loaded with watering holes with Africa's enchanting wildlife, outstanding concerts with their own Elemotho, climbing sand dunes for sunrise, a canyon rivaling it's Grand cousin, I struggle to find a day there that wasn't 10/10.  

Eastern Africa: For ease, convenience and safety it's best explored on an organized tour unless you have some handle of the local language(s).  

TIA

There's no shit shy in Africa.

"How's your bowels?" is a common greeting as meds are swapped on the advice of the coincidentally on-board Aussie nurse and pharmacist.  When not popping Cipro or "stoppers" for the travel days, any lingering reservations of pooping in public washrooms has literally disappeared down the toilet for our Commonwealth-citizened truck bound for Johannesburg.

With public washrooms a generous term, I have yet to encounter Thea's Malian "trous" or Risa's poo-bombed cement pads in Ghana but have been blessed with my fair share of filthy squat toilets where your and, more often, other's waste could not be more confronting.

While beach strolling in Essaouira, Morocco, I happened on a two-child couple engaged in the most compelling birth control: the father suspending a defecating toddler while the mother collected it from the sand in a plastic baggie.

As Dan was throwing his bag into his airport taxi - after his nth visit to the hostel's clean, private toilets - to start on his journey back to Chetwynd, I was dispensing his second course of Cipro.  Fingers crossed he lands an aisle seat for his 23-hour journey...

Rupert, Stewart, George and other Highway 16 stops in between

En route to Stewart

Bear viewing in Hyder
 

Near Fraser Lake

Fishing on Dennis Lake near Smithers

Natives fishing

Note safety system

Bear viewing in Hyder

Roadworks rainbow!

En route to Salmon Glacier

Salmon Glacier and Dan!

Wide angle attempt

Leaving Stewart

I found the ocean! 

Scenic road bypassing Smithers

Parting Prince Rupert sunset

Baldy's berries

Finally a bumper berry crop after two consecutive years of disappointing yields pulled Dan, Angie, her Mom and I onto Baldy's slopes to fill any available vessel with my personal favourite, Saskatoon berries.  

A mere hour of picking yielded 4.5 liters destined for the freezer for future baking and breakfast projects.    

I've spotted an orange oat Saskatoon berry muffins recipe that I'm keen to to try these days off.   



Dan's parents popped up for the August Long weekend for a northern visit.  BBQs lasted long into the night as friends new, and newly old dropped by for a beer, burger or a twilight giggle.  Popping in to Bulter Ridge Provincial Park hopping to cruise up to its namesake ridge for views of Williston Reservoir and surrounding Rocky Mountains, we spent the entire time in the trees along ATV trails catching up and marveling at nature's wonders.

My own mother will be visiting the north next month as I wave farewell to a summer job I've been keen to see in the rearview mirror since July.   

                            

                                     At the lookout                                           Cleaning our bumper berries!

Purple mouth

  

Clearly accustomed to the Ruiters' new Edge, Wednesday was at ease in the trunk after an afternoon jaunt into the woods.  We were easily able to persuade her out in to the car.  

Mystery schrooms dotting the path

Island saunter

Barely in Chetwynd for more than 24 hours, I reorganized summer gear into Road Trip acceptable kit.  Destination: Spring! 

Still shaking off its winter coat, Chetwynd was cold and blowy and I was keen to escape.  Sleeping bags, dodgy stove, tent, portable music devices, ample space for tetris-ing Big City purchases into a wee Civic and we were off!

Highlights included: Vancouver eats from sushi to dim sum with legit Chinese speakers; Salt Spring Island with its farm stands on the side of the road offering garlic, dried tomatoes, ginger cookies and daffodils, oh the daffodils! to local beers and oysters to sea walks looking for seals, otters, whales; Campbell River's exceptional museum and night in with the ever lovable, passionate and hospitable Prestons; cycling around Victoria in between visiting Dan's family and catching The Skatalies lackluster show; looking out the window on the way from Kamloops to Chetwynd.  

Whoa birds! On the boat from Vancouver to Victoria 

From the ferry again

Dan and his dodgy stove 

We caught crabs! 

Beach baseball location

In front of the tent 

 Daffodils!

A whole blooming yard

Ferry home :(

Dan enjoying the sunshine

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. 

"I don't know where I'm going, but I know what I've lost" Joel Plasket

I'm developing an insecurity complex about my invented boyfriend. Invented to ward off advances from locals claiming to have a preference for big (read: tall) western women, they're perplexed why he isn't accompanying me.

"He has to work," I offer.

"Maybe he don't really love you," is a common response. "Maybe he think you too fat," one was bold enough to suggest.

When probed for further information about him, it's never the same man twice. There was Lorn, a 30-year-old organic farmer. Richard, a 40-year-old playing the markets with more money than he knew what to do with. A gracefully aging ski bum. A young snappy forester from down east. A workaholic geologist learning Portuguese.

I have borrowed snippets from my favourite former fellas to casually and temporarily construct an as-needed relationship. As I quickly smile and pay tribute to what and who was, it's a sobering reminder of one of the costs of snowbirding at 25.

Loss of romantic relationships is where the grieving only begins. Away for Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving with a dynamic, extended-definition of family that swells and contracts holiday to holiday, I cheat myself out of deeper relationships on the genetic front.

What used to be hours and hours of gossip, concert going, hoe toes with my girlfriends and uni pub nights that seemingly never ended has now been reduced to an insufficient lunch, drink, coffee between my work and travel laps.

Maybe that comfortable ease of daily life can't be regained over the short course of a meal, or an evening of mindless TV watching, or even an all-night gab sesh with the girls over too many bottles of wine. But, I'll still continue to make the time and effort for these friends and family that make returning to where I started so easy.