Searching for my Sole in Saskatchewan

I slept soundly, the deep silence of Saskatchewan’s boreal forest broken only by the occasional drone of a mosquito approaching an exposed patch of skin. Everything changed on awakening.

The right shoe of my favourite pair of Rockports, which I had left, somewhat muddy, outside my recreational vehicle in a campground just outside Prince Albert National Park, was missing. The campground authorities were notified. A search was conducted. No luck. My remaining left shoe, size eleven, is now an orphan.

Everyone has a theory to explain one of greatest mysteries to ever hit Saskatchewan. Several animals are potential culprits: a bear, a fox, a lynx, a porcupine, perhaps even an errant pelican. Conspiracy theories, of course, are popular. A dangerous one-legged felon has recently escaped from a regional prison. UFOs are common here, I learned. But why would aliens want a size-11 right shoe? The Shoesquatch is a popular suspect and BC tourism officials quickly challenged Shoesquatch to a shoedown against Ogopogo. Others feel the incident is related to the shoes (with feet enclosed) washing up along the BC coast. I double locked the RV door next night — with the left shoe inside.

Worried that Saskatchewan will gain a reputation as the Bermuda Triangle of Shoes, tourism officials have posted a reward of $5,000 for the return of the missing shoe. For real! Search parties are being mounted even as we speak.

My wife, Allyson, is quite frugal and told me not to throw out the remaining left shoe. When questioned, she explained I might lose a foot or leg in the future and would then only need one shoe. My travel companions quickly pointed out that with my luck, I would probably lose the wrong foot. I look forward to calling Allyson: “I’ve got good news and bad news, dear.”

Should anyone be travelling to Saskatchewan soon, please contact me first. I’m bringing out a great line of shoe locks and shoes with inbuilt GPS-chips. Perhaps you might like the T-shirt?

Squishing & Squelching in Squamish – Day 3: Mining History

After breakfast I went for a walk down memory lane, well, OK, along the Waterfront Trail on the southwest side of Squamish. A few other people were strolling along under umbrellas or hoodies, most with cavorting canine companions.

The trail runs alongside an inlet that enters from Howe Sound and is a reminder that Squamish offers an array of ocean activities including kayaking, fishing and sailing. The trail also offers moody views into the past when a pulp mill and saw mill operated here and the town was booming. Dark, hulking pylons from a former pier ran forlornly from the tidal flat into the sea and made me think of how the town has transformed from a resource-based past into a modern outdoor-activity centre. Clouds and mist hung like shrouds over the Chief and the mountains across the bay.

Heading out of town, I had one last stop, the Britannia Mine Museum, a National Historic Site, which, like the Chief, beckoned to me every time I hastened past. I donned a miner’s hard hat, boarded a train and we chugged into a dank, dripping tunnel where bright blue stains on the rocks showed the copper minerals that were once mined here. We dismounted at a larger cavern and the guide explained how miners drilled and blasted the rock using noisy, heavy drills. We shivered as he explained how miners worked in the early years under appalling conditions by candlelight.

Then we went to an enormous building, which covered half the hillside and once was the largest mill in world. Inside we stood in a huge open area with pipes and conveyer belts running everywhere. While the guide explained the intricacies of crushing and chemically treating the ore to make concentrate, my mind wandered. I had heard that occasionally performances are held in this most unusual space and imagined the pounding reverberations of the recent Japanese drumming band filling this enormous space.

Wandering amongst the many historic buildings, I discovered the gold panning area and excitedly grabbed a pan and swished and swished. Alas, only fools’ gold appeared.

I left reluctantly, for the Britannia Mine is a totally under-appreciated attraction, which offers wonderful historical insights not only into mining but also into the development of coastal British Columbia.

Heading homeward, I realized that Squamish was far more than a drive-through town, but a top-notch destination in itself. I couldn’t wait to return under an azure sky and beaming sun.

If You Go

- Waterfront Trail: www.whistlereh.com/squamish-parks/waterfront-trail.html
- BritanniaMineMuseum.ca
- More info: www.tourismsquamish.com & Adventure Centre (corner of #99 and Cleveland Ave, Squamish)

Squishing and Squelching in Squamish – Day 2: Cross-Country Skiing with Olympian Ghosts

I was up early and on the road, heading north, climbing steadily, immersed in steep rock faces and deep dramatic valleys. Of course, a constant patter of rain beat down, which, every time a car or truck passed, transformed into a whirling cloud of mist that blotted out everything except my excitement. I was heading to the Callaghan Valley and Whistler Olympic Park for a day of cross-country skiing.
In Squamish the landscape was bare, but as I drove more and more snow appeared until at the end, the snow banks beside the road towered over the car.

I met my instructor, Gary Baker, who looked and acted about two decades younger than his 75 years of age. He was amazingly fit and truly inspirational. We toured the biathlon shooting course, which was now empty, but I imagined the crowds roaring during the Olympics as the athletes skied furiously in and then had to settle their pounding hearts to squeeze off shots at the tiny targets. Large green Olympic rings gazed down benevolently from the slope above. Next, Gary gave me a lesson in cross-country skiing using the skating technique, which I had never tried before. I felt shaky and wobbly but he was a patient and excellent teacher. We ‘skated’ past the two Olympic ski jumps, which seemed to reach forever into the sky and were far more frightening than when I had seen them on television.

Then came the cherry on the sundae: I went off alone along the Mountain View trail using classic skis and technique. The rhythmic whoosh-whoosh of my skis kept cadence with the thump-thump of my heart as I glided along a sinuous trail in solitude. I could feel the ghosts of the svelte 2010-Winter-Olympic athletes racing past, and tried to increase my puffing senior’s pace.

Delicate snow sculptures hung in ravines and on trees. Everything was simple, silent and elegant. Even with the light rain and low glowering clouds, I found it incredibly beautiful, very relaxing and, well, spiritual. I was gliding along in the midst of nature’s ethereal art gallery.

Driving back to Squamish, with the car’s heat cranked up and windshield wipers beating steadily, I was in a pleasantly tired bliss. The Callaghan Valley was stunning and the Whistler Olympic Park an incredible legacy. I vowed to return … perhaps even under sunny skies.

If You Go
- www.skicallaghan.com
- www.whistlerolympicpark.com
- More info: Adventure Centre (corner of #99 and Cleveland Ave, Squamish) &
   www.tourismsquamish.com

Squishing and Squelching in Squamish – Day 1: Up the Chief

My three-day getaway to Squamish, the drive-through town on the Sea to Sky Highway between Vancouver and Whistler, didn’t turn out quite as I planned. Clouds and mist blanketed the mountains. Water cascaded from the heavens. It was wet, humid and grey.

But I was committed. After checking in, I headed off to settle a score with an old acquaintance. Every time I drove through Squamish, passing under the shadow of the great hulking mass of granite called the Chief, I promised him I would return and hike to the summit. Today was the day.

Within minutes of starting up the trail, I was soaked. And then it became hard work, very hard. The path seemed almost vertical. Lactic acid bubbled in my thighs and my soggy hiking boots felt like anvils. I settled into a slow, sodden slog and after a while, surprise, I discovered the climb had its own ethereal beauty. I was surrounded by lush, dripping primordial forest, granite walls glistened with water, roots lay ominously on the path like tangles of snakes and rough-hewn granite boulders formed steps that led endlessly higher.

Water was the dominant theme, dripping from branches, lying in spattered puddles under every footstep and pouring in sheets down sheer granite walls. And whenever the path approached a stream, there was an urgent roar of white cascading power, thundering down the steep mountain side.

As I approached the summit, snow patches appeared. My fingers clutched the wet, fixed, metal ladders and chains that provided passage over the steepest, slippery portions. Then I was at the top and, amazingly, the rain stopped for a minute. Everything was shrouded in clouds and mist, like a mysterious funeral wake for spirits and ghosts. It was dramatic, edgy and awe-inspiring.

I descended under protesting, fatigue-laden legs, careful, ever so careful, not to tumble on the slippery granite slabs.

After a long, languorous shower, I left my hiking clothes spinning in the dryer and joined friends in the comfort of the Howe Sound Brew Pub. My weary muscles relaxed, and I recounted my adventures as we sampled MegaDestroyer Licorice Stout (10% alcohol!), Wee Beastie Scotch Ale, Three Beavers Red Ale and Devils Elbow IPA. Great names, great beer and a great day!

If You Go
- The Chief trailhead is off Highway 99 at the Stawamus Chief Provincial Park.
- More info at the Adventure Centre (corner of #99 and Cleveland) &
     www.tourismsquamish.com
- Howe Sound Brew Pub, 37,801 Cleveland Avenue: www.howesound.com
- Executive Suites Hotel, 40900 Tantalus Road: www.executivesuitessquamish.com

Hot Babe, Sharp Knife, Brilliant Food

It was a pearl dropped from heaven. The best food day I ever had started with a cooking lesson from Dana Hauser, Fairmont’s first female executive chef, who wields a sharp knife and is one hot babe.

We were lined up, aprons on, at a wooden counter in the kitchen of the Fairmont Waterfront Hotel in Vancouver. “We’re going to make cured salmon three ways,” Hauser said. An array of ingredients including endives, vodka, molasses, beets and cayenne pepper were sliced, diced and puréed. She coated a trio of wild-salmon slabs and set them to cure for 24 to 48 hours. Magically, Hauser bought out finished salmon and served thin slices with salad and bannock. Great appearance, even better taste!

With barely a pause, we rushed to Granville Island for lunch at Edible Canada, which specializes in sustainable food and is one of the hottest restaurants on the rich Vancouver cuisine scene. I got down to business with a wild albacore tuna, the middle red and the outside curry-crusted. Nice! My foodie compatriots ordered Quebec split pea soup, duck poutine topped with a fried egg and seafood soup with lobster and coconut broth.

“No time to waste,” said our guide, leading us into the sprawling Granville Island Market, arguably Canada’s best source for fresh food. At Oyama Sausage we sampled prosciutto and salami. At ChocolaTAS I munched on a sculpted praline chocolate. At Zara’s Italian Deli we tasted black and green olives. And so it went from one stand to another, our pace gradually slowing from a brisk walk to a contented waddle. We finished at Artisan Sake Maker, where we learned about the fermentation of rice wine and, of course, sampled sake.

Darkness had fallen as we headed back to the Fairmont Waterfront. After a short respite, we gathered at Heron’s the hotel’s upscale restaurant. First, we quaffed a wheat and honey beer, brewed with honey from Fairmont’s own bees. Then we moved to the dining table and soon were nibbling a seared Alaskan scallop as Executive Chef Hauser described the menu she created for us. With good company, great vintages and so much delightful food throughout the entire day, I drifted into a semi-coma of gratification. I remember a poached pear & endive salad suffused with blue cheese and candied walnuts. A delightfully tender sablefish, pan-seared and brioche-crusted floated past. It seems a tasty bruléed lemon tart was involved at the end.

I rolled to my room, let out a happy burp and fell asleep rubbing my tummy, which felt much more rotund than in the morning.

The Great Canoe Adventure

On two sunny days in May, I had a truly Canadian experience. The first day, my friend Marty and I built a 17-foot, red canoe from scratch. Yes, in one single day! The second day we paddled our new canoe down the Thames River through the centre of London, Ontario. I was enthralled for canoes are mythical symbols of Canada. Birchbark canoes were used for millennia by Native peoples and then by voyageurs and courier-do-bois to open up this mighty land. Today, the canoe continues as an icon, connecting recreational paddlers to the rugged and vast wilderness of Canada.

Marty and I arrived early at the Nova Craft Company in London. The large building had racks of canoes everywhere, and about 20 workers were in various stages of canoe building. There was a bustling intensity for this was Nova Craft’s busy season, and they produce over 2,000 canoes each year.

Supervised by the smiling, knowledgeable Ray, we started by hauling a large sheet of special laminated plastic called Royalex into a large oven. Once the heat had softened the plastic, we pulled the sheet out the opposite end and into a mold in the shape of the Prospector canoe, based on the old Chestnut lineage. The two halves of the mold were clamped together and then the plastic cooled and hardened. Next, we removed the plastic, now in a canoe shape, and trimmed off the excess plastic with a router. Soon we were busy riveting on the gunwales, installing the seats and yoke and placing the registration tag. After five hours, our canoe was complete and Marty and I were as proud as new parents.

Next morning we launched our new baby into the Thames River, just upstream from the forks in downtown London. Happily, our canoe was seaworthy and behaved perfectly. Paddling lazily with the current under an azure sky, we passed the Jet d’Eau with beautiful arcs of water creating sparkling little rainbows. We continued downstream, surrounded by greenery. It was like being in the countryside. Fish jumped, a goose family paraded past with more than 20 little fuzzy goslings, birds chirped and a fisherman cast a long looping line into the water. It was hard to tell that we were in the centre of a busy city, and very apparent why London is called the Forest City.

Too soon it was over and we pulled our canoe from the water. No voyageur could have been happier!

(Photos courtey of SNAP London)

New Brunswick’s Acadia — A veritable feast

I recently toured New Brunswick’s Acadia. Coming from the west coast it was fabulous to visit this pocket of Canada that has preserved — very proudly! — its French heritage.


The Village Historique Acadien was an excellent introduction. We wandered through houses, barns, a hotel, a blacksmith’s shop and much more that dated back to the 17th century. A volunteer in period costume demonstrated how she spun and wove wool. I was envious of her nimble fingers and ability to switch effortlessly between French and English.

That evening we lodged at the historic Hotel Paulin, a delightful small inn in Caraquet and discovered the Acadien’s love of food and wine. Chef Karen Mersereau enthusiastically served an outstanding six-course dinner featuring salad with crab claws and shrimp and a main of duck and lobster. The mushrooms for the wild mushroom soup were picked by the restaurant’s own mycologist.

Next day we toured the dramatic New Brunswick north coast passing fishing boats, villages with Acadian flags flapping and the world’s largest lobster. We visited the large white Sainte-Cecile Church, aka the Bubble-Gum Church, on Lamèque Island whose interior is painted in garish, childlike pastels as though the priest/painter was on a psychedelic trip.

Lunch was at Déjà Bu in Caraquet, probably the best wine bar experience east of Montreal, where the host, Robert Noel, demonstrated the Acadien joie de vivre and love of good food. We worked our way through French onion soup, fresh oysters, steak frite, mussels, lobster truffle macaroni and cheese and a house special, clam poutine, all chased down with superb wine pairings. Our tummies distended, we motored on.

With the sun low in the western sky, we stopped at Maison Tait in Shediac. What a gorgeous, historic inn! And dinner was, of course, another treasured Acadian ritual.

Next morning we strolled a long boardwalk to Le Pays de la Sagouine, an island, which is an attractive rendition of early Acadia with two stages for performances. This cultural centre is based on Antonine Maillet’s novel, La Sagouine, which depicts the hard-scrabble life of an Acadian woman.

Racing to the airport, we only had time to stop for a small four-course lunch and wine before I waddled onto the plane and, very sadly, departed.