Category Archives: British Columbia

Aug31

Summer Glamping in Golden… An Iconic Canadian Mountain Town

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We call them mountain towns and nature has spoiled us with these veritable summer playgrounds. Nestled amongst majestic peaks and dazzling crystal-blue lakes and rivers, they’re gateways for hiking, biking, golfing, paddling, and camping. In our case glamping, as it comes with a dose of the glam with Lupin, our beloved Sibley Bell tent. With the car packed full to the gunnels, bikes and canoe strapped on, last month we chose a new mountain town to play in.

We often choose to stay in the heart of towns, in Municipal Campgrounds, as we did with our iconic glamp in Kaslo, near Nelson. In Golden, the choice graced us with a picturesque spot along the Kicking Horse River. Pesky mosquitoes were part of the welcome crew and with our site set up in about an hour, the campfire was soon crackling away, dinner and wine ensued. We savoured the slow unfolding of dusk and with the revelation of night upon us, we marvelled at a thousands stars in the twinkling sky above.

Nestled in the Rocky Mountain Trench, along the confluence of the Columbia and Kicking Horse Rivers, the town of Golden is surrounded by three different mountian ranges and five National Parks. Our camping spot was surrounded by other campers from the tiniest of tents, to grand trailers, to old-school camper trailers. It seemed that all of us – from the many Americans and overseas travellers, to fellow Canadians – were genuinely pleased just to be in the great outdoors, yet with amenities at our fingertips.

Each morning after coffee around the campfire, we’d set off on our bikes to explore the town. With its river running through it, Golden is bestowed with a stunning setting. The Kicking Horse Mountain Resort has an eagle eye’s view in the distance and a long promenade stretches alongside the river. Canada’s longest timber-framed bridge is its anchor.

We chance upon Betty and Lynn out for a mid-morning stroll. “Such a beautiful spot for a morning walk,” I say with a smile. They immediately offer a sincere apologize,” We’re sorry that our mountain is hiding behind the clouds.”

“Oh I know it’s there,” I confirm, “your beloved ski hill is hiding! We’re from Kimberley, another ski hill town.”

“I was raised in Kimberley,” one of the ladies says fondly and from there our conversation flows.

The peaks soon reveal themselves in the unseasonably chilly morning and the ladies happily relate a few local stories of life here in the ’50’s.

“When we first arrived, there were only two telephones in the town and one of them was at my place… well you can imagine the commotion!” They admit the town has greatly changed as it’s now a world-class ski resort and hiking destination.

I‘ve written previously of the Swiss guides who first made Adventure Tourism possible in the area. The Canadian Pacific Railway brought the guides to the area in 1899. Earlier in that century, the renowned fur trader, surveyor and map maker David Thompson was tasked with opening a trading route to the Pacific Northwest. Navigating the vast and treacherous Rocky Mountains, he first travelled to the future site of Golden in 1807. It wasn’t until 1881 that the CPR hired A.B. Rogers to find a rail route through the region. The base camp established for his crew eventually first of the settlement now known as Golden.

The ladies tell me that the town was eventually named Golden. “It had to out-do nearby Silvertown.”

After our chat and a browse through the market, we cycle through the wide streets to the local Museum. It’s charming, full of information, and regals with stories about the original Columbia River Lumber Company which grew the settlement, while also attracting a large hard-working Sikh population. The Museum also pays homeage to Victory gardens, or war gardens, vital during the first World War; utilizing backyards for food, both for personal and the war effort. And of course there is much mention of the vital role those Swiss guides played.

Swiss mountaineers were employed during the summers, returning home to Switzerland over the winter, most over-wintered working as caretakers for the seasonal CPR hotels. Of the fifty-six first ascents of mountains over 3000 metres prior to 1911, no fewer than 50 first ascents were made under the steady hand and sure foot of these experienced men. By 1925, CPR’s 35 Swiss Guides had led more than 250 first ascents in the mountains of western Canada. With no fatalities in their care, and perhaps basking in their reputation as gentlemen and colourful characters, many would bring their families to make their Golden home at the purpose-built Edelweiss Village.

We had visited their home-away-from-home a number of years ago, now it has greatly changed… refurbished, re-imagined and open to guests.

Our bike rides take us out of town, through forested trails, up and down mountains and on the last day to the famed Lake Louise… with a little driving in between. The beautiful drive from Golden to Lake Louise heads east, then south for about one hour through Yoho National Park. Stop at the Spiral Tunnels, the Golden Skybridge, Wapta Falls, Emerald Lake, or the sleepy but gloriously positioned town of Field.

After parking in Lake Louise Village, we biked the former route of the tramway up to the lake – about 10 km both ways. The Tramline Trail leads you to one of Canada’s most breathtaking views. As always people have flocked from around the world to catch a glimpse of its iconic magic.

Back at the campsite on our last evening, a young father strolls past for a pre-bedtime walk with his children. “What a beautiful set-up, a bell tent. I know them well as I was in the military,” he tells me.

We’re used to compliments about our Lupin, she is always the ‘belle of the ball’ at any campsite. Dramatic on the outside, inside she’s cozy and warm. Shadows play on her canvas and the noises of the night may awaken you, but they accompany the scene like a grand outdoors sound track. Even the trains thundering past through the night, just on the other side of the river, weren’t bothersome but a tangible reminder of our vast country and the endless task of moving goods.

The Sibley Bell tent was invented by American military officer Henry Hopkins Sibley. Patented in 1856, the conical design stands about 3.7 metres high, 5.5 metres in diameter and can comfortably house about a dozen men. In our case, the most Lupin has slept is six adults and our grand-dog Captain… cozy indeed!

Sep4

Postcards from the Gulf Islands… Pender & Salt Spring revealed

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Despite previous visits to nearby Vancouver and Victoria, this May we happily toured the Gulf Islands for the first time. Choosing Pender and Salt Spring, the archipelago is tucked in the Salish Sea between Vancouver Island and the mainland of British Columbia. A ‘googling’ of the Gulf Islands tells you that they’re home to ‘eclectic residents with bohemian souls.’ That may be the case and you’ll meet a few of them – along with so called every-day people who desire a simpler life – yet what strikes you is the soulful beauty, the gentle living and deep sense of community. On Pender Island, the eclectic Fridge Culture was the real unexpected delight. On Salt Springs, it was the idyllic paddling to other smaller islands… so very magical with intriguing historical stories to reveal.

Pender Island

We embark on the ferry at Tsawwassen, just outside of Vancouver, and we’re instantly transported to vistas of sheltered coves and deep inlets, to craggy treelined coastlines and pristine sparkling waters. It’s breathtaking as we ripple through the waters and although we don’t happen to spot the star of the show, the mighty orca, eagles glide and soar high above beckoning us into their slice of paradise. After stops at Galiano and Mayne, our ferry docks into Otter Bay on Pender Island. The name Gulf Islands derives from the Gulf of Georgia, the original term used by Captain George Vancouver in his mapping of the islands for the British Crown. These days, the islands are accessible by small harbours operated through the Southern Gulf Islands Harbours Service. Not only are the harbours charming, they’re an important part of island life; points of access for inter-island travel, for school boats and marine ambulances, for Canada Post and utility services. Some of the ports are more care-worn than others such as the seemingly once-busy The Shed at Port Washington, contrasted with the local hangout of HUB Restaurant and Hope Bay Store at the Hope Bay Harbour. Whichever distinct character each harbour may take on, all are monitored by a wharfinger… the all-important keeper of the wharf.

Away from the harbours and coves, the inland vibe of Pender Island doesn’t take long to reveal itself. It’s picturesque, and hilly. Roads line with ancient cedars, ferns and mustard-yellow broom cascade all around. And just when you’re feeling hemmed in by the trees, open farmland and fields emerge where you just might find pigs nestled in mud and tractors tilling the land. Vibrant blooms infuse the still-chilly springtime air as we happily meander. In no time at all, you will have traversed both North and South Pender. We come across the island’s handy Car Stops, an alternative to hitch hiking, where a chair or bench is placed for your comfort as you wait for a ride from an accommodating islander. We’re told it’s not only a veritable link of transport, but also a conduit for gossip in these parts!

Pender Island – rich in hunting, fishing and gathering – has been inhabited by the Coast Salish people for thousands of years and still today is home to members of the Tsawout and Tseycum First Nations. The Spanish arrived in 1791, charting the islands and bestowing them with names like Saturna, Valdez, and Galiano. Daniel Pender, aboard the HMS Plumper, surveyed the coast from the end of the 1850’s through to the 1870’s. Permanent colony settlers arrived about that time from the British Isles, The US, Hawaii and Japan…. the sub-Mediterranean climate was certainly part of the appeal.

We don’t stay at the busy tourist and wedding venue hot-spot, Poets Cove, but somewhere a little more authentic and close to the heart of the island’s main town square, the Driftwood Center. The Driftwood is a busy hive of palm trees sprouting in terracotta pots, picnic tables hosting conversations and the whafting of good coffee. Just down the road and perched on a hill overlooking the pristine bay at Port Browning Harbour is Nosy Point B & B, our home away from home for a few nights. After having been relocated from the city years ago, this is the Victorian-style home’s new location. Left to neglect, then rescued and refurbished, the ‘grand old dame’ was slowly brought back to life. We meet its owner and B & B host Stephen on the first evening. We’ve returned from the nearby Browning Pub just as he’s pruning flowers and a dogwood tree that needs some special attention. We hear about the ‘grand dame’ and how it acquired its name – literally a once nosy neighbour – and our conversation happily meanders to all things on Pender, before settling on our mutual travels in India. I’m again reminded of why I love staying in smaller, more intimate places.

As I settle into an Adirondack chair for a glass of wine, the evening sun illuminates the boats nestled on the bay of marine blues and misty greys. The cedars are towering and resplendent as their willowy branches embrace the space, like tendrils between the past and the present – a reminder of the Salish peoples here for thousands of years. I hear the plaintive calls of seagulls over the bay. I jot missives in my notebook. I smile as I gaze out at Bruce, away in the distance for an evening paddle… it’s a smile of a good, good day on Pender.

The next morning I wake up to the chitchat of Bruce, Stephen and another guest in the breakfast room. It’s early, yet I curl up in a dusty pink armchair in the corner of our Admiral Room. Plank wood floors, soft-grey shiplap walls, a variegated fig plant and a model ship decorate the room. It’s cozy and as the cedars sway outside, I muse on a conversation at the pub the previous night.

Gillian had served us, a transplant from Edmonton, a food & beverage enthusiast and sommelier, a lovely young lady whose dreams with her partner have come true on Pender. With pride and delight, Gillian informed us of the ‘must do’s’ and so I plot our course of discovery for the day… Amy’s Bread Shed, The Fridge of Wonders, The Cheesecake Fridge, The PeaShoot Fridge. And why not throw in Happy Hour at Poet’s Cove while you’re down that way!

And so we do as the locals suggest. Pull up to the roadside fridge or shed, select what we’d like, leave cash in the kitty on the honour system, enjoy produce and wondrous creations. Fresh bread and croissants from Amy’s were nibbled on throughout the day. Jars of delicious Turmeric Ginger Sauerkraut from the Fridge of Wonders was a success as gifts from the Islands. Unfortunately, the Cheesecake Fridge was bare when we arrived, but did we visit the Pea Shoot Fridge twice? Absolutely!

Salt Spring Island

On day three we ferry to Long Harbour on Salt Spring, the largest most populous of the Gulf Islands. Its name is a nod to the island’s salt springs, yet our first stop is a wander through the quaint town of Ganges. There’s an artsy vibe with ample galleries and coffee shops serving the local Salt Spring Coffee brew. The plethora of artisans on the island is long-standing, the popular Saturday market the vibrant showcase for the hundreds of vendors who either, ‘Make it, bake it, or grow it.’

And as on Pender, there’s an emphasis on homegrown ‘farm to table’ or ‘Farm Stand Foraging’ the local tourism office tells us. As promised, leisurely driving or cycling around the island is a veritable shopping experience unto its own. Open air stands offer everything from eggs and flowers, to wood kindling and candles, to cheese and pottery. Also stop in at the wineries, Salt Spring Kitchen Co., or sample apple cider at one of the cider companies. Yes absolutely, the island is bursting with apples!

With some 450 varieties of apples grown on Salt Spring, traditionally they’ve been an important agricultural product. The island’s farming roots were integral to the settlers who arrived here on what was the homeland of the Salish people. During the Hudson Bay Company’s fur trading days, hundreds of Hawaiians worked for them as labourers, often choosing to settle once their contracts finished. The tropical paradise – relative to many other colder parts of the country – was an enticement, as was pre-emption. Up until the 1880’s, this process allowed settlers to acquire land if they cleared and improved the plot before purchasing it for the grand sum of $1. per acre. As settlers took advantage of pre-emption, Salt Spring quickly became a diverse community where farming was often supplemented with fishing and logging. African Americans also settled here, escaping discrimination at home and hoping for a better life. Today with a population of about 12,000, the rich and varied heritage of long-standing families blends with the newly settled – either permanently or those with vacation homes.

Admittedly, our main endeavour on Salt Spring is to paddle and it’s while we’re on the water that we savour the sheer beauty of our surroundings. From the kayak and on SUP’s, the shorelines take on their magical vistas – sprawling stands of shore pine, statuesque Douglas fir and crooked arbutus trees against backdrops of gentle hills. On the water we gaze into the curious eyes of otters as they glide past. In the piercing blue sky we follow the soar of eagles, and the constant paths of floatplanes. Coming into shore, we gaze down into forests of kelp beds, then beach comb ancient shell middens. On our second day of paddling, we venture to tiny Russell Island south of Fulford Harbour. It’s here that we become acquainted with one of those early island settlers, Maria Mahoi of Hawaiian and Indigenous descent.

As we glide into the small bay at Russell Island, now part of the Gulf Islands National Park Reserve, Maria’s home reveals itself almost immediately. Our ‘docked’ water vessels are practically on her front yard, a sandy beach where seafood barbeques and Hawaiian luaus once filled the evening air. Apparently the home hasn’t changed much since it was built in 1906, except now it seems to vie for attention amongst the remnants of orchards and untamed gardens. A lone chair occupies the front verandah, a carved wooden sculpture draped in seashells pays homage to Maria’s Hawaiian roots, and unfortunately it isn’t apple season or we’d be welcome to pluck on or two from the orchard.

In 1901, Maria Mahoi was identified as the sole heir of Russell Island in the will of William Haumea, also of Hawaiian descent. Haumea had never built on Russel but cleared fields, establishing an orchard and a strawberry field. In 1902, Maria moved to the Island with her second husband, where not only more were children added to the growing family, but also sheep, cows and chickens. Today, descendants of Maria speak of her love of the island, her prowess as a sailor and the love of the water, her enormous strength in character and resilience. And perhaps most of all, a woman of mixed race who though at the time found herself outside of the boundaries of colonial acceptability, built a rich and proud life for her thirteen children. Maria – who refused to take a husband’s last name – is just one of many stories of our intrepid women settlers in British Columbia. Somehow standing in Maria’s garden is like a comforting, soulful whisper which stays with you as you traverse the Haumea Trail which offers beautiful views outwards. If you visit during the summer months, a volunteer host in collaboration with Maria Mahoi’s descendants, will be present share family stories that bring Maria back to life. We happily spend far more time than we anticipate and as we paddle away, I know we’ve experienced a truly special place.

Back on the big island, just across the bay where Maria often rowed to church, St. Paul’s Catholic Church reveals more of the island’s stories. After all, as the author Jean Barman in her interesting book Maria Mahoi of the Islands muses, “Maia’s story argues that, yes, our stories do matter. Her life, like everyone’s is usefully conceived as a pebble. Once thrown in the water, its waves spread out to family and community. The ripples from the pebble that was Maria continue to expand outward.”

Aug31

My Mountain Gardens… oasis of calm and colour

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Delicate dahlias mingle with cherry tomatoes and leafy kale. Golden marigolds shine alongside lillies, zinnia and fragrant vintage. Budding morsels of cauliflower and broccoli nestle in their frilly leaves… well I admit, the gophers did enjoy nibbling the cauliflower! My mountain gardens are gloriously abloom and verdant, and I’m surprised to find that I haven’t yet written of my cherished patch of vegetables and flowers. They’ve been an oasis during these unsettling times.

The outdoor garden sprung to life last spring, a reaction to the pandemic, like a lifeline during these unprecedented times. From building the enclosure – to protect from deer – to constructing the beds and a delightfully Japanese-inspired gate, to seeding and planting, the garden was a family project we all took pride and delight in. Then, we were embraced in our covid-bubble of seven and the garden was a solace. Now, I can’t imagine our home without it.

    Admittedly it yielded very little the first year, but this second summer not only is it much more profuse, it’s a haven of calm and colour. I’ve always had ample flowers in pots and planters wherever we happened to be living, but this actual garden has ‘home’ stamped and embedded in it, deep down to its roots. We’re now in Canada for much of the year, not travelling afar, and the joy of gardening has become a marker of being settled… and that’s more than alright. The show stopper this year might well have been a single lupine; but oh what a beauty she was! And now as the tomatoes ripen and the carrots are still too dainty to pick, gorgeous white Murilea lilies have burst forth – simple, elegant late bloomers. It’s been such a joy to stroll to the garden and pluck blooms for bouquets and small posies for the guest room.

    Alongside the garden we’ve embarked on more landscaping… pines, maples, lupines, wildflowers and peonies. The peonies, I might add, stubbornly refused to bloom again this second year. Each morning it’s a walk of discovery to inspect what the deer might or might not have munched through during the night. Our mountain property is supposedly full of ‘deer resistant’ plants as is the norm here, yet a recently transplanted hollyhock from my parent’s garden was eagerly gobbled up just as it was about to burst forth. It’s an ongoing balance as we share this environment with the local fauna. Just a few months ago, the new-born dappled fawns tentatively browsed the grounds, making sure not to wander too far from their mamas. Now they amble through with confidence, hoping for something new to interest them. Somewhat more welcome are the blue jays, hummingbirds, bees and butterflies.

    Thankfully there is one protected haven for my blooms. During the summertime in Canada, the deck, usually at the front of a home, becomes like another room; an outdoor living room accented with planters and furniture. As the weather turned warm in the spring, I decided to re-create my deck space, envisioning it more like the warmer places we’ve lived. I wanted palms and romantic flowers, rattan and texture, vestiges of the past, yet evoking modern calm.

    And it came together beautifully. Three potted cedars not only provide privacy, but are a mountain-nod to the tall cypresses of Italy. A basket from Thailand holds an emerald-green palm, its gentle swaying in the breeze transports me back to tropical Asia. Lemony delicate straw flowers, snap dragons and mauve petunias grow happily in a planter found in an Omani souk. Antique Japanese parasols are at the ready for shading. And my beloved India is heartily represented… in lanterns and cushions, by a wooden sculpture and a chunky Indian coffee table. With the ski hill as the deck’s backdrop, there’s a peaceful harmony of those places dear to me while still embracing this mountain space.

    The joy of creating this outdoor sitting room, as with the garden, has not only brought more beauty to our surroundings, it satisfies the desire we all might have now and then to create and curate; a reimagining that can nourish our soul.

    Through the pandemic I have become not only more thankful, perhaps it has offered us the not-so-gentle-reminder to seek what we might want, to infuse with what brings us joy… to simply be happy in the moment. I recall years ago receiving a small handmade tile from a friend upon leaving Houston, just before our move to Norway. It read, ‘Bloom where you’re planted.’ How very apt.

    And perhaps the rediscovery of the benefits of gardens – whether it be on terra ferma, on a deck or rooftop, or even just plants in your home – may be one of the few good things to have evolved from the pandemic. There is ample proof of the health benefits. And a feeling of fulfilment, of wonderment and serenity as buds turn to blooms, as seeds and bulbs peek up through the earth, as shrubs and trees mature… as the space you’ve created becomes a backdrop for life.

    How wonderful to be savouring in this blooming and I hope the same for you, in whatever shape your ‘blooming’ might be. 

    Sep13

    Glamping Under a Fabled Elm… Serene and Soulful Kaslo

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    • Glamping Site Three and Four, Kaslo, British Columbia
      • N49 Degrees, W116 Degrees, Altitude 591 Metres

    Every small town has its story, its treasures, perhaps its aching past. With its serene beauty nestled along Kootenay Lake, we chose Kaslo for our next glamping spot for all of those reasons.

    I couldn’t have anticipated that we’d be sheltered under the grandeur of one of the town’s treasures – a magnificent more-than-century-old elm tree – at Kaslo’s Municipal Campground.

    Situated at the end of Front Street, Kaslo’s main street, only a narrow road separates the campground from the indigo waters of Kootenay Lake. The narrow fjord-like lake divides the Selkirk and Purcell mountain ranges. As one of the largest in BC, the lake is a traditional waterway to the Sinixt and Ktunaxa peoples. Once part of their seasonal migration and trading route, Kootenay Lake is now more likely to be arrayed with kayaks, canoes, paddle boards and sailboats than traditional birch bark canoes.

    We were fortunate to be offered the elm site, its outspread branches like an expansive umbrella protecting her, and us, from the intense but glorious summer heat. As with previous campsites our canvas tent, named Lupin, only just squeezed under the tree’s majestic leafy canopy.

    Lupin and the elm quickly became the darling of the campsite. “What’s it like inside? How long does it take to set up? Looks like a movie set, especially with that tree.”

    And a comment that really intrigued me. “Have you heard the history behind the elm?”

    We noticed what looked like a graft on the tree, as if two trees had merged into one. I was even more curious when our campground hostess revealed that Lupin was pitched under a Camperdown Elm, a name has nothing at all to do with camping. In fact, the ulmus glabra camperdownii’s history is firmly rooted in Scotland.

    Around 1840, in the grounds of Camperdown House near Dundee, a young forester made a discovery. David Taylor worked for the Earl of Camperdown and on a jaunt in the woods discovered a young contorted elm tree. Taylor speculatively grafted it onto a larger Wych Elm in the Earl’s estate garden. As the years passed, the twisted yet elegant branches formed into a vast, lush canopy. The tree and those that derived from it became a status symbol, satisfying a mid-Victorian passion for curiosities in ‘Gardenesque’ style gardens. Eventually they graced the gardens of stately American universities and it seems Kaslo’s camperdown elm made its way to Canada from across the border.

    Arriving in town in 1893 with Mr. C.W. McAnn, Kaslo’s first solicitor, the tree was just a two-foot high treasure and planted at his residence on 5th and Avenue B. In 1910, Charles F. Caldwell moved the elm to his home in Upper Kaslo, only for it to be dug up thirty years later by A.F. McPhee. McPhee envisioned it as a shelter at the fish hatchery and it there it remained, even as the hatchery evolved to become part of Vimy Park that eventually surrounded the campground.

    The elm as it stood at the hatchery, circa 1950’s

    In Kaslo, the presence of the elm is said to reflect the perseverance and strength of the community. And, as we strolled the charming streets, I was reminded that this was a place where resilience came very much into play – the serene mountains and majestic views belying darker episodes in its history. Yet Kaslo is also a town of welcoming verandahs and profuse gardens, of tinkling wind chimes and wide rambling streets; fondly proclaimed as the Lucerne of the Kootenays.

    The town’s roots harken back to 1889, first a sawmill site, then rapid expansion due to a silver boom. When, in the early 1890’s, a 120 ton galena boulder was discovered nearby, the massive lode of silver and lead beckoned prospectors and speculators. Many arrived flat broke – some left as newly minted millionaires in only a matter of years.

    Dozens of silver mines traverse this area and by 1893 Kaslo was a boomtown with a population of 3000, the fifth largest settlement in British Columbia. As with many mining towns, along with the more dignified settlers and ladies in finery, a more salacious wild atmosphere prevailed that catered to miners – gambling, saloons and brothels. Much of that new money flowed south to Spokane, Washington where mansions of the silver barons stand still today.

    The unbelievable wealth came to a crashing halt as the price of silver plummeted. Businesses shuttered, banks foundered, and depression ensued. The final blow came in 1894 when a ravaging flood, then a devastating fire brought the town to its knees. Yet despite a large decrease in the population, the town didn’t fade away. The great number of ghost towns in British Columbia attest to the many that did. 

    Kaslo holds onto this past in the form of elegant buildings, spired churches, frontier-like storefronts, perhaps best embodied in the oldest intact passenger steam vessel of its type in the world. The S.S. Moyie carried passengers on Kootenay Lake for fifty-seven years. Now dry-docked, refurbished and an impressive tourist site, fondly referred to as the ‘sweetheart of the lake’, she pays homage to the vital role that sternwheelers played in mountain regions.

    ‘She pulled in and blew her whistle like a trusted old friend – there weren’t yet roads to these mountain communities,’ is one quote I read. The S.S. Moyie carried everything from fruit to sheep, from locomotives piece by piece, to automobiles and passengers; some of very little means and those few who could indulge in the refinement of a state room.

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    I’ve also heard Kaslo referred to as ‘one of the prettiest towns in British Columbia’… quiet charm in soulful surroundings. For me its sublime and soulful setting on the shore of Kootenay Lake is heightened by knowledge of the towns profound history as one of numerous sites where Japanese Canadians were interned during World War Two. The story of how these Canadian citizens were grievously wronged deserves to be told, it is a story of pain and loss and yet also of resilience and triumph of the human spirit. Of this I will devote a full blog soon.

    We canoe and paddle board, and even have the good fortune, by happenstance, to sail the waters with friends. In such moments I gaze out towards the layered mountain ranges and hope that this serene view offered solace for those who had been interned and cut off from previous lives, for those whose tribal lands had been sequestered in the expansion of Canada, for those who arrived in Canada from afar – and perhaps even a fleeting thought for those who hadn’t realized their fortune in the ephemeral silver boom.

    Early each morning we enjoy our coffee, lakeside. The rising sun glints on the carpets of green pines, the peaks with already-snowy-wraps, the gentle rippling of the waters. I hear the great cawing and flapping of the resident crows and the odd splashing of trout. I feel glacial-deposited pebbles on bare feet. I savour the moment.

    I muse on how edifying and giving these glamping experiences have been. How they’ve helped define our summer, enabled us to explore in our own backyard and spend more meaningful time together.

    Ambling along the shoreline, pebbles in autumnal arrays seem to hint at the approaching change of seasons. And in all of us, perhaps an overwhelming feeling of gratitude, especially during this pandemic… a reminder to savour the simple moments.

    As I return to the campsite, the morning shadows are dancing beautifully on Lupin…

    Aug15

    Sanctuary At A Lavender Farm… “The journey is the treasure”

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    Last summer, on the island of Hvar Croatia, I swooned for lavender. As the sun lowered in the late afternoon sky, rich orange hues danced on field upon field of profuse purple stems. As far as the eye could gaze, we were entranced by the island’s signature crop in bloom – the view, the scent, was simply intoxicating, a moment etched on my traveller’s heart.

    On a fine summer day this past week, once again I wonderfully found myself surrounded by heavenly lavandula, but this time it would be a hands-on experience. We had been invited to help harvest, so ‘the girls’ and I drove west from Kimberley, through the old mining town of Moyie, past the quaint stop at Yakh where you might just glimpse those roof-top goats grazing improbably above the Yakh Soap and Candle Co. Then onwards toward the Creston Valley, a veritable cornucopia of farmland, orchards and vineyards.

    We started with an ‘obligatory’ wine tasting at the Baillie-Grohman Estate Winery, named for the Anglo-Austrian aristocrat who made his way to the valley in 1882. While on a hunting expedition with the future United States president, Teddy Roosevelt, the explorer saw the possibilities of the region. Granted a ten-year lease of almost 50,000 acres from the government, William Adolf Baillie-Grohman settled in the valley, creating a dyke system to reclaim fertile land from the Kootenay River, operating a steamboat to facilitate the passage of goods and settlers to the area, and he also found time to serve as Justice of the Peace for the Kootenay district.

    More European settlers arrived to the area from the mid 1880’s and a general store, sawmill, clearing and planting of orchards soon followed. Today, the hillsides around the picturesque town of Creston are credited as the first to capitalise on the area’s potential for fruit bearing trees and, as we sample wine at the Baillie-Grohman Vineyard, there’s no doubt it’s the ideal first stop in the valley. Capturing the essence of the Creston valley, the row on row of grape vines cradled on the slopes of gentle mountains evoke serenity amidst the quiet productivity of the valley.

    But we’re here for another delightful crop, lavender, and so we wend our way a little further north of Creston to Wynndel. Once dubbed the ‘strawberry capital of the world’, Wynndel now flourishes with livestock, dairy and hay farming. When we reach our destination for the afternoon, Sanctuary Lavender Farm, immediately we see that we are in a place of sanctuary, a haven of serenity, as if drawn into a canvas by Monet. I’m instantly transported back to Croatia, even to France, then at once I’m full of gratitude that this is in our own ‘backyard.’

    We’re welcomed by Jade, the resident long-haired Siberian Forest cat, and her owners Kevin and Alanna. I had already read an article about the two lavender farmers. I was curious to learn why they had sold a successful business in a popular mountain town near Vancouver to take over a lavender farm. I was interested in the harvesting process and the products that they create. And, naturally, we were eager to start harvesting, and strangely excited to wield a scythe.

    Alanna had sent a message after we had settled on the day and warned us that there might be mosquitos as we worked in the fields. And she added, “So before you say yes, I want you to know about that… but this is offset of course by the aroma and the peace, and the buzzing of our friendly bees.”

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    Her description of the lavender farm she and Kevin bought almost three years ago summed it up succinctly. Yet until you’re standing amongst the rows and rows of lavender in bloom, the peace and serenity is difficult to convey. The plump bumble bees only compliment the living palette as they continuously buzz and busy on the lavender – part of nature’s cycle that we soon feel in tune with. With scythes handed to each of us, Kevin demonstrates how to take a small handful of lavender stems, cut carefully, repeat until a bunch is formed, secure with a band. As the bunches slowly grow and rest on the harvested lavender beds, bees buzz languorously, Jade slinks and suns herself, billowy clouds drift above, we savour deep breaths of lavender-lush air.

    There are close to seven hundred lavender plants on the Sanctuary Farm; today we’re harvesting French lavender. An ancient flowering plant of the Lamiaceae, or mint family, the name lavender comes from the Latin word lavare meaning to wash given that it was commonly used by the Romans and in medieval Europe to scent water for washing clothes and for bathing. In Tuscany, it was used to ward of the evil eye. In ancient Egypt, lavender essential oil was one of many herbal oils used to preserve bodies for mummification; inexpensive, readily available, valued for its antibacterial properties.

    Many of us well know the stress-relieving, calming properties of lavender, something I imagine Kevin and Alanna benefit from daily as they breathe in the atmosphere and soak in their tranquil setting.

    “I still can’t believe I live here,” Alanna muses as we take a moment to gaze over the rows of lavender, and beyond. Rays of sunshine are dappling the late afternoon vista – tidy, diminutive knolls of purple against imposing emerald peaks.

    As we’ve chatted, alongside one another, or scythed in silent harmony, an entire row has been harvested. It’s been over an hour and feels like a quarter of that. Countless bunches now await their placement into Kevin’s wagon where they’ll be trundled to the small drying shed. The French lavender will remain hanging, ‘bloom-side down’, for two weeks of drying. They’ll then be lovingly fashioned into Sanctuary’s retail products; candles and soaps, lavender wands and neck pillows, wreaths and sachets, or in their delightful elemental bunches. The products now grace local markets and stores in the Kootenay region and have become a go-to choice for gifts for many of us.

    Laying down our tools, we gather on the shady terrace for a coffee and some lavender infused biscotti. The conversation meanders to Kevin and Alanna’s journey, of their transition to a slower-paced family life – their son Shem is with extended family this weekend.

    “If you want to fly, you have to give up the ground you’re standing on,” Kevin says with the wisdom of a sage.

    Even as their flower/event business in Squamish flourished, the couple reflect on their desire for more privacy and family time; they dreamt of making a change.

    “We put our intention out to the universe, we wanted to be grounded with the senses,” the two explain.

    “I had been perusing the real estate listings one evening.” Alanna continues, “we might have had Nelson in mind. Just as I was about to close my laptop, an ad for this property popped up. My heart started racing. I got tingles. The house and position on the slope of a hill was what we had aspired to. Oh, and then there was the lavender…”

    There was still a business and a house to sell, their family split between two locations for a time as they transitioned. In time, it transpired into a home, a community and a lavender business they adore, Sanctuary Lavender Farm.

    Kevin, originally from Sydney, Australia, chuckles that he’s gone from a flower shop to a lavender farm. As I take a photo of the two of them, Alanna wonders if her hair is alright. “You’re beautiful, just beautiful,” he says to his partner in life and business.

    When Alana talks about their journey, she mentions that they both grew up with single moms.

    “We drove a battered car and worked three jobs to open our flower shop.”

    The couple radiate an intrinsic joy and calm spirt that seems to invite those around them to celebrate life. I hear one of them mention that the farm is like a botanical garden and can easily imagine the panoply of colours that play out as the seasons change.

    As we finish our second session amongst the lavender, it’s difficult to pull ourselves away. Alanna shows me the lower beds. Ayla, Trixie and Jade pose for photos. Kevin has taken our precious bundles to be hung.

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    Alanna I discuss a future collaboration, maybe a writing workshop amongst the blooms? She motions to the girls who are engaging Jade to pose for a photograph.

    “How lucky are you to have those two lovely young ladies in your life… and they you,” she says. Of course I agree wholeheartedly.

    It’s been a fabulous day spent together. How did Kevin put it earlier?

    “The journey is the treasure.”

     

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    Many photos contributed by Trixie Pacis at http://www.trixiepacis.com

     

     

    Jul25

    Roaming Close to Home, part 2… of the Beginnings of Glamping

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    This is part two of Roaming Close to Home…

    The decision to glamp began as a discussion on how to spend a milestone anniversary, something that blossomed into a way broader conversation. “How can we replace traveling for the time being?” “What if we take the basics of camping and spice it up a bit?” And from me, ever the amateur designer, “Oh exciting, I could have so much fun with this!”

    Already, the rewards are ample.

    We camped often when I was a child – rather a rite of passage in Canada – and we camped with our own children wherever we were living. We’ve slept in Arabian tents in Qatar and Oman – images of camels shuffling slowly past as the sun slips over the bronzed desert dunes. We’ve camped in the high country of West Texas – chancing upon ghost towns, sun-dried horns, fist-sized tarantulas and otherwordly cacti. We pitched a tent in the deeply etched valleys of Mangistau in Kazakstan – pinnacles rising like citadels, a landscape unique and ethereal.

    And it was through camping that we introduced Canada to our boys, happily armed with kayaks and canoes as our ‘toys’ – encountering the odd foraging bear, the loon’ s lyrical calls at sunset, the evocative drift of campfire smoke as stars twinkled above.

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    Glamping Site One* ‘The Farm’ in Southern Alberta

    N 49.78, W 112.15 degrees, Altitude 815 metres

     

    With the decision to glamp agreed upon and the tent acquired, the first ‘glampsite’ to host Lupin – the name given to our Sibley 500 tent on account of the way she gathers droplets of water like the leaves of a Lupin – was at my parent’s acreage, their once farm where we had been married all those years ago. Nestled beside a statuesque May Day tree and framed by mature pines, we immediately fell in love with the spacious, graceful lines of the tent, with the connection to nature while cocooned under the protection of canvas. A heart-warming anniversary celebration, time with family, and even a reshoot of one of our wedding photos – knee-deep in a canola field – we had come full circle to where it had all started.

    For this first glamp, a world theme mostly developed in our new abode. Bed linens from India stamped with my beloved traveller’s palms paid homage to the last overseas country we had called home. The world vibe continued with lanterns illuminating Persian carpets, with delicate wicker weaves from Asia, with excellent UMAMU wine from a friend’s vineyard in Australia to mark the occasion.

    And poignantly perfuming it all were lush, frilly peonies from my mother’s garden… a final and symbolic touch, almost as if my wedding bouquet was mirrored in these showy intoxicating blooms. Like my parent’s garden and homestead, they represented the grounding of home, hearth, and family.

    In the early mornings, shadows played on Lupin’s walls as birdsong serenaded us awake. In the evenings, candlelight danced in evocative shadows as the hooting of owls called to us from nearby trees. One magical evening, we were treated to a brilliant symphony of light and sound as a thunderstorm rolled across the vast prairie sky. The boom and barrage of thunder, great flashes and streaks of lightening, and the rain – from the gentle pitter-patter of whispering raindrops to deep washes rollicking down Lupin’s sides.

    Then the wind. The rattling of the door’s hefty zipper, the agitated sway of hanging lights, the plaintive rush of air through pines. Even under the protection of the canvas it felt like an open window to the outdoors, all senses awakened, nature’s forces rich and elemental.

    With wine poured, books illuminated and wooly wraps to warm, I glanced towards my trusty fedora and knew that glamping was a gift. I doubt it is something we would have considered had we the liberty of still being able to travel at this time. Dare I say that it’s been another silver lining of Covid, almost an entreaty to embrace home and reach back to elemental simplicity, to feeling more rooted.

    So it seems it all awaits. The lakes and woods, the bike trails and highways, the experiences and encounters, yet on this special occasion we were where we were meant to have been all along.

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    Glamping Site Two* Larchwood Lake, British Columbia,

    N 49.57, W 115.48 degrees, Altitude 882 metres 

     

    A few weeks later, our first mountain glamp was indeed at one of those lakes we had scouted out on those joyous day trips. Larchwood Lake is just under an hour from home, and yet the feeling of being ‘away’ is complete. With a long stone’s throw to the lake, we find a spot nestled by lodgepole pines and a baby and mama pine tree that seem to guide our eye to the small, milky-blue lake beyond. At once, we’re conscious of Lupin’s substantial size. She barely squeezes into the camping spot, but with set-up complete (an hour and a half later) the picnic table and fire-pit become the perfect extension of our small enclave.

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    This trip, it’s mostly about Canadiana and pieces that will be the basis of Lupin’s ‘retinue’, so to say. Over the past month or so, I’ve delighted in curating ‘glampanalia’ that are preferably a little vintage, reused, repurposed and definitely not plastic. So, plates and bowls of pressed bamboo, milk and water bottles of glass, enamelled basins of a certain age, cloth napkins and naturally the reliable old family axe. Wood and canvas chairs that can easily be moved inside or out were purchased new, but, for the most part, everything else has a story.

    I started with a small foldable wicker table, reclaimed from my mother’s home it was the perfect option for a fireside table. A label fixed to the underside reminds us that we had used it camping back when we lived in Oman. Oh how that brings me joy!  

    And I was fortunate to glean a number of collectibles from my parents. You’ll often find that people are only too happy to know that something, unused for years, will once again be cherished. A cast-iron frying pan, once my grandmother’s, was happily reconditioned by our youngest son and had its inaugural use this trip – the food couldn’t have tasted more delicious.

    Procured from my father are his vintage binoculars purchased in Hong Kong while on a late ’60’s cruise to the Far East, and the warmest of Mexican blankets from a trip in 1965. I consider it a privilege that they’ll once again be used, treasured for years, and eventually passed on once again. And the lambskin? Years ago, a dear family friend gifted it to me, pleased that I would use it in my new mountain home. Sadly, Carol passed away recently, but I’d like to think she’d be thrilled that her lambskin is part of our glamping essentials.

    I’ve also come across some items that are true Canadiana. When I spotted the wicker hamper in our local collectable boutique – Old Crow Emporium – I knew it was ideal for a storage chest. And oh how I wish it could tell me its storied past! With thick rope handles and stitching of animal sinew, its worn-smooth wicker speaks to a settler’s journey.

    IMG_4944It’s also at Old Crow that I discovered the weathered wooden paddle and the well-used fishing basket, a creel. The creel now serves as a repository for old maps of the local area.

    And I’m particularly pleased with the Beacon lanterns gifted to me by those astute kids of ours. Beacons were primarily used for signalling on the railways, produced from 1927 onwards by General Steel Wares. The Canadian company graced their lanterns with names such as Cold Blast, Dashboard, Searchlight and the Planet Hot Blast, each proudly marked ‘Guaranteed Wind Proof.’ I picture them swinging from a station master’s hand or perched in a caboose, signalling and lighting the way in the dark of the night. Now, far less flammable with strings of battery-powered lights, even still they emit a warmth and historic bonhomie.

    IMG_4687We’re welcomed at Larchwood Lake by campground hosts Jim and Lynne who clearly love their summer retirement job.

    “This is our third year with Recreation Sites and Trails. How fortunate are we that we get to live onsite for four months!” the couple tell us as they welcome.

    Donning green vests, broom at the ready, after dinner each evening the couple make their rounds, checking on the campers and welcoming newcomers. Jim and Lynne are friendly faces with an easy manner bringing a gentle order to each camper’s experience. As they collect our fee, I admit I’m rather pleased to receive my first ‘glamping receipt’ for a Recreation Site Permit – $28 for two evenings. We hear how much the campground has improved over the last few years, chat about the local flora and fauna and aren’t too surprised when we’re told that there hasn’t been a tent set-up like this before!

    “Be sure to use the blue canoe over by the dock. Anytime at all,” they entreat us. But the next day we’re happily out on the lake with our paddle boards. We’ve long been kayakers, but there’s a special pleasure in communing with water and wildlife on a paddle board.

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    We glide slowly along the water, surveying and revelling in the local habitat. Western Painted Turtles sun themselves on driftwood, then, startled, they dart under profuse pondweed. Wild flowers sprout along the sandy shore, rainbow trout are spotted, along with the odd garter snake. As we glide through reeds, straight and slender, dragonflies as blue as a Bombay Saphire Gin bottle dance around us. As their brilliance contrasts against the emerald reeds, I’m enthralled with what an idyllic platform for observation paddle boards are. That day, we go out twice!

    We finish the second paddle session with, naturally, Bombay gin and tonics. With drinks poured, the cheese-board laid and wild flowers plucked, I jot down a few Glamping Moments. As trifling as they may seem, my glamping is all about enjoying the simple, yet slightly elegant pleasures, the natural beauty and the serene moments. Here’s Just a few…

    • finding the last ice in the deep recesses of the cooler for those G & T’s
    • butterflies flitting through camp
    • just gazing out to the lake
    • a chipped porcelain cup brimming with soft shades of whites, creams and yellow wildflowers – this site’s bespoke flower bouquet
    • the exuberance of kids playing on the lake
    • the delight of dogs launching themselves gleefully into the water
    • the rustle of the wind, shadows playing on Lupin
    • the great crackling of fire that just happens to help ward off the mosquitoes
    • campfire food, campfire Scrabble, campfire with my sweetheart

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    Jul12

    Roaming Close to Home… of Legacies, Lakes & Lilacs, part one

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    With a special occasion at the end of June, we decided to invest in a tent and go glamping to celebrate… searching for the perfect camping spot was underway. Our plan had been to be in Europe for this milestone anniversary, yet the silver lining of Covid 19 has been the opportunity to discover and appreciate our own backyard. For many people, travel restrictions within their own region, province or state has created virtues from that unprecedented necessity. For us, it means a summer where home is our playground.

    After months of isolation, we cruised the open roads in search of the perfect glamping spot. We are spoiled for choice. From our home in Kimberley, the East Kootenay region in the southeastern corner of British Columbia is graced with countless lakes. We steeped ourselves anew in the beauty of this region where jagged mountain peaks of the Rockies rise in parallel with those of the Purcells, Selkirks and Monashee ranges, valleys giving way to crystal clear rivers and lakes. Places where wooden docks host fishing, suntanning, boating and starting points for kayaking and standup paddle boarding. Where adirondack chairs sit poised for the long, hot days of summer.

    While searching for the lake of our choice, we meandered down well-travelled roads and bounced along dusty back-country tracks. Narrow roads where cattle graze under serrated, snow-capped mountain peaks, where an unexpected turn might lead to cascading waterfalls, abandoned gold rush towns or meadows overbrimming with wildflowers.

    As we cruised the mountain roads that day in search of ‘our spot’, we took the time to stop and appreciate those sites we always promise to, but rarely take the time to do so. Perhaps a chance to marvel at the iconic bridge over the Kootenay River or that outdated, yet charmingly retro campground sign at Skookumchuck that has always caught my eye. Skookumchuck is an Indigenous word that means ‘strong waters’. In local parlance, if something is skookum, it’s strong, impressive, or cool.

    And finally, after years of driving past a wooden statue of a local Indigenous Chief, we stopped to ponder the past. Following the retreat of ice age glaciers ten thousand years ago, the Kootenay area of British Columbia was inhabited by the Kutenai or the Ktunaxa [Tun-ah-ha] people. I was fortunate to meet with Ktunaxa elders a number of years ago. I heard their legends and stories, their hopes for the future, of how they had endured the insult and outrage of the colonial residential school system. The arrival of the colonials forever changed the course of the Ktunaxa people and that past is particularly on display in this area. St. Euguene’s Mission, a residential school opened in 1890, still occupies their ancestral land. But today, St. Eugene’s is not only a hotel, casino and golf course, it stands proudly as a meeting place of reconciliation and healing.

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    In the early 1800’s, David Thompson, an explorer for the Hudson’s Bay Company, journeyed through this basin on his exploration of the Kootenay and Columbia Rivers. Thompson soon established trade with the Ktunaxa who were hunters, fishermen, gatherers… stewards of these beautiful lands. In the late 1860’s, the Galbraith family secured land in the basin, not from the Ktunaxa but from the nascent Provincial government, ranching and setting up the settlement of Galbraith’s Ferry to capitalize on the burgeoning gold rush trade. Fur traders, missionaries and settlers followed in their footsteps.

    The Ktunaxa soon witnessed the appropriation of their homeland. Eventually, the stalwart protector Chief Isadore would protest “that all grazing land should remain free for all people to use, that no man had the right to erect fences.” As vast tracts of the Ktunaxa’s land disappeared to the railway, to the government and the colonists, it was clear there would be no return. Chief Isadore petitioned that the land allocated to his people was “unfair and unequitable“. In 1888 Colonel Sam Steele, stationed at Galbraith’s Landing (later renamed Fort Steele), played a role in mediating, convincing, and undoubtedly placating Isadore to accept the de-facto property rights of the Ktunaxa Nation’s very own ancestral homeland.

    Of Chief Isadore, in his memoir ‘Forty Years in Canada’, Steele writes, “Isadore was the most influential chief I have known. Crowfoot, the Blackfoot chief, or Red Crow, dare not, in the height of their power, have exercised the discipline that Isadore did.” But, despite his disciplined and principled stance, Chief Isadore could not turn back the tide of change.

    While writing this piece, we happen to cycle the Chief Isadore Trail. It follows portions of the once Crowsnest Railway Line, through the lost small station at Mayook, and onto Cranbrook which partly serviced Kimberley’s North Star and Sullivan lead and zinc mines. The trail roams through grasslands, ponderosa pine forests and saltgrass prairies. The lofty Rockies stand majestically over us.

    We pass by ample serviceberries or saskatoon berries, once so essential to the Ktunaxa. They were eaten fresh, as flavour for fish and meat, or dried for trading in the winter months. The bark of the shrub was used as an eyewash to treat snow blindness. The hard straight stems to make arrows, tipi pegs, pipes and spears. I can almost feel the presence of the impressive and dignified Chief (standing centre in bottom photo) as he surveyed the land, lamenting its loss, attempting to reconcile his people to the future.

    Chief Isadore would eventually withdraw to a piece of land on the Kootenay River, allocated to him by the Provincial authorities. Devoting his last years to improving his farm, influenza attacked his people during the winter of 1893-94. Many of the elderly succumbed. Chief Isadore was among them.

    As the Ktunaxa land was eagerly purchased by Canadian and European newcomers the settlement of the valley gained momentum. Notable was Colonel James Baker who named the town Cranbrook, after his family estate in England. Baker was closely allied with the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR), who in 1898, successfully convinced them to establish the Crowsnest Railway line through Cranbrook rather than Fort Steele. Baker would go on to play a prominent role in the politics of the region. Cranbrook was incorporated as a city in 1905. Baker had returned home to England in 1900, leaving his townsite business to his son.

    My brief relating of this history should be a gentle reminder of what the Ktunaxa have lost and of their suffering. Their vision today is one of a strong, healthy community that proclaims and celebrates their heritage. As a self-governing, thriving Nation working to revitalise their language and culture, they take a leading role in the stewardship of their land. And, as I look across the broad valley of the Rocky Mountain trench, my understanding of what has gone before helps me treasure all the more, the privilege of sharing this land.

    Framed by the Rockies and vast blue skies, the city of Cranbrook’s colonial roots are very much on display. Edwardian architecture of brick and sandstone speak to the city’s development throughout the early 1900’s. Original surviving buildings of the CPR, now the Canadian Museum of Rail Travel, pay homage to ‘how the west was built.’ Striking heritage homes in the Baker Hill area, nestle close to where Baker himself settled on the hilled area to the south and east of downtown.

    What we noticed most on that late spring day in June, were the lilacs – so many beautiful lilacs! Profuse in colour and in their intoxicating scent, lilacs often flank the entrance or front gardens of earlier buildings in Canada. Whether in towns or on homesteads, lilacs seem to represent home, stability, and have coloured the landscape for generations.

    Originally known as philadelphus, supposedly after an Egyptian King, they’ve been interpreted in many ways throughout history. The Celts saw lilacs as magical because of their sweet scent. During the Victorian age, lilacs were a symbol of an old love—widows often wore lilacs during this time. In Russia, holding a sprig of lilac over a newborn baby was thought to bring wisdom. I like to think that that they are markers of the complexity of Canadian heritage and history – embodying the hopes and dreams of the settlers and homeowners who planted them.

    But I am meandering in much the same way that we had roamed on our mission of finding the ideal lake for camping. In going out into the land we had taken the proverbial time to ‘stop and smell the lilacs’, time to become better acquainted with and to embrace the local history that surrounds us.

    Indeed, the silver lining of Covid these past months was the licence to be near, to better know our own neighbourhood without venturing far, and in the end we would choose none of the lakes we came upon. We decided that our first glamping experience should be where it was meant to be all along… at my parents acreage where our own history is firmly rooted. There, it wasn’t lilacs in bloom, but gorgeous peonys to perfume and help christen our inaugural glamping experience. To be continued…

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    Jan14

    Wintery Postcards from British Columbia…

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    It’s a sunny winter’s day as I write from our home in Kimberley and I wish you all a very Happy New Year! My apologies for the delay in offering you my best wishes. I hope that 2020 brings joy and fulfilment for us all, but also much strength for what may come our way.

    I’m ever-so thankful that our immediate family was gathered here to ring in the new decade… all of us under one roof for the first time in two years! In the midst of Christmas preparations, shopping, and champagne popping in the morning before gift opening… not to mention exuberant gaming, fireside chatting, mulled-wining and dining, I’ve also pondered on how much this location has shaped our family time this season.

    We’ve hosted family and visitors from Vancouver, as well as long-lost friends from Australia, and in the messages penned in my well-worn guest book I read echoes of my own sentiments.

    ‘There is no shortage of love, laughs, and activities here in Kimberley.’

    ‘We’ve enjoyed so much of what makes Kimberley very special.”

    ”Kimberley is beautiful… I now know why you love it.’

    Yet if you’ve followed me the past year through my musings… you’ll know that transitioning from India, and from a global life of thirty years, to a quaint Canadian mountain town has been a gradual process. But when I see our family and friends delight in what this friendly community has to offer, there’s a feeling of contentment and wonderment. I’m reminded of the many simple joys on our doorstep. As a good friend gently advised this past year… ‘Remember why you first came to this mountain haven and appreciate it for what it has, for the many ways that it can fulfil you, don’t rue what is missing.’ 

    I’ve mused on that statement often… when I’ve missed the vibrant chaos of India, the lively piazzas of Italy, or the charm and colour of Malaysia. I appreciate that you might be reading this from your home in tropical climes, perhaps never having experienced cold and snow – today’s -15 degrees might be hard to fathom! This snowy landscape is indeed special, even a little mysterious, as messages from some of you have hinted.

    Can winter be long, frightfully cold and dark? Yes, though thankfully this area is particularly sunny, even in the winter. Can the roads be treacherous and snow-clearing of driveways and decks a constant task? Yes again… but if you love winter, this is the place to come. Here, it’s all about the ample winter activities, the sweeping majestic scenery, and the simple vignettes of our frozen landscape.

    I don’t always enjoy the cold, but appreciate it for for the landscape it faithfully sculpts each year. For the beauty, for the senses that are awakened, for the activities that the cold and snow provide. And the more we embrace this, the more I realise what a gift it is to welcome our family and friends into this winter oasis.

    I’ve been mindful to soak up many of the simple pleasures over the past weeks and I’m delighted to share some wintery postcards with you. Call it the subtle art of finding shapes and patterns in nature, and just as no two snowflakes are the same, no two days are alike in winter. Footprints in the snow obscure with fresh falls, lines of a snow-angel soften from wind blown flakes, frozen lakes transform to skating rinks, ski hills are groomed and preened. Champagne powder piles high on rooftops, nestles on firewood stacks, bends the limbs of statuesque snow-laden pines, and obscures the green of nival flora. And the serene of quiet trails are guarded by frost-decorated trees.

    Patterns also form uniquely in crystalline sculptures hanging from my front porch. Icicles inch steadily downwards here each winter as the temperature dips and climbs and melting snow drips slowly down translucent rods, frozen before the fall. I am fascinated by these natural sculptures of such intricate beauty.

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    Beyond the gentle appreciation of nature, is the more active… snowshoeing, skiing – both cross and downhill – skating and yes, even snowman building! The joy of them all is the time shared with others, or spent in peaceful solitude. Whatever climate and landscape that you may find yourself in, I encourage you to find new ways to appreciate your surroundings. Savour the subtle, relish the dramatic, but if you’re yearning for a winter’s adventure, I know where you just might find it!

    Wherever you may be, I wish you a beautiful beginning to the year and leave with you my favourite wintery postcards… Happy New Year dear readers!

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    Snowshoeing at Trickle Creek Golf Course

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    The View from the 11th hole – The Rockies are obscured

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    Snowshoe to the Ridge at Dreamcatcher

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    Looking out over Kimberley Alpine Resort

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    The small Outdoor Skating Rink at the Resort

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    Photo opportunity on the hill

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    Clearing the snow on Wasa Lake

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    A game of shinny on Wasa Lake

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    The ‘gang’ on ice

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    Fritz The Snowman

    Aug24

    Jennie’s Masterpiece… the story of Butchart Gardens

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    I can picture Jennie Butchart, suspended high up in a bosun’s chair, carefully coaxing soil and vine roots into limestone crevices of the abandoned quarry. She had commandeered the vast gaping hole, and now her Sunken Garden was taking shape.

    “You’re ruining the country, Bob, just to get your old cement,” Jennie had reportedly chided her husband. A 1952 article in Maclean’s Magazine described it as thus…

    “One day in 1909, in a glade sloping to a salt-water bay on the Saanich Peninsula of Vancouver Island… a woman stood on the edge of an abandoned quarry and began to cry.

    Jennie Butchart knew the quarry well. For more than three years she had lived beside it. As a chemist in the cement works of her husband, she had analysed its high-grade limestone. She watched it yield them wealth. She knew its moods in the moonlight and at the height of storm. But the tears came because she hated it more than anything else in the world; its very ugliness so fascinated her, she could not stay away. 

    The perpendicular quarry walls, twisted from dynamite blasting, dropped sixty feet to a quagmire of two and a half acres of clay. Out of a subterranean spring percolated a muddy creek which fed a deep pond on the quarry floor. A hummock of grey rock, unfit for cement, rose like a spire from the centre… Jennie Butchart stood and cried.

    It was then an inspiration came to her, ‘Like a flame’ she was to say, ‘for which I shall ever thank God.”

    The Butchart Estate (pronounced Butch – Art) included both their home and the quarry. Now that Jennie’s creativity and determination had been sparked, debris and rocks were replaced or hauled out. Horses with wagonloads of soil trudged back and forth to the site. Douglas firs, cedars and Lombardy poplars were strategically placed – flowering trees, shrubs and annuals would follow. Jennie envisioned colour and vibrancy. To her, the eyesore was a canvas on which to blend a palette of nature’s rich hues and textures. After all, at heart Jennie was an artist… the world famous Butchart Gardens would become her living masterpiece.

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    Born in Toronto, in 1866, Jenanette Foster Kennedy was orphaned at the age of fourteen. Sent to Owen Sound to live with an aunt and her seven cousins, Jennie thrived in her new family. Both intelligent and artistic, she also embraced outdoor life while attending the prestigious Brantford Young Ladies’ College. Yet when offered a scholarship to continue art training in France, the young graduate declined. Instead, she choose a life with her new beau. The eighteen-year-old married the tall, determined, twenty-seven-year-old Robert (Bob) Butchart.

    The young businessman was an innovator and within four years had opened Portland Cement Mill in Owen Sound. Portland cement derives its name from England, where in 1824 bricklayer Joseph Aspdin, patented the blend of limestone and clay. He named it after the local Portland stone it resembled.

    In 1902, Bob would hear of a large deposit of limestone at Tod Inlet on Vancouver Island, about 20 km north of Victoria. With two daughters in tow, Bob and Jennie moved across the country and soon established a quarry and processing plant. Vancouver Island Portland Cement Company was the only cement-producing company west of the Great Lakes. The company not only pioneered refinements, but was the first to ship cement in sacks, rather than heavy, cumbersome barrels. Fortunes soared dramatically as Bob began to supply cement to facilitate the rapid building in the burgeoning province and beyond.

    Jennie did not sit on the sidelines; she earned a certificate in chemistry to work in the firm’s laboratory. Yet her surroundings awakened her artistic inclinations. Re-envisioning her quaint on-site home, she hosted tea, croquet and tennis parties. Jennie was always forging ahead. The magnificent Sunken Garden was completed in nine years, and to this day cradles Jennie’s breathtaking vision. Yet if the old quarry is Butchart Garden’s celebrated centrepiece, supporting works of ‘art’ accompany this National Historic Site of Canada.

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    The rambling Rose Garden, blooms with some 280 varieties. The Japanese Garden, its authentic Torii gate, stepping stones, maple and beech trees evoke serenity. The Mediterranean Garden is a celebration of the island’s balmy, temperate climate. The Coast Salish totem poles, honour the storied culture of the island’s indigenous peoples. And my personal favourite, The Italian Garden – once the family tennis court – anchored by a sensuous arched wall of green, exotic palms and plants flourish from around the globe.

    For indeed, the Butcharts were also avid travellers. A trip to Rome had inspired The Italian Garden, while travels to the Himalayas, the Pyrenees and the orient garnered yet more unusual plants as well as collectibles such as urns, statues and pagodas.

    As Jennie’s gardens were designed, planted and flourished – with flowering plums, magnolia, dogwood, Siberian wallflowers, bachelor’s buttons, peony and so much more – her home flourished as well. After numerous expansions, a welcome sign in Italian hung over the door. The lady of the house epitomised the spirit of ‘Benvenuto‘.

    Friends began to visit the gardens, they brought their friends, and their friends brought other friends. Soon the garden opened officially three days a week. By the First World War, sightseers were flocking to the garden in tallyhos, on horseback, aboard country trolleys. Now, Jennie flung her garden gates wide open… and left them open seven days a week.

    When strangers peered in the windows of Benvenuto, friends would suggest to Jenny that she should charge admission. “Oh no,” she’d reply, “the flowers are fleeting. Why shouldn’t people enjoy them? They’re free for all.” Only one sign asked for ‘privacy’ and still does today. Enclosed by white lattice, it was Jennie’s one retreat – her private oasis.

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    Bob contributed to the thrilling panoply with rare birds, peacocks, pearl breasted pigeons, English and Mexican canaries, water fowl and German bullfinches trained to whistle. He imported 565 Japanese cherry trees to lavishly line the public road to the estate. At the time, its ‘beauty second only to Potomac Drive’ in Washington DC.

    The entrepreneur expanded into timber, steamships, shipbuilding, coal, hardware and trusts. He had one of the first automobiles on Vancouver Island and followed it up with imported European and luxury models. With his chauffeur often in the back seat, Bob was known to cruise at breakneck speeds. When he reached eighty, his concerned wife convinced the police to revoke his driver’s license.

    It’s said that Bob had the bearing of a distinguished officer, but it seems the self-made millionaire enjoyed life with a wry sense of humour: games of rummy with his servants, inclined to piping melodies from his beloved pipe organ into The Italian Garden to serenade lovers on evening strolls, offering a doctor who had performed an operation, part cash and part world travel for payment!

    It’s reported that in contrast to her husband, Jennie was ‘as blunt as an Irish washerwoman’. Just over five feet, she was a force to be reckoned, one who cared more about the colour flow of her gardens than the cut and fashion of her dresses. Who can blame her, overalls and a straw hat were her preferred garb. It’s well documented that Jennie was an excellent storyteller, loved a good earthy joke, and she was generous and kind. Each week a gardener would don high rubber boots, wade into the wishing well to fish out the coins that visitors had cast in. Then wheelbarrowed over to Jennie as she sat on her sun porch, she would help package the coins to donate to charity.

    As the unpaid official welcomer for the city of Victoria, Jennie entertained dignitaries, conventions and whole army regiments. She hosted tea parties for the poor and the aged, and delighted in drawing word pictures of the flowers for the blind so they could envision them as they savoured their scents. Sharing the enchantment of her garden was Jennie’s gift. Even when, by 1915, some 18,000 people toured the gardens, she refused to charge admission.

    During the ‘off season’, the Butcharts embarked on extensive world tours (today the gardens are open year round.) “It seems lonely when the crowds stop coming,” Jennie lamented and Bob agreed, “I can’t understand how some people shut themselves away from their fellow man. Why, I’m never lonely when I can see so many people enjoying themselves every day.”

    In 1931, Jennie was recognised as Citizen of the Year by the City of Victoria. In 1938, the ownership of the gardens was transferred to their grandson, Ian Ross on his 21st birthday and is still in the family today. In 2015, Jennie was inducted into the Business Laureates of British Columbia’s Hall of fame. Their motto – they built, we benefit – seems tailor-made for Jennie Butchart.

    As I wandered the gardens, I mused that her spirit still graces the vistas; from the dramatic Sunken Garden to the whisper of maples rustling in the Japanese Garden, from the dancing fountain to the riots of colour and the vivacious scents of the blooms. It’s recalled that during Jennie’s time, many visitors didn’t realise the property was a private garden. People plucked flowers and fruit from the trees – this meant fewer to give away to hospitals. A few visitors were known to pilfer coins from the wishing well. Even a family dog and a garden peacock were carried off. When visitors carved their initials on various trees, Bob patiently designated a tree for that purpose alone.

    Yet more often than not, their generous hospitality was repaid in kind. When the King of Siam visited, he invited the Butcharts to visit his palace in Bangkok. The following year, the travelling couple gladly took the King up on his offer, spending twelve days as his guests. The Butcharts lived well, both overseas and in their tucked-away haven on the Tod Inlet.

    I vividly envision Jennie, weaving her way through her garden and thoroughly luxuriating in the divine setting she had created. Perhaps this last anecdotal story, during the visit of an English explorer, portrays this inspiring lady at her finest.

    “I know one flower you haven’t got,” the visitor piped up as Jennie showed off her 5000 varieties. “You don’t have the blue poppy of Tibet.”

    Jennie slyly led the visitor to a bed of heavenly blue poppies. “Why that’s impossible,” the Englishman exclaimed. “I just discovered them myself in Tibet!”

    And indeed he had, and had then sent one flower from Tibet to London’s Kew Gardens. But Jennie being Jennie, had wasted no time and had already garnered the seeds from the blue poppy. I like to imagine her re-offering the guest a seed or two from the very flower he had sourced.

    If only, if only we could stroll through the gardens with Jennie by our side…

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    If you go…

    The Buchart Gardens are a short drive from Victoria, or hop on a bus.

    Visit in the afternoon and stay for the free summer evening concerts.

    Enjoy dinner in the Dining Room overlooking the Italian Garden, or at the more informal Blue Poppy Garden.

    Treat yourself to some seeds in the wonderfully stocked Gift Store… wildflowers from here bloom in my own garden.

    Adhere to the Garden’s Etiquette including no selfie-sticks and quiet conversation.

    Read more about Vancouver Island’s other inspiring artist I’ve written of, Emily Carr, and of the island itself

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    Aug24

    The breathtaking Bugaboos… a welcome home to a ‘cathedral in the sky’

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    I’m now in Canada, dear readers, and I apologise for my absence from these pages. Through my last blogs, you’ll know we left our Indian home of two years. We travelled through Greece, Scotland and England, then a two-month stay in The Netherlands, before finally, beautiful British Columbia greeted us. It was as if our dear mountain home sighed with relief, “Ah, you’ve finally returned.’ It had been nine months.

    So, we’re home, perhaps to live (to be decided) but nonetheless, the transition of almost thirty years overseas and now having one address is ongoing. You can read more at Monday Morning Musings.

    IMG_8897Call it a welcome home or an initiation back to Canada, recently I was enticed into an overnight hike. Really, it was into a wonderland of chiselled granite at 2230 meters, into a rapture of beauty. It was a profound privilege, yet, it had to be earned.

    The world acclaimed Bugaboos are at our doorstep, a range within the great Purcell Mountains – the Rockies are just across the valley. We joined many others who journey from around the world to hike and take on some serious climbing. My hiking partners promised that I would manage the ascent, but as is often the case, I’m the weakest link… the little engine that ‘hopefully can’.

    The hike’s end point was to a hut that has seemingly been dropped from the heavens onto a granite outcrop. Flanked by a glacier and granite spires piercing the clouds, the Conrad Kain hut will take us about four hours to reach. A little nervous, I comfort myself with my badge of honour; that eleven-day hike back in the day to the base camp of Annapurna in the Himalayas. There have been many hikes since, but gazing up to this ‘hut in the sky,’ it seems a little formidable.

    It begins easily enough, a gentle meander through aged forest and feathery ferns, past dainty wildflowers and lush meadows. That pleasant amble gives no indication of what will soon be asked of us. To tread carefully along steep granite steps and narrow edges. To grip chains for safety and ladder up a boulder. To climb higher and higher, the small green dot of the Kain hut ever-looming in the distance to encourage our progress.

    We break in much needed shade for lunch, a carpet of pine needles and knobbly tree roots our bench. We chat with other hikers and guides who encourage their charges up the mountain.

    Our unofficial guide is friend and neighbour, John Parker. John exudes calm encouragement, yet there is a task at hand and there isn’t time for idle dallying. But then, this was John’s work and his passion, the commitment to his lifelong career shows as he leads a steady way. “You’re doing great,” “Take small steps on the steep ascents”, he encourages me. By the fourth hour of the hike, I need all the inspiration I can muster.

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    My legs are seizing up. My back is aching. Thankfully, my breathing isn’t as bad as I feared, but I am now w i l l i n g each step, hoping for the end. And then, as if nature senses that it’s time, one of the most glorious views reveals itself. A meadow of wild flowers opens up, a crystal-clear melt-water torrent rushes from the glacier, and we cross a simple metal bridge to the final climb to the Conrad Kain hut. Without a doubt, it is one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever seen. Anywhere.

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    Perched on a granite prominence, the hut with its green arched roof contrasts with its backdrop of glaciers, vast fields of ice, rugged and cracked, harbouring crevasses of the deepest cobalt blue. The hut and the enveloping landscape beckons me as I trudge up the final metres. It seems to say, “You’ve made it, welcome!”

    The four of us unburden ourselves of our packs, add our climbing poles to the collection already outside the hut, and hug each other. “Well done, Terry Anne. You’ve achieved this,” John congratulates me. Sonya and Bruce do as well, and I admit to feeling like a school girl who has gained some respect from her teacher. Later that evening, I’ll hear more about John’s students and his career, but first we take in the buzz of the hut.

    We’ll join about thirty other people who will spend the night on mattresses lined edge to edge over two upper floors. Sleeping bags claim their spots. But it won’t be a quiet night, what with the snores of exhausted climbers or 2 am alarms set for pre-sunrise departures for distant climbs. Head lamps light the way, for many early trekkers, the hut a staging point for serious climbers. Ropes are wound, helmets wait at the ready, crampons packed, quick-draws checked and counted, ice picks hang nearby.

    The communal dining room, with its million-dollar view, is a place for sharing climbing stories and discussing routes, for reading and games, and replenishing weary bodies with freeze dried food. Though wonderfully, Bruce and Sonya on cooking duty would out do themselves – our dinner and breakfast warmed in the hut’s vast kitchen was just what my weary body needed.

    Happily, it’s happy-hour, Sonya and I retreat to the side of the hut, exhausted but gleeful. A tin of glacier-chilled wine is our reward… and of course, that view. Surely, Conrad Kain would approve of his eponymous mountain abode. They say that Kain brought glamour and imagination into the sport of mountaineering as few guides had before him.

    For nearly thirty years, the Austrian born guide, saw peaks as the personification of  beauty, as living entities to climb – firstly in Europe, then New Zealand and Canada. With his short, stocky stature, the climber achieved more than sixty first ascents, including the Bugaboo Spire in 1916 which now presides over us and the lesser spires like a grand citadel.

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    We exhilarate in this cathedral of nature, and while Bruce and John hike upwards to the Applebee camp for a closer view of the ‘citadel’, Sonya and I stay put, entranced by the view. I recall what I had read of Conrad Kain. He eventually settled nearby, largely earning his living as a trapper, a hunting guide and an outfitter. His passion for communing with nature was steadfast. Kain once wrote, “Life is so short, and I think one should make a good time of it if one can. The only thing I enjoy now is Nature, especially spring in the mountains, and letters from friends. Sometimes I think I have seen too much for a poor man.”

    Apparently Kain’s principles kept him poorer than he might have been and despite his achievements he sought no fame. With a grateful look across a beautiful alpine scene, he was known to have remarked, “It occurred to me that after all I was a rich man, even if I had no money.”

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    I feel that now. The sheer beauty of this view is truly priceless. And somehow, it’s all that much more special because of the effort invested in reaching it. As I watch climbers trek off to the campground, a rainbow of tents pitched on a natural rock plateau, and as others ready their gear, I understand this world a little more. I now appreciate why one of our sons and his girlfriend are passionate about hiking and climbing. I more easily see why, when my husband and another son came back from trekking in Nepal a number of months ago, Bruce remarked, “It’s the sheer uplift of the soul… being part of primal wilderness.”

    A few hours later we linger over our well-earned dinner that we had packed up the mountain. I ask John more about his career, surely a celebration of the great outdoors, as he helped design the curriculum for Outdoor Education Ontario, in his particular school. It offered high school students the opportunity to grow, to learn self-reliance, to move out of their comfort zone through outdoor pursuits.

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    John Parker

    “It might have been rock climbing, hiking, wayfinding, canoeing, winter camping or Nordic skiing. They learned confidence and independence. But I had hoops they had to jump through to earn their place on these trips; they were real achievements.”

    John relates the life-changing impact the program had on students, the passion he still feels as a retiree is clear. “Years later, I’ve had calls from former students wanting me to know that I inspired them to become teachers themselves. They’ve told me how the program turned their life around. You really bond when you’re in the wilderness, barriers drop and kids confide in you. And I made them journal their experiences for self-reflection.”

    As we listen to John reflect, I can’t imagine there isn’t one of us that doesn’t wish our children had been part of an outdoor education program. Our sons were avid sportsmen and yes, we were often outdoors, but studies show there is something intrinsic and vital about the connection, the challenges, and the healing of nature.

    It’s still light outside at 2200 meters and as much I’d love to stay awake to watch the moon rise over the whites of the glacier and the grand citadel, it’s difficult to keep my eyes open. It’s only 9 pm.

    The door opens and in bursts a climber, “Ah you’re back,” someone at the table exclaims in a German accent.

    “It was awesome, been out for 25 hours straight,” the climber says. He’s draped with ropes and his tired but satisfied smile speaks volumes.

    I say goodnight to my own climbing buddies, but realize I have just one more question for John.

    “Did your students call you Mr. Parker on these trips, in those outdoor classrooms?”

    John answered me in his usual charming, warm tone. “No, I was usually J.P.”

    “Ok, J.P, thanks for the day and leading the way… just amazing!”

    I don’t yet know, that descending tomorrow will be even worse than the climb. That I’ll take a tumble and that once I’m down the mountain I’ll gaze back up at it in awe. Already missing its serene and hallowed place.

    But for now, my aching legs climb the ladder to the loft and slip into the cocoon of my sleeping bag, joining the long rows of sated guests. But still no sight of the moon – only a glacier and a glorious granite spire to lull me to sleep. It takes about two minutes.

    Like those students of J.P’s, I feel a sense of achievement and fulfilment. Even though I had stepped out of my comfort zone, through this hike I have re-discovered what it means to be… home.

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    *Where The Clouds Can Go, by Conrad Kain, first published in 1935, is meant to be a very good read.