Tag Archives: Kimberley BC

A Very Happy New Year… filling, and cherishing the chest of memories

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Could there have been more of a contrast? Last New Year’s Eve found us in Delhi,  celebrating under an outdoor, chandelier-lit cabana. It was a warm, balmy evening and we had only just made it into the city for our reservation; eight-hour train delays from Agra will do that!

All seven of us (two girlfriends are part of our family) had donned our evening clothes, packed away the dusty traveller’s duds in which we had just toured Northern India, and appeared sparkling and ebullient for the New Year’s Eve dinner and dance. Throughout the evening, we reminisced over the wonders and the often troubling sights and encounters we had experienced together. It was a family adventure never to be forgotten, nor perhaps repeated.

This year was entirely different. Without Luke and Trixie, we were only five in this winter wonderland in Kimberley, British Columbia. We exchanged our ski gear, toques and warm gloves for smart-casual as we prepared our mountain home for the evening. To complete this festive gathering, we had welcomed family from Holland, along with my mom and dad. Neighbours dropped by for happy-hour and close friends stayed for the late dinner. There was Pictionary, crazy hats, impressive moonwalking and my husband, as ever, led us in Auld Lang Syne to formerly ring in the New Year. I was filled with the profound feeling that we were creating another cherished page for our family memory book.

As the years drift along, I’m reminded more and more that much of life is defined by how we gather and treasure memories. Something I read recently struck me as wisdom and truth. A woman in her nineties had poignantly professed:

“Each day is a gift, and as long as my eyes open, I’ll focus on the new day and all the happy memories I’ve stored away, just for this time in my life. Old age is like a bank account, you withdraw from what you’ve put in.”

This has resonated deeply with me on the threshold of 2019. I saw firsthand how true this is; for even as we celebrated and revelled in the beautiful snowy surroundings, we seven (including our two in Slovenia) reminisced time and again over our Indian adventure. Perhaps it was partly because that was the last time all seven of us were together as one.

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“Thinking about all the memories of last year and looking forward to the next time we get to share together,” Ayla wrote just before she and our son Andrew arrived home on the 27th.

“Love you guys! Sending big hugs,” Trixie added from Slovenia. On New Years’s Day, Luke chimed in with, “Dad, hope you sang Auld Lang Syne at the top of your lungs to ring in the new year, though it would be hard to beat last year’s performance.”

Yes, last year’s rendition had been during that celebration in Dehli when Bruce had joined the band to sing his treasured version of Robbie Burns classic words – as perhaps only a true Scots-Canadian can.

So despite the superb ski days, impromptu snow angels, terrific tobagganning, woodsy trampings and fireside chats, memories of last year were never far from our minds.

Since that eventful Indian journey, this past year we have come together in various countries, yet never all at once. It was an often challenging and difficult year, yet eventful, exciting and also truly joyous in which we were privileged to live and share on three different continents. Now, as we transition, in the short-term at least, from our global life, we look forward to more simple times in our Canadian home base. We’re excited for the new year, but unsure where it will lead as we open doors to new opportunities and adventures – and yes, perhaps another country.

So this year’s family photo doesn’t picture all of us in front of an iconic landmark such as the Taj Mahal. No, we’re more incognito in our ski helmets, or informal and relaxed over apres-ski drinks. Come to think of it, despite our best intensions to take a ‘nice family photo’, we somehow didn’t manage it. Was it perhaps subconscious as two of us were missing? I have a feeling it was.

With further words of wisdom from that cherished ninety-two year old woman, she counselled:

“So, my advice to you would be to deposit a lot of happiness in the bank account of memories.”

Let’s make 2019 a year to be mindful of memories, to be truly present and appreciative of each experience as it happens. This is the material from which our memories are carved, no matter how seemingly simple or extravagant they may be.

And so, as we celebrated on New Year’s Eve with those who were near, I messaged those far away; “I too have been thinking of last year. We’ll set a reunion for us all as soon as we can; this mother’s heart is yearning for that time.”

For now, I have a treasure chest of beautiful memories and the anticipation of creating many more. May we all be blessed to have the same.

A very Happy New Year Dear Readers!

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Luke and Trixie blog from Slovenia, and other points known at: https://www.howlblog.ca

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Canadian Summer… a passion for mountain towns, Whistler and Kimberley

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For now, I’ve bid farewell to my home in Canada. To my pine trees and my deck, perfectly-placed for moon and star gazing. To a place where the long summer evenings are precious with friends and family. It’s a home, and a town, that ever welcomes me when I return.

Now back in India, the inevitable week of adjustment is always my reality. I reconcile that I can’t jump into my vehicle and cruise the mountain roads or simply walk and breathe the fresh air. I already miss chats with family and not relying on Skype dates. Still, this past week was reserved to get over jet-lag and savour a little time before life gets busy for the rest of the year: final editing on a new book project, an upcoming visit from a dear friend, a retreat to Penang in November and the arrival of family for Christmas. But for just a few more days, I let vignettes of a Canadian summer play in my mind…

 

DSCF5086A passion for trains…for a mountain lifestyle

Kai looked very much the part in his striped train conductor’s hat. Greeting each passenger one by one as they stepped down from the pristine and impressive Rocky Mountaineer, Kai delighted them with a ‘high five’ and a warm “Hello!”

“You’re the little fellow we were told about,” one gentleman remarked. “So I hear you really love this train?” Kai nodded with a broad smile.

The picturesque station for the Rocky Mountaineer is just south of Whistler, British Columbia. We watched the train round the bend, and ease its massive weight to a halt along the edge of Nita Lake.

We were sojourning on its waterfront at The Lodge at Nita Lake. An idyllic place where canoes and kayaks tether to the Lodge’s private dock. We ventured out on early morning paddles – ducks floated gracefully in a line, loons called in the morning mist and a black bear browsed for berries at the water’s edge.

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That afternoon we had cycled along the trails to Whistler, passing families canoeing and picnicking by the water’s edge. As we cycled from lake to lake, we came upon sculptures set in the lush riparian forest and kayakers paddling lazily through waterways. On emerald green waters a floatplane waited alongside a canoe – emblematic of Whistler’s coveted lifestyle.

And if you’re fortunate, you’ll spy another black bear up close. We rolled up to a group of cyclists stopped on the trail. “Wouldn’t go any further,” a local cautioned, motioning to a healthy-sized bear in the bushes up ahead. It was our second sighting of the day, a reminder that Whistler is very much their territory.

“Think we should leave that big guy alone”, the friendly cyclist suggested, hopping back on his bike. “Come on, I’ll show you a different trail.” We cycled further and saw more of the postcard-perfect town, quiet and serene, away from the multitude of tourists – a peek into the daily life of a local. It was late afternoon by this time and I was conscious that the Rocky Mountaineer would soon be arriving at Nita Lake Lodge.

 

As the impressive train slowed into the station just after 6 pm, I immediately noticed Kai. He went about his unofficial duties conscientiously – rolling out the red carpet, raising the Canadian flag then that of British Columbia, then positioning himself to welcome the travellers.

“This little guy is here every chance he gets,” Janice Bondi, the train’s manager remarked with affection. “You’d be surprised how many regulars we have at each stop.” As I watched Kai, I couldn’t imagine a more committed train lover.

 

As his father watched proudly nearby, I knew there was a reason why I too wanted to greet this iconic train in the Rocky Mountains. Its arrival evoked a sense of that slower, older lifestyle that early pioneers must have experienced. Witnessing the passion of a boy named Kai, made it a little bit more special.

 

A passion for Whistler, and for hats

Like me, Erik is fond of hats and considers himself fortunate to work with his passion. It was easy to warm to his friendly and engaging nature. “I ordered my first hat when I was ten years old,” he explained, “I like that you can customize your outfit with just a different hat.”

And Erik knows them well: beanies, flat caps, fedoras, buckets, suns, cowboys and of course the iconic Canadian toque. The Hat Gallery in the heart of Whistler is a place to try something different, or stick with what you love – it’s always a fedora for me.

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“What kind of a pinch do you like in your fedora?” Erik asked as he scanned his displays. He patiently searched and suggested, all the while exuding an obvious love of his job. We found the fedora up high on a shelf – yes it was the perfect choice.

Erik is Canadian and admittedly a bit of an anomaly in Whistler’s workforce. The ski town has attracted thousands of young workers from other countries, especially from Australia and the U.K. I was told that most arrive with a two year work visa, but start the process of becoming a resident almost immediately. It’s an easy decision for them. They choose Whistler for the lifestyle – skiing, paddling, hiking and a mountain that transforms into a biker’s dream in the summer months.

 

Whistler’s pedestrian-friendly town is lively with tourists from all corners of the globe. Enticed by the allure of the mountains, the activities, the cool bars and restaurants, it attracts millions of tourists yearly and has grown beyond all expectations.

Two tribes of First Nations shared this territory before trappers, traders and loggers arrived in the mid 1800’s. All would change when the Phillips, a young couple from the United States, opened a fishing lodge in 1914. Rainbow Lodge enjoyed great success, especially renowned for its fishing package...return train trip from Vancouver, 2 nights at the lodge and fishing for $6.00…

DSCF5057 (1)Visitors could also hike and horseback ride, enjoy a paddle on Alta Lake, or play with Teddy, Mrs. Philips’s pet bear. Myrtle Philips was the pillar of this new community that would eventually spread to nearby Whistler.

A ski hill developed in the ’60’s, a smattering of houses and the village itself in the early ’70’s. When the town needed a centre, town planner Eldon Beck planned a pedestrian village “where one could get lost, where things flowed like a river.” He could not have foreseen the success the mountain city would one day enjoy – being part-host to the 2010 Winter Olympics certainly helped. The Olympic rings are a tourist draw in themselves, a must-have backdrop for photos and selfies.

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Whether it was Erik or other young people I met who couldn’t imagine leaving this outdoor haven, the passion for life in Whistler is palpable.

And of passion, there was one more stop to make. The new Audain Art Museum – ‘where art meets nature, nature meets art’. It is a fine collection of Northwest Coastal Masks, Emily Carr paintings and more. I have a great admiration for the gifted, if wonderfully eccentric, Canadian icon. The Audain is iconic as well. Designed as a modern day longhouse and raised above the forest floor, seemingly one with the trees in which it nestles, it is a recent addition to Whistler’s cultural mix – already an essential counterpoint anchoring the proud past to the present.

 

The pride of a ‘forever hometown’…

We enjoyed a quintessential summer road trip from Whistler, back through Vancouver, and eastward toward the Okanagan, Canada’s wine region, a detour to Banff, and back to our own mountain town in the interior of BC. Like Whistler, not only is Kimberley a ski town, it’s a summer feast of bike trails, golf courses, rivers and lakes. For us this town anchors our peripatetic life. It represents warmth and stability, the place we chose for our family home.

 

 

When a ski trip took us to the small city of 7,000 or so, we were immediately smitten. Situated in the Purcell Mountains with the Rockies as its backdrop, it seemed like an easy choice and we resolved that no matter where we live in the world, this is where we’d return to.

Kimberley was once home to the largest lead-zinc mine in the world and has long been a community that welcomes newcomers. The Scandiavians pioneered our first ski-hill, the Germans and Austrians gave us our Bavarian-themed town centre, the Platzl. It is a setting where, on a Saturday afternoon, you’re as likely to meet a barber-shop quartet as a party of golfers in town for a weekend foray. Kimberley might well be known as a golf and ski destination, but people are drawn to this mountain town for many more reasons. Increasingly young families are choosing Kimberley for its lifestyle, a place to raise children in a safe and active community. But then that is nothing new to generations of settlers.

 

I met Clarence, serenading visitors about to board the Kimberley Underground Mining Railway. Commuter trains no longer run to Kimberley, but this small train wends its way up the ski hill, or tours into the now closed Cominco Mine.

 

Clarence was playing ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes’, rather fitting considering the wildfires that rendered the mountains hazy through some of the summer. He flashed a wide grin as I identified the song and again when he heard I was an accordion player too. I asked Clarence how long he’s played.

“Oh since I was ten or so,” he remarked speaking fondly of his instrument, then assuring me that he loves keeping the tourists happy. “About ten-thousand rode this little train last year…good for the town.”

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Clarence shared that he has been here, ‘a long while’, drawn here from a neighbouring province. I also made small-talk with the conductor as he waited for the 11 am tour to fill up.

“Are you from Kimberley?” I asked.

“I’ve been here for years, where else would I live?” I’m told matter-of-factly. People here get a little protective about this city, one of the highest in Canada – 1100 meters of altitude and only one stop-light. I hear this kind of unbridled hometown sentiment time and again. As Sonya, a good friend of mine, often comments, “Don’t get me started about how much I love this place.” She and her husband retired here three years ago and it quickly became their ‘forever hometown’.

Like Whistler, Kimberley has its share of locals who are passionate about their jobs and businesses. I’ve long been welcomed home by Robin and delight in her refined taste of home and kitchen wares she offers in her store, Grater Good. 

And I love the quirky and eclectic goods at Old Koots. “Hey Terry Anne, welcome home,” Janet and Wendy greet me as I wander through their door, hoping for that one-of-a-kind find.

The date for my hair appointment at Wolfy’s is always booked the minute I get into the country. While Kellie and her mother Pat fill me in on the latest news, I sink back into the small town vibe and delight in the scene…yes, it’s a little like the set of Steel Magnolias.

 

I stop in at Caprice’s Fine Art Studio to admire her latest works. Caprice and I share the love of art-books and of Emily Carr. We even share the same hometowns, our original, and now our adopted. “Sometimes you just know when something is right,” Caprice tells me.

 

I find myself at my favourite coffee shop, Bean Tree. With its retro furniture, its door always propped open by a ski boot, and its antler-adorned fireplace, its charming atmosphere typifies this unique town.

With friends and family having come and gone, it was time to pack and ‘close up’ the house. And with that, I only just remembered to grab my new hat from its perch on the antlers at Bean Tree. I’ll need it for the days ahead in India. The pattern of my life continues…

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A finely stacked woodpile, skating in the Canadian outdoors…welcoming the New Year

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“Birch is most definitely the cadillac of wood, kept us warm growing up,” Ian tells me, fondly recalling winters of his prairie youth. We and a dozen others are gathered around a crackling bonfire in British Columbia on New Year’s Eve day. Stacked in the fresh snow is a pile of wood …readied to keep the fire ablaze.

Despite a temperature of -12 Celsius, the late afternoon gathering is lively and it feels perfectly natural to socialize in the beautiful outdoors. Neighbours wander up with a drink and a ‘Happy New Year’ on their lips, many clutching a pair of skates.

For beyond the fresh air and the chance to greet friends, the other attraction is the open-air skating rink. A few meters from where we’re gathered, the glassy stretch of ice beckons as keenly as a deep-blue pool of water…if you’re a skater that is.

Skating on outdoor ice is a hallmark of Canadian winters, about as idyllic as it gets. Two of my sons are with us and they can’t get their skates on fast enough. Having played hockey in various countries we’ve called home – Oman, Dubai, Norway, the U.S. – the opportunity to strap on the ‘blades’ in the Canadian outdoors is part of their identity. But perhaps that is over-thinking it… it’s just unbridled joy.

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Snow shovels ready at the outdoor rink, near Kimberley BC

They glide and weave effortlessly over the frozen pond. They and longtime friends grab hockey sticks and shoot pucks at the net, shouting into the cold December air, Feels so great to be out here! For a longtime hockey mom, it is music to my ear-muffed ears on this last day of 2016.

We’ve delighted in seeing countless outdoor rinks this holiday season in the small towns in our area…Cranbrook, Fernie and Kimberley. This is what you do. It’s how many families spend time together, building traditions all the while. Perhaps the rink is the setting for a date or where you just ‘hang out’ and meet friends. Or maybe you play a game of shinny – pond hockey – with whoever happens to be around. It’s all of this and more; it’s part of being from the ‘great white north’. This is where the deep and abiding love of skating and hockey is born in the hearts of many Canadians.

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Skating in Fernie, BC

My own boys learned to skate on Grandpa’s pond. On visits home for Christmas the first question was usually, “How’s the ice Grandpa, can we skate?” If the answer was ‘yes’, out came the wide snow shovels. Back and forth they were pushed, clearing the snow for action…anticipation rising as each strip of ice revealed itself.

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A Sunday afternoon in Cranbrook, BC

Countless hours were spent with family on that frozen wonderland. The grind and rasp of metal blades on the uneven surface, the crack and thunk of a flexing ice sheet, the elated shouts of kids at play, the bark of dogs chasing the puck…the sounds of winter ingrained in our memories. And now for life, the guys can enjoy a day like today and feel at home on the ice.

With dusk approaching, more people arrive and I smile at a small girl on the bench at the edge of the ice. Her mother is lacing up her figure skates and she’s clearly excited. The ice is busy, yet the skaters will be mindful of a beginner; memories of learning how to skate stay with you. It’s tough. You stumble, you fall, you get back up over and over again until you get it. And then, like riding a bike, the sense of freedom and satisfaction it brings is thrilling.

Back at the bonfire, I continue the discussion of wood with Ian and our good friend Nolan.img_1740 The brothers grew up in Saskatchewan where a weighty stack of wood got you through the biting cold winters.

“Birch is ideal,” the two confirm, adding some science to their assertion. “It doesn’t spit, good energy density and it burns hot.”

I admit that I had ‘smuggled’ some ornamental birch logs into my shipment when we left Norway and on reflection, it had always burned well in our classic Norwegian fireplace.

Some treasured pieces of it now happen to be part of my decor in India, of all places. Perhaps like the wooden skis propped in our office, the birch reminds me of my roots. Of growing up in cold winters; in the snow, on a ski hill, on the ice and yes, often huddled cozily around a fireplace. But there’s far more to wood than meets the eye. “Did you know that the chopping and stacking of wood can be a bit of an obsession in Norway, even takes on an art form,” I offer as someone adds more pinewood to the bonfire.

Yes, apparently it’s common knowledge that wood will dry well if there’s enough space for a mouse to run hither and tither throughout the pile. And stacking that wood is not to be taken lightly. Different types of wood should be stacked accordingly and in Norway, besides the practical piles like a sun-wall pile, there’s a round stack, a closed square, a standing round stack or the v-shape pile. Who knew?

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There are also the sculptured woodpiles. I have learned that wood, with its complex hues, also offers an outlet for creativity that one might not expect. The end of a pice of oak is a deep brown. Pine and spruce radiate yellow tones with a little help from the sun, whereas cut ends of elm, aspen and maple display as muted whites. And apparently the rich alder is also a sought-after shade for stacking aficionados.

It seems there’s no end to woodsy creativity, One might ‘sculpt’ a massive fish or even a portrait of the king and queen. I recall that while we lived in Stavanger a retired engineer had created a woodpile portrait of Queen Sonja and King Harold V, in tribute of the king’s seventy-fifth birthday. This masterpiece had been preceded by a portrait of a composer and a likeness of the local mayor. How wonderful to find creativity in wood (and gain a bit of notoriety!)

Yet if it that all sounds a little mundane, there is something far more rousing about woodpiles. “Ok gentlemen,” I joke with my friends at the bonfire, “by any chance did your prospective wives happen to inspect your woodpile before they said yes?” There’s a reason I’m asking of course.

In the late nineteenth century in the American state of Maine, it is reported that young women might determine the suitability of a husband by the condition of his woodpile. Call it a folksy tradition or not, but the general rule was thus:

img_3066Upright and solid pile: the same could be said of the man.

Low pile: a good cautious man but could be shy or weak.

Unusual shape: freethinking and maybe an open spirit but construction could be weak.

Not much wood: be ready for a life from hand to mouth.

Unfinished pile, some logs here and there: unstable, lazy, maybe prone to drink?

Old and new wood together: be suspicious, might be some stolen wood there.

No woodpile: forget it, there must be more suitable candidates!

I think of the wood pile at the back of our mountain home. No it surely isn’t perfect, but the wood has been enthusiastically chopped. At our house you never have to ask twice to have firewood, our guys relish the opportunity to channel their inner woodsman. There’s no question they find a certain satisfaction in the process.

It is said that chopping your own wood is therapeutic and contemplative, even atavistic. A chance to wield an axe, use brute power – a gratifying correlation between effort and output.

Back in 1854 in his book Walden, Henry Thoreau extolled the virtues of not only chopping wood but living a simple life in natural surroundings. It was Thoreau who observed that wood warms twice over, once when you chop it and again when you burn it.

A seemingly simple observation that just happens to be inscribed on a small cushion in our home. Filled with pine needles, it evokes the spirit of the outdoors and nature’s simple pleasures.

I’m curious to see how our neighbourhood measures up in the wood stacking department. I notice finely-stacked woodpiles and logs waiting to be split and chopped, all protected by snow-clad trees and cabin eaves. This is the kind of place where snowboards, skis, snowshoes and sleds lean against houses, fond embrace of the mountain lifestyle. It’s where snow piles high, gathering on roofs and resting on tamarack, pine and birch. Indeed, the reminders are everywhere…embrace nature’s beauty.

We said our farewells, hung up the snowshoes and covered our not-so finely stacked woodpile. Now from our other home in India, restored to face the challenges and the new opportunities the year will bring, I wish you all a joyful and fulfilled New Year. I hope you’ll revel in the beauty of nature…wherever you may be…Terry Anne

An autumn of colour, a discovery of the Ktunaxa people…part one

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“Dappled with crimson, copper and golden leaves”

There are times when a story travels along an unexpected path, bringing you to a place you were hesitant, yet curious to venture into. Once enveloped and drawn into its emotion, you know you must share it.

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Fall, against a blue metal roof

I set out with the intention of writing something less significant than the story that unfolded. I simply wanted to convey the splendour of autumn in Kimberley and the East Kootenays.

This broad valley, book-ended by the Purcell mountains and the Rockies, is ablaze with colour. Nature has dappled crimson, copper and golden leaves onto a backdrop of stately pines and tall firs…a vast Monet canvas, breathtaking in its scale. Evening skies parade spectacular vistas as alpenglow brushes lavender and indigo over jagged peaks. Each dusk comes just that little bit earlier as autumn settles in and winter looms.

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Hues of autumn

It’s unusual that I’m here to appreciate this season. This time last year I had just joined my husband in Kazakhstan and recall yearning for the hues and trappings of autumn.

It’s now before me; a riot of nature, a time of harvest and impending hibernation. I marvel at the changes in our yard/garden where deep ruby leaves cling to barbed branches, nature’s natural deer proofing. Delicate red maple leaves flutter onto the lawn, each one cookie-cutter perfect. I see the familiar doe grazing nearby. Her two fauns have grown through the summer, their white Bambi-like patches now replaced by a thick coat that will warm them through the first winter.

A trail of delicate leaves

A trail of delicate leaves

And so I’ve revelled in these tranquil days…treasuring time with friends and family, savouring walks through fallen leaves, climbing the ski hill to be awed and inspired. An early dusting of snow on the mountains hints at nature’s march of the seasons.

In the spirit of autumn, I sign up for a canning workshop. We chop plump tomatoes, garlic, onions and luscious peppers. Large steaming canning pots transform the colourful chunks into flavourful homemade salsa. We work together to sieve the recipe into tiny mason jars, dunking them back into boiling water to preserve.

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Plump tomatoes and luscious peppers

Mason jars of prized preserves

Throughout the evening we laugh and learn with new people. I meet Dirk from Wildsight. He and his colleagues work within the community to protect regional ecology and promote sustainable lifestyles. Organizing grass-root events and workshops along with the Kimberley Farmer’s Market, Wildsight champions many issues that locals are passionate about.

As we leave the workshop with our prized preserves, Dirk implores us to use the Open Gate Garden, a communal vegetable patch.

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Kimberley Open Gate Garden

“You don’t have to work in it, but there’s still vegetables to be had,” he says encouragingly. Taking him on his word, the next day I fill a small basket of tasty sharp arugula and leafy kale. I chide myself that I hadn’t known about the garden throughout the summer but resolve to do some weeding here next summer. A meagre contribution for the opportunity to pick fresh produce at will. Vegetable gardens in Kimberley are typically fenced from the groups of deer that roam and help themselves to weeds, flowers and those elusive veggies.

The mingling of reds

The mingling of reds

Colours beckon at every turn. Metal roofs of reds, greens and blues cap many buildings in Kimberley; vivid backdrops for the changing foliage. More importantly metal sheeting is practical, helping shed the thick blankets of winter snow…to be honest the odd spring or autumn snowfall as well!

“Vivid backdrops for the changing foliage”

This technique of roofing, adapted in Quebec in the late 18th century, was referred to as ‘metal roofing Canadian style.’ Wonderfully they suit this mountain town. Actually Kimberley is a small city, competing with a few others as the city with the highest elevation in Canada.

On one of those rare Sundays that I’m alone, I drive a short while and take a walk on a warm, cloudless afternoon. With my tinkling bear bell and pepper-spray ready at my hip, I climb a butte, an almost conical hill rising from the valley floor. It’s a walk that invites reflection…it overlooks the traditional land of the Ktunaxa, the Kootenay.

I gaze out over barbed wire and faded green fence posts, out to distant horses grazing in tawny fields. The majestic Rocky Mountains rise above this ancestral home of the Ktunaxa. I’ve tramped through here before but today I linger, conjuring an image of a time when horses roamed free and tipis dotted the landscape.

Looking out the land of the Ktunaxa

Gazing out to the land of the Ktunaxa

A mere 130 years ago, this land was all theirs. They were not nomadic people ‘just passing through’. They had hunted, fished and gathered in this territory for more than 10,000 years. The Ktunaxa lived a spiritual life, in complete rhythm with the land. Obtaining all their food, medicine, clothing and shelter from nature, their reverence for this land was rooted in their culture. Then it all changed…abruptly.

A few days later, I find myself on their reserve, ostensibly to take a few photos. Or was it with the hope that I’d learn something, draw someone into conversation, make a connection?

St. Eugene Mission Church

St. Eugene Mission Church

I meet Dorothy Alpine.

I drive into the ‘new’ school yard of the Ktunaxa. The playground is alive with chatter. The school is attractive with its basic architecture, standing in the shadow of St. Eugene Mission Church. I take photos of the church and its fading white facade. Its precarious yet enduring steeple and crosses, all set against an impossibly blue sky. Built in 1897, it seems out of place on this patch of open prairie, encircled by low rolling hills that merge into the mountains beyond.

I soon chat with a lady enjoying the afternoon sun and casually ask about the history of the church. I broach that other subject; the old school, the former ‘Indian Residential School’ across the road.

“You’re in luck!” she tells me. “There’s Dorothy driving up, she’s the one you should speak to.”

I’m introduced and Dorothy graciously invites me into the school. As the Traditional Knowledge and Culture Instructor for this tribe of the Ktunaxa, the St. Mary’s band, she is committed to preserving the history and culture of her people. She is petite with a warm smile and kind eyes.

A steadfast steeple and crosses

steeple and crosses

“This was all the St. Eugene Mission,” Dorothy says, the sweep of her hand indicating not only the church, but also encompassing the cluster of wooden houses and tipis that surrounded it at the end of the 19th century.

“Right here was the meeting place of our people, the tribes of the Ktunaxa whose land stretched to the areas of Creston, Fairmont, Windermere and into Alberta, Montana, Washington and Idaho.” I would later read it was a vast 70,000 square kilometres of land; the size of Scotland.

Dorothy takes the time to write the names of the other ‘bands’ in the Ktunaxa language. Zaq’am she writes for St. Eugene Village.

Dorothy Alpine, framed by a colourful rendition of the 'new' school

Dorothy Alpine, with a colourful painting of the ‘new’ school

“Back in my grandfather’s time, about 1884, there was already a one room school that the missionaries had set up. Eventually Father Coccola was put in charge here.”

Father Nicolas Coccola was French and ventured to the ‘wilds’ of Western Canada in 1881. He would ultimately spend 63 years as a missionary, working with eight different First Nation Tribes. Tasked with the charge of St. Eugene Mission in 1887, Father Coccola also taught, provided medical attention and built houses. He had the help of the Sisters of Providence.

“They did a lot of good,” Dorothy says, “but we didn’t adapt well to houses. Our houses were mostly tipis, we had the first mobile homes after all,” she quips with a chuckle.

“Is it true that Father Coccola built the St. Eugene church, I hear most of it was transported from Italy?”

“Yes that’s true but it wasn’t just him, there was Indian Pete as well.”

I learn that soon after Coccola arrived in the area he staked a claim with a partner, Pierre Cronin, or Indian Pete as he was known. They had discovered valuable ore. Before long the St. Eugene mine yielded a good return, allowing both men to contribute to the the building of St. Eugene Mission Church.

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Explaining the creation story of the Ktunaxa

Dorothy explains that despite the Ktunaxa’s creation story, they believe that different beliefs are all under one God. Going to church was therefore a continuation of their spiritual experience to some extent and most importantly, a meeting place.

The Government and the arrival of European settlers had not only stripped the First Nations of vast amounts of land (which led to Indian Reserves) but also of their right to hold traditional gatherings and ceremonies, such as the potlatch. Thus for many of the Ktunaxa, the church was very much a compromise for what they had lost.

The Mission grew into a self-supporting community with the first flour mill in the region, a school and hospital. Yet I know that things changed drastically in 1912; the year that St. Eugene Mission School was built.

Residential schools were established by the government with the intent of ‘taking the Indian out of the child’ and assimilation to the ‘white man’s culture’. The St. Eugene Mission was the first comprehensive ‘Industrial and Residential’ school to be built in the Canadian West.

It’s a striking Spanish-Colonial style building that rises abruptly out of the prairie, incongruous even in its stately beauty. I’m well aware that the walls of these former Residential schools hold stories that are difficult to comprehend.

“Dorothy did you go to the school?”

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St. Eugene Mission area in the late 1800’s

“Oh yes and my two sisters as well, we had no choice. Our parents would have gone to jail if we hadn’t.”

I learn that Federal law dictated that all First Nation children were to attend Residential schools; to be assimilated and stripped of their language, culture, even their families.

But Dorothy relates mostly good stories of learning the basics and valuable skills.

“Some of the nuns were better teachers than others, I remember singing away most of grade 5, didn’t learn much that year.”

When I ask how often she was allowed to see her parents, Dorothy tells me that it was only the third Sunday of each month, and two months in the summer. She doesn’t dwell on it and brings the conversation back to the present-day.

“Things are getting better. Our children are learning but also exposed to their own language and culture again. We hold pow wows every summer, we’re trying to move forward.”

After expressing my thanks and taking leave, the storied building across the road beckons to me. It didn’t close until 1970 when the government changed their policy. A plan to turn it into a facility for psychiatric care faltered. Stripped of its original fixtures and artifacts, it lay abandoned for more than twenty years; a constant reminder for the Ktunaxa people of that dark period.

Eventually the Ktunaxa, the Samson Cree Nation and Chippewa’s of Rama First Nations formed a partnership. Since the early 2000’s, the transformed building has welcomed people far and wide as the St. Eugene Mission Resort, Golf Course and Casino.

It’s a success story of healing, through rebuilding. By sheer determination and tenacity, an old Indian Residential School has become a powerful economic engine, but not before families and former students were invited back to confront and lay the ghosts of the past.

Dorothy had made this very clear. “Our beloved elder Mary Paul gave us the strength to go forward.” In 1984, Elder Paul had declared, “Since it was within St. Eugene Mission School that the culture of the Kootenay Indian was taken away, it should be within that building that it is returned.”

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The St. Eugene Mission with Fisher Peak rising in its shadow

It’s late afternoon by now and I walk almost reverently through the Resort. The walls of the former school have been stripped down to the original reddish brick and they do seem to talk. Many beautifully framed black and white photos from the school days are arranged along the solid walls; I have a thousand questions. I sit in the cozy Fisher Peak lounge, the Peak itself framed brilliantly through the tall paned windows.

I ask the waitress if she knew what this room had been in the school.

“If you want to know more, you should speak to Gordie, our night watchman. His father came here, as did he. He knows pretty much everything.”

At that point, I want the full story to unfold full circle. Around me people are dining and enjoying a drink, staff members both First Nations and non, work side by side. Great strides have been made.

I leave my number, hopeful, but not fully expecting a call. My phone rings at 7:15 the next morning.

It’s Gordie. “I just got off work and was given your number. I hear you want to come for a tour and talk.”

I arrive at 10 that morning, notebook in hand…I leave at 3 in the afternoon.

To be continued….

Alpenglow on the Rockies

Alpenglow on the Rockies

52 Countries and a year that is new…with abundance

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Serenity and reflection while snowshoeing

It seems there’s been an underlying theme this holiday at our home in the mountains; good food and fine wine are a given. But snowshoeing and more snowshoeing, has allowed me unexpected serenity. The snow on the ski hill has been somewhat lacking and so we’ve been strapping on the ‘shoes’ and happily meandering through the nearby golf course and Kimberley Nature Park. The neighbourhood gals and I have also been out and when we’re not chatting, my prevailing thought is of the year that has passed. As I soak in the vistas and admire the snow laden pines, I reflect and give thanks that my dream of writing a blog came to pass.

A New Year’s message from Word Press included a summary of the first year of notes on a boarding pass and those 20,000 plus written words only have meaning if someone reads them.  And thankfully you have. In fact, I know that you readers are from 52 different countries, thus far.  Imagine how inspiring this is for me, to envision that somewhere in Russia, Estonia or Botswana for example, my blog was discovered and read…literally, it means the world to me.

I know who some of my readers are of course, but many others I do not.  I don’t see who you are when you view a post, but I can see the country that you’re reading from. If you’re curious how a reader ‘finds’ my blog, one way is from the ‘tags’ that I note on each post which materialize in internet searches. I myself recently researched something online and one of my articles popped up, somewhat surreal I can assure you!

The unexpected joy of writing a blog is the communication it opens up with people.  It seems I traveled ‘around’ the world this past year with stops in the U.K., Denmark, Sweden, France, The Netherlands, U.S., Turkey, Kazakhstan, Malaysia, Thailand and Hong Kong.  So perhaps, dear reader, I met you in one of those countries.

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Snow laden pines in Kimberley

There was the lovely German lady on the train to London and unfortunately we didn’t begin chatting until just before the train approached Paddington Station. There was an immediate connection and I was able to give her my card before we reluctantly bid farewell, “You can have a look at my blog if you’re ever bored,” I said with a parting smile as we each disappeared our own way from the busy platform.

I recall the charming Londoner I met while on the Dickens tour , there were many questions I wanted to ask him. Unfortunately, time doesn’t always permit this and yet I was pleased to have met him, if only briefly. Not long after, he graciously sent a note to notes on a boarding pass. 

There also was the beguiling young person in the cafe in Malaysia who was interested in my travels, as was the couple in Thailand while we chatted over a beer as we sheltered from the midday downpour. There have been so many chance encounters and happily for me, people are receptive and curious.

“How are you able to travel so frequently?

“Do you plan what you write about or is it an inspiration that comes to you?”

“Don’t you get tired of living out of a suitcase for much of the year?”  (yes to that one!)

And pleasingly there are people here at home who are supportive and follow notes on a boarding pass.  One such lovely lady is a vibrant eighty-two year old whose birthday I had the good fortune of celebrating just as I arrived back to Canada this holiday season.  I was in transition as a few days earlier I had traded my sandals and sun dresses for winter boots and sweaters. Donna Lee took my hand in hers and said warmly, “Thank you Terry Anne for the opportunity to travel with you through your blog. I read every one of them, those interesting insights to places that most of us will never experience.” It warmed my heart and I think we both might have had a tear in our eye.

It means so much to hear sentiments such as these, as I have from many of you whether it’s in person or through a written message. And when I do, I know writing is worthwhile…and it also gives back to me. That was predicted by a dear friend of mine as I procrastinated and swithered a few  years ago.

I was on a Skype call to Pamela, she in France, myself in Norway.

“Where’s your blog, you’ve thought about it for a year now,” She admonished me with a stern but encouraging voice.  Pamela is a life coach and was justifiably focused on my procrastination.

“I know, but I can’t decide on a name for it, I’ve got so many ideas…Bloom Where You’re Transplanted, A Collection Called Life, A Passion for Life, Planes Trains and Notebooks,” I lamented.

“Just pick one and get on with it, this is called paralysis by analysis.  It’s time to do it, it will bring you such fulfilment and abundance…”

It was that word abundance, it stuck with me and Pamela was right. This blog, nine months young, has brought me such joy and abundance. Along with the research, travel and writing, it’s also the connection with people that has been more gratifying than I could have imagined; the satisfaction of making an impression, imparting or learning something new, inspiring someone wherever they may be.

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The vista we ‘shoe’ to…the Rocky Mountains in British Columbia

My resolution last year did come true and this year my hope is to secure more articles for publication and then there’s that ‘darn book’ to spend more time on. That is my wish and I hope that whatever resolution you have committed to becomes a reality for you this year.  As I know, sometimes it can take longer than expected and often it can seem like an insurmountable challenge, just as this blog once seemed to me. But as I can attest, when you stretch and challenge yourself just that little, you can bloom in unexpected ways.

I’ll be returning to Kazkhstan at the end of the month, however it will be a short ‘stint’ as it seems we’ll be off to live in a different country in the spring. Yes, dear reader, perhaps more adventures in store, more intrigues to write about. Ah, by the way, how did I finally decide on that seemingly difficult task of naming my blog?

There I was in Amsterdam last February, out for dinner, chatting and absent mindedly making notes on a piece of paper all the while. As I arrived at Schiphol Airport the next morning for my flight, I dug out my e ticket boarding pass. Surely it can’t be this piece of paper marked with notes? It was indeed and I remember thinking once and for all, that’s it…notes on a boarding pass. Pamela was pleased and I had finally stopped procrastinating!

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Abundance

I’m ever so relieved I did. But for now, I wish you a new year full with dreams realized and much abundance in whatever you hope it to be. Happy New Year, wherever you may be in one of those 52 countries…and I truly do thank you.  Terry Anne

 

P.S.  And of those other two questions?

I’m able to travel so frequently partly due to my husband’s work locations and a commitment I made to myself as an ’empty nester’  to seek out new experiences and inspirations.

Of inspiration?  Everything I’ve mentioned inspires me and most blogs formulate in my mind for a week or two. Perhaps others for months such as the post previous to this one. The sheer joy of it all; even I don’t know where the next one will take me!

And those countries…just in case you’re curious

Canada
United States
United Kingdom
Norway
Kazakhstan
Netherlands
France
Thailand
United Arab Emiretes
Malaysia
Russian Federation
Italy
Australia
Germany
Japan
Singapore
Denmark
Spain
Indonesia
Qatar
Sweden
Switzerland
India
Philippines
Finland
Bahamas
Jordan
Botswana
Lao People’s Democratic Republic
Mexico
New Zealand
Korea, Republic of
Hong Kong
Panama
Portugal
Turkey
Kenya
Brazil
Israel
Hungary
Colombia
Sri Lanka
Belgium
Slovenia
Isle of Man
Cambodia
Oman
Brunei Darussalam
Estonia
Ghana
Jamaica
and last but not least, Romania

A local hero and his Olympic Gold medal….

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Nestled away in our mountain home for the past week, I pondered over Sunday breakfast how to capture the feeling of this picturesque ski town.  I could write about its beauty as we ski down the hills, the snow capped rocky mountains stretching before us.   One could mention the tranquility of skiing the cross country trails, winds whispering through tall pines.  Perhaps I could boast about the community spirit of the locals that proudly call Kimberley their home town, many with European roots. Where once, people came to work in the world’s then largest lead and zinc mine, young people now forego city life to raise their children here and enjoy nature’s playground.  I had no shortage of inspiration but yet that morning, a chance encounter would uplift me in a way that not even mountain vistas can compete with. I would soon be holding an Olympic gold medal and meet the skier that won it; a local ‘boy’.  I would know precisely what I wanted to write about.

Having the honour of holding Olympic Gold

Having the honour of holding Olympic Gold

Josh Dueck had returned to Kimberley this past weekend for the annual end of ski season festivities.  Not surprisingly, he had been celebrated at the ski hill for his silver and gold medal wins in Sochi. That morning  as we strolled through the town and into the charming store of Velvet and Ginjer, we had the privilege of meeting the Paralympian.   From his wheelchair, with his young wife at his side and his baby girl resting on his lap, Josh conversed with people in the store. His daughter laid peacefully on daddy’s lap and I recalled reading that a picture of her had been tucked away, close to his heart when he competed for his country.

In 2004, Dueck had gone for a front-flip off of a jump but overshot it and fell nearly one hundred vertical feet, severing his spinal cord on impact as well as breaking his neck.  The injury left him a paraplegic.  He was told he’d have to ‘rock the world’ in a sit-ski and he’s done just that.  In 2012, he received international acclaim when he became the first sit-skier to complete a backflip.  He’s also the proud, but humble winner of three Olympic medals having also won in Vancouver.

Not wanting to disturb the Olympian, I walked past and offered a polite ‘congratulations’.  Minutes later, Josh and his wife would not only chat with us but insist that we hold his gold medal.  It was heavy and shiny, and the realization of what it meant brought tears to my eyes. Simply, it was an honour.

Olympian Josh Dueck  with my mother and myself

Olympian Josh Dueck with my mother and myself

Josh conveyed to us how emotional it had been to receive his medals on the podium in Sochi.  To hear the national anthem play against the backdrop of the Canadian flag.  To proudly represent his country.  His lovely wife Lacey, insisted we take numerous photographs.  Their openness  and generosity can be summed up by Lacey’s words “This medal isn’t just Josh’s or ours, it’s for everyone!”

I was reminded of another inspiring man I met recently at my gym.  As we chatted, he looked up at me from his wheelchair and said  “MS put me in this chair twenty-five years ago and a stroke made sure I’d never get out of it, but life is really good.”

Chatting with Josh Dueck

Chatting with a local hero

To not only accept but to move forward from positions such as these is food for thought for us all.  Besides being an Olympian, Josh works with a foundation called Live it! Love it!  It provides outdoor adaptive adventure opportunities for people with disabilities, with the mission of making it accessible and affordable for all.  It’s a humble reminder to endeavour to make a difference in other people’s lives; as insignificant as each action might seem, it’s important.  It’s also a note to ourselves to appreciate life and to not take it for granted.

Meeting this typical ‘nice Canadian hometown boy’ was an unexpected pleasure for all of us that morning. Beyond the excitement and the accolades, we’re reminded that it’s all about people.  It’s always an honour to meet an exceptional individual; someone like Josh.

“What’s your next challenge?”, my husband asked Josh as we were about to leave.  Motioning over to his tiny baby, he confirmed what we had already guessed.  That little girl is now foremost on his mind. He gave his heart and soul to compete for his country, but his family is the best prize any local hero could ask for!