Back from...

I have not just been away from the Internet, I've been away from home. Although, one is never very far away from the Internet, at least not in most of the places I've visited. I've logged into cyberspace from Kathmandu, the Serengeti, Koh Pan Gan Thailand, Guatemala, and tiny villages in Canada's north... Oh. Does that sound like I'm showing off? Putting on airs? Of course it does, because I was. But I'll stop. For now.

Anyway, I had a lovely time away. There was leisure time to take long walks, read, drink a cold brew in the sunshine, spend time with family, and feel the warm white sand on my feet as turquoise waves lapped at my toes.

You may be thinking, "she must have gone to the Caribbean, or Mexico, or maybe Hawaii. Or even the South Pacific." It takes as long to fly to those places as it did to the place I really went,  but it wasn't one of them. I'll give you a hint:

We did not eat this monster, but we sure enjoyed several of his great-grandchildren.

Have you guessed where I was? First person to get the country and region gets a big round of applause. The first person to name the actual beach in these photos gets first prize: an all expense paid trip to anywhere in the world you can toss a ball to from your own home. Really. I am that generous.

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Divine fish and dancing sky

I pause. Is this really the restaurant? I shyly open the door to this log building, which was built in the thirties as a store on the lakefront. A vivacious woman with abundant blond curly hair escaping from her baseball cap grins and yells out, "Look, our new waitress finally showed up."

"What's the pay for your waitress job?" I reply, immediately feeling at home. She, I find out later, is named Renata, and she is the chef, waitress, owner, dishwasher and entertainer of Bullock's Bistro in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories.

"Come on through, sit down," Renata invites, and leads me into a dining area about the size of my hotel room. All seven tables are full, so I take a stool at the tiny bar. "If you want a drink, help yourself from the cooler over there. Today we've got fresh whitefish, pike, trout, pickerel and arctic char, and all the meat on the menu." The meat on the menu is muskox, caribou, and buffalo. Fish can be battered, pan fried or grilled. All meals come with salad and freshly made fries. There are two choices of home made salad dressing: garlic or feta cheese.


I order pan fried arctic char. This delicate, pink fleshed fish looks like pale salmon, but has a flavour unlike any other fish I've tasted. It is only found in arctic and sub arctic waters. I try to get some every time I come north, but it is hard to find and rarely appears wild and fresh on menus.

For a single diner, there is no lack of reading material, on the walls, the ceiling, and even on the funky caribou's horns.






While watching Renata cook, which she does right behind the bar, I strike up conversation with my bar stool neighbours, both here on business like I am. One is a lab technician from Calgary, the other is a cable T.V. consultant from Florida, on his first trip to Canada. He is enchanted by the north. "They will never believe me at home when I tell them I drove on an ice road!" he says, shaking his head. He offers me a taste of his Great Slave Lake pickerel, which is sweet, firm, and a serious rival to my mouth watering arctic char.



Renata and her one helper keep the whole place laughing with her stories and banter. She serves my coffee with a warning: "Honey, be careful, this coffee will make your bra pop off." (Huh?)



Time to go. I zip up my parka, pull my hat down making sure it covers my ears, put my big mittens on over my gloves, and step out of Bullock's. After a moment I realize dogs are barking everywhere, all over town. Then in between barks I hear why; wolves are howling across the bay. The haunting sound of singing wolves brings sweet tears. When I was a girl my Grandpa Gordon taught me how to call to the wolves through a birch bark megaphone at our family cabin in Quebec. It took a lot of practice, but I got good enough to make them answer almost every time I called them.

As I walk back to my hotel, the northern lights dance and weave over my head. I have seen them several times on this trip, from my hotel balcony, but never so bright. The lights of the big city of Yellowknife (pop 17,000) had dimmed my view from the hotel. But here by the lake on the edge of town they are spectacular.*

What a wonderful place this is!



*(I do not have my good camera or a tripod with me, only a point & shoot, so I did not take the northern lights photo above. But it is very close in colour and pattern to the lights I saw that night.)

Snow. Make it go, make it go, make it go.

I can't make Vancouver's freakish giant snow banks melt faster, but maybe I can whisk you away from them for a few minutes. O.K., here we go:

Imagine you are on a salt sprayed lounger chair on a sweltering tropical beach, a good book and icy beer at hand. Shade from a low palm tree and a brisk breeze keep you cool, as long as you don't move any more than it takes to turn the page. (Yes, you're getting close, concentrate now.) Hear the swoosh of the waves, feel the warm white sand in your toes. See the pelicans hover over the water before they fold up like missiles and speed dive into the surf. Now you've got it! You are in Placencia, Belize.


The local beach bum dogs are hanging out around your beach Cabana, because you are a pushover, and have been feeding them choice leftovers.







A few days ago you were at Caye Caulker, snorkeling at the world's second largest, and in my opinion, most spectacular, barrier reef. The highlight was swimming with a huge spotted eagle ray.


The barracudas were more graceful than fierce looking. But the lemon sharks, despite the snorkel guide's assurances that they were uninterested in humans, made you pee your pants. Or rather bathing suit.


As you walk around town, people of Garifuna, Caribe, African, and Mayan decent smile at you and shout greetings in a unique Caribbean / Belizian patois. As you pass a local house, built on stilts to catch the breezes and as a hedge against flooding, a young boy eyes your bag of groceries and sees a possibility of making a little money. "Dat bag, he look heavy, lady. I carry he for yo, O.K.?"





Your lovely day wanes as you snooze in a hammock, dreaming of the next adventure, Guatemala, to start tomorrow.



Well gentle readers, has that helped you forget the snow for a little while? Do you feel warmer, more relaxed, and virtually sun kissed?

WELL I DON'T!!!! Now I'm more sick of winter than ever. Because that Belize trip is over. Soooo over. Last March it was over. Oh, for the whisper of wind in palm fronds lulling me to sleep. Sob!

Oh Christmas tree sawdust

I carted the Christmas tree off to the charity tree chipping event this weekend. While most folks dumped their tree and left, I waited, and watched with sadness as the firemen pushed it through the chipper. "So long you pretty little tree. Don't worry, you'll have fun as...um, mulch."

Here in British Columbia we can cut Christmas trees on unoccupied Crown land in most Forest Districts. The only rules are, they have to be growing under power lines or within 3 metres either side of a logging road, or in designated areas set aside and rotated over the years. We head out each year to our "spot" in the Squamish Forest Distict, just off the Squamish main line logging road. I can't tell you any more than that, it's our secret! It's only an hour from Vancouver, and bonus: the Squamish Brew Pub is on the route home.

I am ambivalent about Christmas, but not the Christmas tree. I still feel childish excitement when the tree goes up, filling the house with the smell of the woods; transforming into magic as each light and bauble goes on.

One reason I still love it so much is because of a tradition I started over 20 years ago. Whenever I travel, I shop for a Christmas tree ornament that will remind me of the trip. Sometimes the find is easy, like this one from San Francisco:



And this one from Nova Scotia:




And these ones from Nepal and from Thailand. (Who knew you could find Christmas tree ornaments in Buddhist/Hindu and Buddhist/Muslim countries?)





If I can't find an actual tree ornament, I look for something I can make into one by attaching a little screw eyelet into the top for hanging. That's how I turned these souvenirs that sell in tourist shops in Mexico into treasured Christmas ornaments.





Each Christmas tree is a wonderful reminder of the places I have been in this big, amazing world. As I hang each ornament on a branch (and even when I take them down again) I get to remember gazing at Mayan ruins, a hike up a tropical mountain, or the sight of a cow with a red dot on its forehead sleeping in a busy intersection.

Here are some more of my travel memory decorations, from, in order, Tanzania, London, and Singapore.







My favourite Christmas tree ornament of all is a reminder of a different journey. A long one. The most rewarding, difficult, important, and exciting journey I will ever take. The ornament is home made, and very precious.

I saw a hippopotamus for Christmas. Redux

I'm a litle preoccupied right now. (See previous post) Christmas this year was quiet and introspective, filled with the love of family and good fiends. While it was just what I need now, it does not make for a very exciting story.

Christmas last year though, that's a story! In three parts! For those who were not hanging around this little corner of blogworld last year, here it is.

Part 1:
Christmas Eve, 2006, Kori Bustard Camp, Serengeti, Tanzania.

“Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer, had a very shiny nose...”

We are sleepily singing, sitting around the camp fire. Les has strung some battery-operated Christmas lights around an acacia bush. The stars are out. It has been an exciting day of game viewing (3 cheetahs, 11 lions, countless giraffes, hyenas, rare foxes, and more!) in the Gol Kopjes area of the Serengeti, followed by a long drive to our camp.(above photo courtesy of G. Vandegriend)



We drift off to bed in our tents, looking forward to tomorrow: sunny skies, wildlife, and a special Christmas dinner for our last day of camping.

At 2:30 a.m. I wake up and hear the patter of a few raindrops on our tent. Oh shit. We had to cross three rivers to get to this special campsite. The previous week, one had flooded in a heavy rain, stranding people in the northern Serengeti for days. But the skies were so clear when we went to sleep, it must just be a shower. I cuddle close to my Beloved, or as close as we can get while bundled in mummy bags, and go back to sleep.

BOOOOOM! KERAACK! KERBOOOM!! Sweet Mother of God! Thunder and simultaneous lightening right over my head jolts me from sleep to instant terror. A Niagara of rain is pounding on our tent. CRACK! BOOM! CRACK! again. "Holy Crap" I yell. We are camped on an open plain, with only the occasional waist high acacia bush to draw lightening away from our tall tents with metal poles. "Sweetie", I shout at B, who is awake, "What happens if lightening hits our tent?"

"I suppose we would be toast".

In between thunder blasts,we can hear a lion growl and grunt, warning other lions "this is MY territory". We have heard the roar of lions most every night while camping, but our guides Lyimo and Wellking assured us they would not come into camp. Especially with the campfire and several kerosene lamps which are put around the campsite at night. I open the tent flap and peer out into inky blackness. The wind and rain have doused the campfire and lanterns. I have to pee. It is 3:30 am, and no way can I wait until morning. Throwing a blanket around me, I put on my headlamp and run out in bare feet, hoping no cat's eyes shine back at me. The ground cannot soak up the torrential rain fast enough, so water is swirling over my toes as I scamper behind the tent.

Settled back in the tent, I realize there are rivulets running along the floor, soaking into our foam mattresses, and up into our sleeping bags. Then we both have to shuffle and move our pillows to avoid leaking spots from the roof. The thunderstorm seems to be going around in a circle, coming back overhead every 20 minutes. The downpour never lets up. We are wet, sleepless, and separated from lions and lightening only by a little soaked canvas that could collapse any second in the wind. We could be stranded by floods for days. "Merry Christmas," I mutter wryly to B. He starts to shake, and I wonder if he is shivering or crying. Or both. But no, he is giggling, then laughing out loud. He hugs me tightly, smacks a big kiss on my lips, and says between snorts and chuckles:

"Merry Christmas Darlin'."

And I realize again I found The Right One.

Part 2:
December 25, 2006, Serengeti, Tanzania

Ho! Ho! Ho!

That is not Santa. It is a chorus of evil African Ho gods, laughing at us. Dancing in glee. Our campsite is awash, and we have been awake half the night. As the sky changes from pitch black to dull soggy grey, the rain continues. But this is not just rain. It is an ark-building, life-raft-launching, deluge. That has been pounding us since 2:30 am.

Breakfast is out of the question. We huddle in our tents, hungry and wet, trying to read soggy paperbacks, while one of our over-worked guides goes to check the level of the nearest river.There are three swollen rivers we will have to cross to get out of the northern Serengeti.

"Do you want jujubes or licorice allsorts for breakfast?" asks B, digging through his candy stash.

Suddenly D and A's tent collapses. We don't see them crawl out, so we run over to help. Turns out they were... um, ahem, naked, and are now frantically trying to find clothes. You gotta admire that. In the circumstances.

By 10:30 am. the decision is made to evacuate camp. If we can get out. We are 4 or 5 kilometres off the "main" road. Even then, we have nowhere to stay; It is Christmas day, and we were supposed to camp here tonight. Lodges have been booked up for months. But we cannot stay here, in places the water is over our ankles.

Almost three hours later we reach the road, having pushed the vehicles several times out of muck. Our driver/guides Lyimo and Wellking alternately dug us out and made wild dashes through new lakes that have appeared overnight.


Muddy, soaked, and stinky, (except for A, who was always fresh and chic when the rest of us looked and smelled like refugees from Planet Pig Pen) we pull in half an hour later to a very classy, expensive lodge. We can't stay there, it is full. Anyway, it costs almost $400 bucks a night. But they do offer us use of a couple of rooms to shower and change, and we can eat lunch in the fancy dining room. In dry clothes, with hot food and cold beer in front of us, our spirits climb. Quietly, L begins singing:

"Oh, you better watch out, you better not cry,"
and we join in;

"You better not pout, I'm telling you why"...

By the end of the song we are singing with gusto, and earn a round of applause from the well-heeled lodge guests.

But we still have three engorged rivers to cross, nowhere to stay, and the Ho gods are not finished dancing.

Part 3:
December 25, 2006, Serengeti, Tanzania

If you have followed the story of my 2006 Christmas day so far, I congratulate you on your perseverance or excess hours of nothing better to do. Either is to be envied. For those with a normal attention span and a real job, a recap: After a night wondering whether we would wake up (or not wake up, to be accurate) as lion kibble or charred toast, and a morning doing the breast stroke across the Serengeti plain, the story left off with us eating heartily and singing "Santa Clause is Coming" to a bemused audience of starched and pressed expensive safari suits.

Giddy with the roller coaster ride that was our Christmas so far, we headed out on the road again, ready for anything. Our safari outfitter, busy on the phone back in Arusha, had finally found a lodge that could take us in, but it was out of the park, a long drive away on flooded tracks.

We crossed the first two rivers with no problems. Then, at the Seronera River, the evil Ho gods struck again. A line of vehicles snaked up the road on either side of the bridge. Or where a bridge would have been if it was not covered by swirling rapids and a waterfall.

Here is our guide Wellking and our worried camp staff as they seriously studied the flooded bridge situation.


Actually, no-one was very concerned, because the sun was out and the river level was falling. Our guides were confident the wait to cross would be only an hour or so. It turned out to be almost three hours. But G set up the i-pod speakers, and a rousing card tournament was played on the hood of the truck. G & my Beloved opened wine we had planned to save for Christmas dinner. They made wine glasses out of plastic water bottles sliced in half, and we toasted the lowering sun and the hippos wandering around the riverbanks.


Crossing the flooded bridge we held our breath. No problem. But a few kilometres further we came upon another stopped line of vehicles. Road wash out. Our fabulous guides knew another route around using the flooded back roads. There were more wild rides with the wheels spewing huge arcs of spray. A flat tire. Then we picked up a stranded Chilean / Spanish couple whose truck had broken down. The final stretch in the dark along a soaked track was eerie, with wildebeest and zebra scampering in and out of our headlights.

Finally, exhausted, we pulled into the lovely old Ndutu Lodge, where a decadent Christmas buffet was waiting. We pulled the Christmas crackers, put on the goofy paper hats and read the lame jokes. Just like Christmas at home. Well, except for the genets lounging in the rafters.





(Photo # 1 & 4 courtesy of our friend and fellow adventurer G. Vandegriend)

Airplane crash and gun shots. A perfect hike.

I've been given a dummy award! And I am delighted. Thanks Dumdad. I always enjoy a trip over to Dumdad's posts from Paris.

Dumdad's tribute was a nice surprise upon arrival home from a long weekend away. We took advantage of a brief break in the November rains to head up to the cabin and hike in the mountains. We chose the Mount Slesse area, and gave our city slicker SUV a lesson in real four wheelin' to reach the trail head up a labyrinth of logging roads.

It was lovely. There was a dusting of new snow on the peaks.







The dogs were in heaven, chasing scents and each other down the trail. We hiked in peaceful silence, perhaps feeling a bit eerie knowing that in 1956 a Trans Canada Airline plane crashed into the side of Mount Slesse, killing all on board.



Then: Bang! Bang! Bang! Oh shit. Hunting season. Nothing ruins a good hike like the thought of stray bullets from beer guzzling, animal murdering red necks. "Fucking hunters" I mumbled to B. " Hey!!!" I shouted. "Don't shoot this way!!

Around the next corner ran a young man dressed completely in camouflage, carrying a rifle. "Hi" he said. "Are you guys O.K.? I thought I heard an S.O.S blast on an air horn, so I fired three rounds in the air in answer, and I was heading that way to help." We had heard the air horn too, but knew it was just a choker chain warning from a small logging operation we had seen down the mountain. We explained, and with a cheerful "Have a great hike guys!" helpful hunter dude went on his way. Damn, another cherished stereotype ruined.

It was a great hike.

Today's dream travel destination: One of my favourite hikes, that I did with an old friend about 10 years ago. A warmer one than any trails here right now. The Kalalau trail in Kauai, Hawaii.