I Wanted to Die
I was a child when my aunt said, "I never get depressed. Whenever I wake up in a bad mood, I just decide to be in a good mood." While on the surface, it sounds like a beautiful prescription for living, that is likely when the stigma surrounding depression first took hold in my subconscious. Depression is a weakness, and you can choose not to have it. That stigma – not the depression itself – almost killed me.
I was a child when my aunt said, "I never get depressed. Whenever I wake up in a bad mood, I just decide to be in a good mood." While on the surface, it sounds like a beautiful prescription for living, that is likely when the stigma surrounding depression first took hold in my subconscious. Depression is a weakness, and you can choose not to have it. That stigma – not the depression itself – almost killed me.
Two years ago, I held my dad's hand while he took his last breath. His illness was both unexpected and prolonged, and losing him shook my foundation in life. To escape the pain of his loss, I stayed busy. Really, really busy. I said yes to more work, more travel and more plans than was physically possible to manage. I did everything I could to not slow down for a moment save for some hours of sleep, and I welcomed with open, overcommitted arms any opportunity for distraction. As though sending me a message, whenever I allowed myself to consider pulling back to resurface, slowing for a moment to re-establish my abandoned bearings, personal tragedy would strike life again. Our family dog died, my closest friend in youth passed away, my grandma lost her leg, and within months of that, we lost her. And interspersed with these intimate tragedies, losing two of our mountain bike community's heroes amplified the feelings of loss. Afraid that if I stopped, the avalanche of grief and loss that was accumulating would suffocate me, I kept running. On the surface, my coping mechanism may have resembled an enviable existence full of travel, mountain bike events, and adventures – but in truth, it was a desperate and frenetic attempt at escape. I went through the motions of a grieving person, but I never stood still long enough to feel any of it deeply.
As time sped forward through the compounding loss, I got tired. More than tired, I became chronically exhausted, mentally and physically. Accompanying the exhaustion, I began to experience unexplainable dizzy spells and had a persistently upset stomach. I had weeks upon weeks of colds that recurred and never seemed to end. I gained weight.
In an attempt to sort through the list of symptoms that were rapidly accruing, I began seeing a doctor nearly weekly. They treated me for anemia, a stomach parasite, a hormone imbalance, and adrenal fatigue. When none of those treatments proved effective, they told me that it was all chronic fatigue related and that there was no cure. No end to this was not an option for me, so I sought other opinions; one doctor laughed when I listed my symptoms, and to this day, I'm not sure why. Another doctor handed me a prescription for antidepressants with very little explanation after a five-minute consultation. Surely depression could not be the cause, so I threw the prescription away.
And while I desperately looked for answers, completely blind to what I now recognize as obvious, my symptoms worsened, and my life continued sliding further out of my control. My memory became a concern, and where once I had been structured and efficient, I became disorganized and began missing deadlines. My brain was foggy, making my thinking and reaction times less sharp. Exhaustion made the intimacy of social invitations feel like pressure, which turned into resentment. Keeping busy with work was one thing; the vulnerability inherent in the closeness to those I loved was quite another. So I neglected my personal friendships, and I stopped riding my bike. Hikes that I had once enjoyed easily now left me drained in bed the day after, lethargic and barely able to move.
I became so self-conscious of my fatigue in social situations and my declining lack of fitness that I was ashamed and embarrassed—embarrassed that I worked in the mountain bike industry and wasn't riding my bike and ashamed that my body was so out of my control. I felt like a fraud within my own circle. Feeling good about myself had long since ended, and feeling decent was now a rarity. I frequently cried over the frustration of being sick and not having any answers. I desperately wished for a diagnosis of any obvious and well-understood disease – no matter how severe. My illness wasn't one you could see, and I didn't feel that I could speak about it in any meaningful way when it remained such a mystery to me. No one around me knew that I was sick, and I desperately wanted a physical flag that I could wave with an easily relatable and socially acceptable diagnosis. Most importantly, I wanted a reason for how I felt that wasn't of my own doing; that wasn't my fault. I would have taken anything but the one thing I believed I should be able to just 'think away.'
Yet all of that was nothing compared to the feeling of losing control over my thoughts. I began to have periodic spirals that would leave me wishing for death. Not so much that I wanted to harm myself, but more that if only the universe could intervene on my behalf, I would finally have eternal relief from the exhaustion and intense sadness in my life. I prayed for a final and permanent escape. I understand now it was simply a default switch, an instinctual reaction on an overstressed brain, but it was frighteningly real, and the occasional risky behaviour that resulted became a threat to my life. This I hid from nearly everyone except a few who were too close not to see it.
I was terrified of a diagnosis of depression or mental illness and everything associated with those labels, and my subconscious rallied hard against it. The stigma around depression was ingrained in me in my youth and further reinforced throughout my life, and the psychological barricade prohibiting that connection and understanding stood wide and firm in my mind. Unbeknownst to me, the societal messages of the depressed person as a victim and the suicidal as selfish and merely desperate for attention blindsided me. None of that is true, but the messages were etched in me deeply, and their inherent flaws were impossible to access in my condition. I couldn't consider the possibility that the root cause of my physical ailments was a mental ailment, and instead, I viewed the suicidal episodes as just another symptom.
Fortunately, through it all, I maintained just enough motivation to continue searching for answers, and eventually, I connected with the right professionals—caring, conscientious, and progressive doctors—and I finally felt deeply heard. By understanding what I could not, they validated my physical concerns, pulled back the curtain of mental fog, and allowed me to see my own reality. To avoid dealing with the seemingly unending losses and grief in my life, I had stayed so busy that my stress had become chronic and was breaking my body. Depression wasn't a symptom; it was the cause of everything I was experiencing. In the end, trying to outrun my grief had made it worse, and the result was a slew of debilitating mental and physical symptoms.
What finally brought me to acknowledge and accept my depression - no easy task for the person intent on outsmarting it - was quite literally by the book. On the checklist of possible causes for depression, I could claim every criterion except for recently giving birth. If a person could become depressed by experiencing any number or combination of things beyond their control, was it reasonable to view this as a weakness, selfishness, or a bid for attention? Was it reasonable to ever believe I could think depression away? Seeing that list in its stark reality, I became conscious of the fact that while I had by most measures an amazing life—a loving and supportive community, a career I was passionate about, and plenty of travel and new experiences—I couldn't remember feeling happy or excited in anticipation of anything in a very long time. Once that reality penetrated, everything fell into place, and I had something akin to a full body shift. Suddenly I could take the energy I had been using to maintain a frantic forward progression, using to distract, using to find a physical cure - anything other than identify a mental illness - and I could apply it to the very core, foundational healing that was so necessary.
The road from there to here has been longer and more winding than I could have fathomed at the outset. I've experienced mental anguish of a degree previously unknown to me. But now, through it and in the safety of the other side, I can say that while I don't wish ever to relive it, I am better for it. As trite and overused as that sounds, I am. I have learned so many things about depression, its origins, its commonness and the falseness of its related stigmas. I have learned so many things about myself, my limitations, my fears, and what I am capable of in the face of mental distress and adversity. Perhaps most importantly, I have learned the depth of my resilience. I have learned that I am not defined by depression; it is something I have, not who I am. And I have learned that being unable to think away your sadness isn't a weakness—it's an opportunity to find a strength you didn't know was possible.
8 Favourite Stories from Red Bull Rampage
When I hiked to the start gate at Red Bull Rampage last year, I didn’t know that I wouldn’t be back the following year. I wasn’t thinking about much other than ‘holy fuck, how does it still look this terrifying after six years?’.
When I hiked to the start gate at Red Bull Rampage last year, I didn’t know that I wouldn’t be back the following year. I wasn’t thinking about much other than ‘holy fuck, how does it still look this terrifying after six years?’.
I’m a firm believer that every freeride mountain bike fan should see Rampage in person at least once. It simply makes you a better person when you are in the presence of that much talent, passion, and commitment. And it changes your perspective - quite literally - when you are standing in the middle of the canyon trying to comprehend the sheer size of it.
I have developed so much respect for the riders and diggers and what they achieve while under so much pressure and the wisdom and enthusiasm within their community. Even though I hated to interrupt them at work or rest, nearly every interview I conducted had powerful insights including this one with Graham Agassiz after the final last year:
[I took last year off because] I was getting burnt out. To give it 110% and go for the win, you put yourself in a mindset that isn't very comfortable and the decompression from that is horrible. You're depressed afterward, it doesn't make sense but it's because you are holding yourself to a high standard the whole time. I was over it, it just sucked. I hated being in that position and feeling that way. This year I came in with a completely different mindset and I had the most fun I've ever had here. I'm pretty thankful right now.
~Graham Agassiz (2018)
Possibly a little known fact is that after my first year reporting from Red Bull Rampage, I got banned from the event for being too vocal about the conditions and compensation for the athletes and builders. I returned the next year - snuck onsite and actually hid when necessary - and must have done something right because I’ve been allowed back every year since. In fact, I’ve been a Red Bull Rampage Insider host for the VIP tours for the last two years - which has been a blast. And it’s been awesome to see the progression and improvements over the years to make the quality and safety of the event better for athletes and builders (and media too).
Not going to Rampage this year was one of the hardest work decisions I’ve made because it is such a special event and because over the years I’ve had the opportunity to work with our industry’s most talented photographers and athletes in the process. I’ve made some amazing friendships and will miss the annual Rampage community that I’ve come to love but I know that the coverage is in great hands and will be even better with some new energy and personalities on the ground for Pinkbike this year.
Over the years, I’ve written and produced a lot of content from Red Bull Rampage for Pinkbike. Here are some highlights that I’m particularly proud of:
Building the Love (2013)
Canadian Bacon (2014)
Behind the Trophies (2014)
A Salute to the Riders (2015)
No One Gets Robbed (2016)
Once Piece at a Time (2017)
Finals: Kickstart My Heart (2018)
While looking back over these old articles, I found a post of images I took at Rampage in 2015 on a disposable camera. That was a good year.
Stormy Days at Bryce Canyon
Hike 11 | It’s been far too long since I’ve written a blog post. These photos of our visit to Bryce Canyon are from October last year as we travelled to Utah for Red Bull Rampage and were a surprising reminder that Stu hasn’t always had a moustache.
Hike #11 | 228m Elevation Gain | 6.9km Hiked
It’s been far too long since I’ve written a blog post. These photos of our visit to Bryce Canyon are from October last year as we travelled to Utah for Red Bull Rampage and were a surprising reminder that Stu hasn’t always had a moustache. Usually, I would travel straight down to work at Rampage and straight home again but I knew the surrounding area was full of incredible places to visit and sights to see so Stu and I decided to leave a little early last year and take advantage of some of the incredible hiking that would be on the way. I booked what looked like a cute and trendy little motel near to Bryce Canyon National Park and we hit the road with visions of the gorgeous, hot, and sunny dessert hiking that awaited us.
We arrived late evening to find out hotel room keys in an enveloped taped to the outside of the office door with our room number scrawled on the outside. Now, having travelled as a child with a very financially vigilant (read: cheap) father, I have stayed in some dives. The kind of the places where it’s okay that there’s blood on the sheets as long as it’s an old stain (not joking) but none of those places cost over $100USD a night like this one. We walked into our dark room to find the light switch inside the door didn’t work - probably good marketing for them - and we stumbled around to find a light. The bathroom hadn’t been cleaned, there was someone else’s hair on the bed sheets, and there were holes in the wall that I like to think were just unfinished renovations.
In the morning we found that the tiny chainlink-encircled-parking-lot pool, that I’m assuming gave the motel owners the idea to refer to themselves online as a resort, was drained. It wasn’t much a problem however, because it was pouring rain as a thunder and lightening storm rolled in. Not the best day to go hiking in the canyon - in fact there were weather advisories posted and when we arrived at the gate we were told there was no visibility and no money back. We had to make a choice: risk getting hit by lightening or spend our day hanging out at (what we were now calling) the ‘murder motel.’ We went hiking.
Maybe it’s true what they say about fortune favouring the bold (or the people with the shittiest motel rooms) because, even though hiking in the clay-based mud was challenging, the views were incredible, the light spectacular, and we managed to escape any major downpours in our time there. I’ve always heard people rave about Bryce Canyon but after taking a helicopter ride to the bottom of the Grand Canyon a few years ago, I kind of figured ‘once you’ve seen one. . .’ But Bryce Canyon was truly breathtaking and somewhere that I feel like I could return to over and over again without getting bored.
We spend as long as we could outside that day and returned to our hotel to find that any cars that had been in the parking lot had left. One car remained and it had apparently been idling there for so long that there was a pile of cigarette butts on the ground below the driver’s window. The highest praise I can give this place is to say that at least we didn’t get killed in our sleep.
My recommendations for visiting Bryce Canyon:
Visit on a weather-deterring day to avoid the crowds
Stay in a terrible hotel that might have bed bugs so that you are certain to spend the day outside rain or shine
Don’t overspend on an umbrella at a gift shop in the park only to realize that you are now what the lightening will aim for
Bring a garbage bag to put your boots which now have half the canyon’s mud attached to them in
The Nitinat Triangle
Hike 10 | This past September I headed out to tackled the Nitinat Triangle and part of the West Coast Trail as a packraft and hiking trip with my cousin Sarah, her husband Dane, and Stu. Our goal was to find a trapping cabin on an island on an obscure lake that had belonged to our great grandmother.
Hike #10 | ?m Elevation Gain | 38km Hiked/Paddled
This past September I headed out to tackled the Nitinat Triangle and part of the West Coast Trail as a packraft and hiking trip with my cousin Sarah, her husband Dane, and Stu. Our goal was to find a trapping cabin on an island on an obscure lake that had belonged to our great grandmother. You can read the full story about our adventure in the current (2019 Summer) print issue of Mountain Life magazine.
Below is our trip in images. We universally agree that it is the best trip any of us have undertaken - despite the many challenges.
You can read the whole story about our packraft trip through the Nitinat Triangle and along the West Coast Trail in the 2019 summer issue of Mountain Life magazine.
I Know That a Lot of People Couldn't Understand
While going through some old boxes the other night, I found a letter that my dad had written to me – but I had no memory of.
My dad was a true adventurer. He loved to explore, invent, pioneer, and learn constantly. I could never decide if he was born at the wrong time or if he was exactly what we needed in our time.
A lot of people already know the story of my dad building our house in Bamfield on a water-access only piece of property, with no electricity or running water, having no construction experience, and only using the plans for a double-wide garage. No? Well, that story is coming. It’s a good one.
This post is about years later in 1996. The year I turned 17, Dad took a six month leave of absence from work and moved to Mexico to build a house. We had been going to the same spot down south since I was five years old. We would go every few years, whenever we could afford it, and we had made (and continue to have) and incredible community there.
All of these photos are from the trip we took to visit Dad in 1997 at the end of his sabbatical when he had finished building the house.
While going through some old boxes the other night, I found a letter that my dad had written to me – but I had no memory of. In it he details his days of walking the beach, visiting with friends, learning Spanish, and trying to get the house built. Many of the details are mundane, but the following section really stood out for me.
Nov. 2, 1996
Potosi
Hi! Kid
I miss you.
This must be the first letter I have ever written to you. Wow!
This trip so far is everything I wanted it to be, I know that a lot of people couldn’t understand why a person would want to go off on their own for such a long time, but I think they have no adventure in their blood. They also don’t have wives as understanding as your mother, I know she understands why I wanted this, and that’s one of the reasons I love her.
I remember that people thought it was strange that Dad would leave for six months. My mom would frequently have to answer questions about if they were having marriage problems or getting a divorce. A favourite was, “but what if he meets someone else and doesn’t come back?” My mom would smile and say, “then that’s what happens.”
There were no cell phones or email. There weren’t even landlines in the village. Once a week Dad would hitch a ride to the city and call from a payphone, hoping Mom was home. On her end, Mom kept a long list next to the phone of things she needed to tell him when they did connect. It wasn’t easy, but they did it.
What I witnessed between them as a teenage was something that continues to influence my ideas around love and marriage. I saw was two people who loved each other, who were both working towards a common dream and embracing and celebrating their independence as individuals. No, maybe it wasn’t my mom’s first choice to spend a west coast winter alone, but she had a full shed of wood – and she will tell you to this day that surviving that winter gave her strength and confidence from an experience that is rare in a 40-year marriage.
I’ve got a room at Leonardo’s (the same one we had at Christmas) and I eat at the palapas each morning and evening. Tomi takes my laundry home each week and a lady there does it for me. She also would not accept my money when I went to pay my food bill at the end of the week, she said all she wants are my tapes when I leave. I finally got her to agree to take 100 pesos a week. They have been just great to me. Special friends are hard to find.
The special friends he is talking about are a family that we have known since 1985 and who we are still close with today. They created the base of the community that Dad built for us in Mexico and they were there for us through the tragedy of his passing.
I can’t imagine how different my life would have been if Dad hadn’t decided one day to move to Bamfield and do something he had never done before. And I can’t imagine what my life would be if he hadn’t decided to move to Mexico without speaking fluent Spanish to build a home there. There are lots of reasons not to do things – marriage, money, language, and he didn’t have the luxury of looking to the future and seeing how grateful we all are. Dad just followed his heart and gut and didn’t care if people didn’t understand.
I doubt that Dad meant for this letter to be kept for all these years or that it would have any meaning beyond a little update from this trip, but his message is exactly how he lived his life – adventure always, love deeply, and cherish your friends.
Well, I’ve got to get going now, and you will probably know most of this stuff by the time you get this letter. I plan to be talking to you and mom on your birthday.
I love you.
Dad
My mom rents a casita on her property in Barra de Potosi, you can find more information about it here.
What If I Loved My Body?
Hike 9 | I was free of the soul sucking sadness that comes with stepping on the scale and watching the number climb or trying on everything in my closet before determining that nothing will hide my pregnant looking belly. I was free.
Hike #9 | 137m Elevation Gain | 4.1km Hiked
(Note: The photos here are from our hike to Tricouni East, they are not from the backcountry trip referenced in the story.)
I had the craziest thought a few months ago – what if I decided to love my body? What if I wasn’t waiting to love it until I was stronger, healthier, skinnier? What if I looked at it in the mirror, exactly as it is right now, and loved it?
I had been on a multi-day backcountry hike when the thought occurred to me. We were a few days, many kilometres, and more than one storm in when I realized that I hadn’t once concerned myself with the appearance of my body. Due to my ridiculous digestive issues, not only am I constantly aware and very self-conscious of my bloated belly but I also can gain weight at the drop of a hat. But here I was mid-survival-hike and while I still had plenty of tummy troubles, how I looked to others never once entered the equation. Not only that, but I actually felt beautiful and powerful. I was free of the soul sucking sadness that comes with stepping on the scale and watching the number climb or trying on everything in my closet before determining that nothing will hide my pregnant looking belly. I was free.
I have never had a diagnosed eating disorder, but I grew up with the same unhealthy expectations around body and food that I think a lot of women do. All the women in my family were constantly on diets. I knew what Weight Watchers was before I knew that I should worry about how I looked. Conversely, in my family, we celebrated everything with food, bonded over food, and tried to heal all emotional wounds with food. It’s a confusing juxtaposition.
I was a skinny kid, thanks to genetics, but that didn’t stop me from obsessing over my body. I have always had thick legs – all the way down from my meaty thighs to my cankles, and for a couple of years when I was about eleven, I stopped wearing shorts. I was embarrassed of my legs, so I hid them. Even to this day, you’re hard pressed to see me in a skirt, simply because I don’t think my lovely lady stumps should be what you find protruding from one. And don’t even get me started about displaying my girthy ankles in a pair of strappy heels. . .
When I was in my early twenties and living in the city I made a conscious decision to stop buying women’s magazines because at 110 pounds, I felt like I still couldn’t live up to what beauty actually was. I wasn’t tall enough, my boobs weren’t perfect (is there a word for lazy eye as applied to one breast?), my hair was too thin, the list went on. It’s incredible how much can be wrong with us – and weight is just one small piece of it. Not buying the magazines helped immensely and saved me a lot of money, but this messaging is everywhere – and is frequently shoved in front of us now without warning through social media.
Enter my mid-30’s when the wear and tear of life and stress catches up with me and I struggle with digestions, depression, and a lack of energy. My bloated stomach pushing on the waistband of my jeans (that fit comfortably before I ate) is a constant reminder that my self-worth is somehow less because I don’t look like a pre-teen girl in a vodka ad. But don’t worry, because now there is a movement for women to be strong. Muscle weighs more than fat, it doesn’t matter how you look, it matters how much you can lift. This is exciting, this is change, this is a new way for women to feel bad about themselves. Now I have another thing to worry about; I am neither skinny nor strong. I nearly got plowed over by my garbage bin while trying to wheel it down our (admittedly steep) driveway last week. I can’t look at my thick legs, protruding belly, or ape-index arms and think ‘I’m beautiful because I’m strong,’ because I’m not. But I don’t have to be. I eat well. I work with professionals on nutrition and health. I exercise as much as my body will allow me. I sleep. I am doing everything right. But I am not strong, and I am not skinny.
My ‘what if’ questions didn’t go away. They kept circling back, even after the hike. I had cried on the hike, cried from pure exhaustion and exertion – but not even that had taken me to the depths that feeling bad about my body can. So, what if I just accepted my body? What if it didn’t need to be anything other than what it is? What if I decided to love this lump of clay that I’ve been given? It’s the only one I’m going to get, and it gives form to this brain of mine that is powerful and determined. This body is really just the Kermit the Frog, which makes my brain Jim Henson’s hand shoved straight up the butt.
My digestion, my strength, my fat stores – none of them change who I am. None of them impact that I am a funny, caring, smart person. I still do step on the scale from time to time and I still struggle to leave the house in anything other than a potato sack. And on those days I remind myself to look at all these pieces of me and remember when I was in the middle of nowhere, away from scales, advertisements, and mirrors – and I can remember how sexy and powerful I felt because I was happy. Because at that moment I was my truest self.
Being Lost (in Life) isn't the Worst Thing
Hike 8 | You know when you suggest a hike to a group of friends who you’ve never really hiked with before – and then you realize that you don’t really know where you’re going? Yeah. That was this hike. But it’s also pretty much my whole life.
(Disclaimer: Actually being lost in the woods isn’t cool. Be prepared, know where you are going, and always support your community’s Search and Rescue. We are lucky to have them.)
Hike #8 | ?m Elevation Gain | ?km Hiked
You know when you suggest a hike to a group of friends who you’ve never really hiked with before – and then you realize that you don’t really know where you’re going? Yeah. That was this hike. But it’s also pretty much my whole life. I have a rough idea, a vague image, in mind and I’m searching for it, but probably not by the shortest route possible, certainly not without more than one detour or wrong turn, and definitely not without some less than ideal conditions.
More often than not, when I go hiking I have a set goal and a map in hand. But in my life, no one has ever handed me directions. Instead, I’ve spent most of my time wandering off route. I’ve hit dead-ends, retraced my steps, and made my own path. I’ve also stayed too long at comfortable and pretty viewpoints, only moving on when the sun sets and leaving becomes unavoidable.
I used to be ashamed of the meandering route that my life has taken. I would look at the peaks and alpine lakes being bagged on Instagram – on the houses purchased, babies birthed, weddings celebrated – and be concerned that I was actually lost. But I’m not. Now stay with me here because this idea is about to get a little off-track.
When my dad died we had three memorials for him. Three. And believe me, they were all necessary. At the time that he passed, he and my mom split their time between Bamfield and Mexico and he was an integral part of both communities. But the third memorial was in West Vancouver at my uncle’s house. It wasn’t somewhere that we had spent a lot of time. A lot of the people were family – my dad’s family, and some long-time friends that I knew. But there were people I didn’t know, plenty of them. There were people whose names I had heard in some of his stories but had never met. He had an ex-wife and, I’m sure, ex-girlfriends who came. It was a house full of people who loved my dad enough that despite the years they had gone without contact, they wanted to celebrate his life. Their time together, regardless of where it landed in his timeline, was that valuable.
This was how I came to understand that our lives aren’t linear. We aren’t on a point A to point B conveyer belt, along which we collect our degrees, promotions, husbands or wives, and children. If anything, the majority of us – like it or not – are travelling along a dirty frayed string full of knots. Each tangle, deviation, extended stop at a lookout, holds a meaning that does not diminish over time. And when we have our hearts and heads looking too far into the future, too fixedly at one goal – or worse, at someone else’s goal – we can miss the importance of all the stops along the way. Instead of relishing these experiences, they can feel like steps or speed bumps, or scratchy pieces of unforgiving salal bush instead.
Now, you may look at my life and think that I shouldn’t be giving advice – and I’m pretty sure the girls who I hiked with on this particular day were thinking I shouldn’t be leading any hikes either, but I will say here what I said when we arrived at our first overgrown viewpoint that was bisected by some power lines, “take it in ladies, because this might be the best view we get today.”
It wasn’t, and we pushed on. But we didn’t know what would come next. We forced our way through dense bush and made our own trail. We got scraped and bruised and we topped out in a little clearing that doubled as a modest summit and was surrounded by trees that offered no views. But it was a new place that we hadn’t yet been. We took a spur in a different direction and meandered around the mountainside, only occasionally having to double back and try a new way. And then, most unexpectedly, we stumbled across the viewpoint that I’d had a vague memory of from visiting years before. It was a beautiful unencumbered view of the ocean. It was the kind of scene that Instagrams are made of – and we had it all to ourselves to enjoy.
On our hike down, we found the original wrong turn we had made. With the confidence that only true happiness in our experience can bring, we laughed at how hard it was to miss. And yes, the final viewpoint would have been just as beautiful if we had taking the right turn and gone straight there, but our day wouldn’t have been as full – and I wouldn’t have had much of a story to tell if it had been that easy.
(And no, the girls haven’t asked me to plan any hikes since then. . . )
Hereditary Halloween
My brother has always been extremely talented but seeing the streams of cars and kids flow past his house last night, even before the lights were on, really brought that fact home for me.
My brother has always been extremely talented but seeing the streams of cars and kids flow past his house last night, even before the lights were on, really brought that fact home for me.
Our dad loved Halloween. I remember the elaborate group costumes that he, Mom, and their friends would put together for the Halloween dance in Bamfield. But before we moved to a house that, by it’s nature of being water access only and even more removed from the already remote town, was a deterrent to trick-or-treaters - and before I was born - Dad focused his efforts on terrorizing children who came to his door.
As it’s been told to me, after ringing the doorbell and collecting their candy, the kids would turn to leave and our dad, dressed as Dracula would slowly sit up, opening the lid of a coffin that everyone had thought was just a ghoulish decoration. The kids would scream and run away. Dad loved it.
As I mention, I never got to experience this part of our dad’s Halloween revelry because I wasn’t born yet. But a few years ago my brother started to decorate his house for Halloween. And he didn’t just decorate it, but he began designing and custom building his own props.
Chris has always been creative, and a talented artist. I still cherish a book of poetry that he gave me for Christmas when we were kids. Not only did he write all of it but each page is full of illustrations and colour. I remember when we spent some time in Mexico one year, Dad bought him pottery plates and paints from the artists in the market and he covered them with metal themes and grim reapers - it was the 80’s, not a cry for help!
Chris started with a few Halloween themed creations, but the year following our dad’s passing, he really put his time and energy into it. Now his front yard become transformed into a misty cemetery where grave stones move, ghost guitars light up, and witches stir their cauldrons. Elvis’ headstone is among them - a dedication to our dad. Creating and building is so natural for him that he built his terrifying pumpkin man out of left over pieces. He says he just looked at what he had and could envision exactly what it would be.
Chris has created more than a hobby for himself, and more than a dedication to our dad’s love of Halloween. Through this, he has built community. Neighbours, friends, and family have all lent a hand when needed, from mounting the two life-size flying witches to the roof to going in a as a group and buying Chris the, also life-size, skeleton horse to go with the hearse carriage. And last year, when they ran out of candy, Chris’s other sister ran up the road with reinforcements.
Last night, we arrived early, before he and his wife and daughter had arrive home from there day. As we sat there in the dark families began arriving to see the spectacle. The lights weren’t on yet and nothing was moving but no one seemed to mind. The kids looked at every bit of the display, pointing out exciting things they would see to their parents. By the time Chris got home and the power was connected, the were kids enthralled by it. I overheard one little girls say, “but Mom, I want to go inside.” Her mom tried to explain to her that it wasn’t actually a haunter house, but her imagination - much like my brother’s - was having none of it.
If you happen to be in Coquitlam tonight, take a cruise down Don Moore Drive. You can’t miss it!
Having a Vagina is Exhausting
I pay attention to my surroundings and who I am with. I am vigilant no matter what situation I’m in. I am careful. I have always been careful. But being careful didn’t stop me from ending up in a bad situation.
I cross the street at night when there is a park or a dark alley. I don’t leave my drink unattended at a bar and I take them only from friends and bartenders directly. I don’t leave bars alone. And after two of my friends were pulled into cars, I started looking over my shoulder when walking to my car in the dark. I’ve had a bus driver drop me off in front of my house when I felt uncomfortable. I carry bear spray when I hike alone and I carry my phone in my hand in the city when I feel something isn’t right. I pay attention to my surroundings and who I am with. I am vigilant no matter what situation I’m in. I am careful. I have always been careful.
But being careful didn’t stop me from ending up in a bad situation. I went to a club downtown with friends years ago. We got drinks and we danced. When we left one of the guys, a friend, pulled me into a cab. When I protested he said it was okay, that we were all going to the same place. But we weren’t. Instead, he took me to his place. When I realized what was going on I pulled out my phone to call for a ride and he drunkenly pushed me against his garage and started kissing me. My phone was dropped and smashed on the ground. I didn’t know where I was, I had never been there before. He was insistent that we were going to have sex. He said I had flirted with him. I froze. I never said no. I did what I had to to get out as safely as I could. I let him have sex with me because I thought I had no other option. When it was over he finally called me a ride. A month later I apologized to him for making our friendship awkward by avoiding him. And after that, I just distanced myself completed until he was out of my life.
It is painful and embarrassing to write this because at every turn I can’t help but judge my younger self. Why did I get in that cab? Why did a trust this friend? Why didn't I just run away? But that fact is I did what I had to to survive. This isn’t a clear-cut situation and I doubt that he knew he did anything wrong. But I know the difference between sex that I’ve agreed to that is disappointing or regrettable and sex that happened to me because I thought it was my only option.
Trauma changes us. I learned from the situation. I became even more vigilant and began making an extra effort to be incredibly clear in my interactions with male friends. I don't get drunk in public and I usually go home early. I have continued to have the burden for my safety rest squarely on my shoulders. It’s exhausting having a vagina.
So when I hear that it’s a scary time for young boys, I think - finally! Finally, someone else can share the weight of this. Finally, men will have to think before they are too drunk. Finally, men will be the ones wondering what they should have done differently or if there will be consequences to their actions. What a wonderful time in history that women’s safety isn’t going to be their sole responsibility. Finally!
More women in my life than not are survivors of sexual assault. And it’s been hard for me to know when to share my voice in all of this. But I’m grateful for the brave men and women who have been strong enough to step forward and who have kept the conversations going. Everyone has a story that can educate and I hope you’ll all feel strong enough to share yours when you’re ready.
Taking a Break and Falling in Love at Brohm Lake
Hike 7 | Part way through this hike – it was a slow amble at best, I had to cut it short. I told Stu that it wouldn’t count, that it wasn’t long enough, I hadn’t achieved enough, it wasn’t. . . enough.
Hike #7 | 100m Elevation Gain | 7.5km Hiked
I argued with Stu about including this hike in my #40hikes goal. I had just returned from three days of hiking and camping in Banff and I was tired. We hiked around Brohm Lake with the intention of including a couple of the lookouts to make it a bigger day. Part way through this walk – it was a slow amble at best, I had to cut it short. I told Stu that it wouldn’t count, that it wasn’t long enough, I hadn’t achieved enough, it wasn’t. . . enough. Stu countered that it’s important to share all aspects of achieve this goal – including the sometimes-debilitating exhaustion that I still occasionally struggle with. And of course, he was right.
When my ambitions and physical self don’t line up I deal with strong feelings of disappointment. But the mental practice of accepting my body’s limitations when I need to in order to be able to tackle bigger activities when I can, is making me stronger. There are a lot of challenges that come with not knowing what to expect from your energy levels each day and I can end up feeling constantly let down when I wake up with a big plan that I’m not able to accomplish but there are things that help. I have made a list of hikes that I want to accomplish – some long, some short, some local, some far away. If I have set aside a day for hiking and I wake up in the morning feeling great, then I will go ahead with whatever big adventure I have my sights set on. If I don’t quite have it in me or if my week is packed and I can’t afford to have a day of recovery, then I will pick an easier option. I’m working towards my goal no matter which hike I opt for and that feels good.
There are still some days that I don’t get out at all. They are fewer and farther between than in the past and I try to remember that in taking a rest day I’m still working towards my goal – I won’t get there if I wear myself down.
After we decided to cut this hike short and only walk around the lake instead of adding in the lookouts, I enjoyed our wandering a lot more. We made a lot of stops to look at the nature around us and I spent much of time thinking about the last time we had hiked around Brohm Lake. It was last year, and it was pouring rain. Every trail we followed seemed to dead end at the water and we ended up having to hike straight up a slope of slippery roots and mud. The sleeves of my puffy jacket sucked up all the moisture, wicking it up my arms under my rain coat and my shoes were full of water. I was probably really uncomfortable, but I only remember being incredibly nervous. I was in love with Stu, but I didn’t know how to tell him. I spent the whole time wondering if I was supposed to wait for him to tell me or if I could get up the guts to tell him first. I almost said it when we were standing on the rocky outcropping looking at the dreary view of the lake, and I also almost said it when we were crossing the bridge, and I also almost said it when we were in the forest surrounded by towering old growth trees – but it never quite came out.
Finally, we were back in the car, soaked to the core. Stu started it and got ready to back out of the parking lot. I panicked and blurted out “I love you.” But I didn’t leave it at that. I was so nervous that it felt like I was speaking front of an audience (the only thing scarier to me than snakes) and I just kept babbling at high speed. I think I said something along the lines of, “you don’t have to say it back, but I just wanted to –” Stu interrupted me. He said, “I love you too,” and went on to tell me that he’d been waiting to say it because he hadn’t found the right moment. We had both wanted to create the perfect memory for the first time we told each other but instead we were drenched and shivering in a car; my hair was plastered to my forehead and dripping in my eyes and the water in my shoes was leaking out and pooling on the floor mat. This is one of my favourite memories of us.
Sometimes life doesn’t give you what you expect or want. Sometimes the words come out at the wrong time and sometimes you don’t have the energy to accomplish the goal you’ve set. But when you accept it rather than fighting it, you are more likely to end up moving in the right direction instead of exhausting yourself by trying to change the things beyond your control. My personal mantra: be okay with the short hike and be okay with soggy love.
A Palapa in the Sun
My mom is anxiously waiting for my return – in part so that I can say goodbye, but also so she doesn’t have to do it alone. As I settle into my nine-hour drive home, I think about the last time I made such a heartbreaking journey.
“His heart stopped. They pushed me out of the room and I don’t know what’s going on.” I can vividly remember my mom struggling to get the words out over the phone as she broke down sobbing. Just one year ago, my dad had become suddenly ill while at home in Mexico. This morning I received a similar call from her. Our family dog, Chicklet, is sick. After two blood transfusions to extend his life, he has to be put down. My mom is anxiously waiting for my return – in part so that I can say goodbye, but also so she doesn’t have to do it alone. As I settle into my nine-hour drive home, I think about the last time I made such a heartbreaking journey.
* * *
The first flight I could get to Mexico wasn’t until the next morning. I packed a bag and didn’t sleep that night. On the plane, I put my headphones on to block out the cheerful noise of the families headed on vacation while I nervously stared out the window. The doctors had managed to stabilize Dad, but still, no one knew what was wrong.
After my plane touched down, I waited at the airport to meet my sister. While we were in the air, Dad had been transferred to another hospital further inland that had an intensive care unit. My sister and I wanted to get on our way, but friends implored us to spend the night. It was already dark, and we would be driving through a territory where fighting between officials and gangs had recently intensified. The local situation was so bad the ambulance had refused to transfer Dad until it was daylight. We slept restlessly. Neighbors were caring for Chicklet, and without him – without Mom and Dad – we were uncomfortable in the emptiness of their house.
Chicklet came into our lives by accident. Abandoned under a bridge to be eaten by crocodiles as a puppy, Chicklet managed to survive his first year by visiting construction sites and eating scraps from the workers. And this was how he showed up in our lives; when mom and dad were building their house in Mexico he just walked through the door one day and never left. As much as we referred to him as a rescue, we knew he didn’t see it that way. He tolerated our love but made it clear that he wasn’t going to follow any rules.
Whenever Chicklet was confident that no one was home – and he was frequently wrong – we would find him lounging on the couch, exactly where he knew he wasn’t allowed. When we travelled we would often have to pay for more expensive hotel rooms just to find ones that allowed dogs. One such room had special dog bowls, treats, and beds - not the king size people bed that Chicklet hopped right up on. When we hollered at him, he didn’t even flinch. He just looked at us as if to say 'nice call on the room guys. Thanks.' Inevitably someone would have to struggle to move his suddenly heavy body over enough to be able to crawl in to sleep.
Stubborn and brave, Dad would often say, “He’s just such a cool dog,” even though we all knew it already. Anyone who met Chicklet asked to adopt him, strangers on the street, friends, and even his vet. He captured hearts within minutes of meeting him. His irresistible heavy lidded brown eyes – bedroom eyes my aunt called them – and nonchalant attitude made everyone fall in love. Coming home from Mexico one year, I ran into a co-worker at the airport. He bent down to pet Chicklet and immediately asked to take him home. That’s how special Chicklet was. He and Dad quickly became best friends. From their challenging childhoods to being independent and stubborn adults, they shared a personality. They did what they wanted, always spoke their minds, and charmed the hell out of you by not giving a damn. And while no one, as best as I can remember, ever offered to adopt Dad, he was frequently fed by the neighbors anytime Mom was out of town.
Chicklet liked to wander and if you tried to call him back or chase after him, he would coolly evade your efforts while pretending not to hear you. Once he wandered off on a day trip and got left behind. When we realized it, Dad was quick to retrieve him. While Chicklet had always been a talker, making noises that varied from barks and whining to howls and yelps, he unleashed what we can only assume was a long stream of obscenities on Dad related to the indignity of his being abandoned that didn’t stop until they reached home. Neither of them let each other out of their sight much after that.
After a near-sleepless night in Mexico, my sister and I drove into the mountains. It was a hot, four-hour drive, made longer by the Federales’ checkpoints we were waved into. The new hospital was stark and clean. We entered through the billing department – the only way to access the patient rooms – and found Mom sitting in a hallway on the fourth floor.
Dad was in an induced coma and the doctors didn’t know if he would survive. We called our brother who flew in the next day. We spent the following ten days working with the doctors to make Dad well enough to fly back to Canada. When he was brought out of his coma he barely recovered consciousness, only briefly opening his eyes. He cried when we cried, but he couldn’t communicate. Our hearts were breaking. He was finally cleared for transport, but any relief we felt was short lived. The night that he was rolled into the emergency room at home he opened his eyes for the last time. Two days later the doctors finally gave us answers. A scan showed a massive blood clot that was slowly obscuring his brain. Dad would never wake up. We would never hear his voice again. After a few days when everyone had said their goodbyes, we took him off life support.
The medical team advised us that he would likely pass within a few hours, or perhaps a day. We stayed by his side, taking shifts so that he would never be alone. Hours passed, then days. We barely left the hospital. He slowly starved. He developed tremors. We didn’t know, and the doctors couldn’t tell us if he could hear us, if he was in pain, or if he was scared. We held his hand and talked to him, even if all it did was comfort us. We were all in limbo. We had no hope, but we couldn’t begin grieving yet. Always a skinny guy, Dad had often bragged about how he had weighed the same since high school, but now the digital scale on his bed showed a steady decline. His organs were slowly shutting down. His eyes stopped closing. We huddled together, as if for warmth, our shared pain isolating us from the world that was carrying on around us. We waited.
It was a dreary February morning when Dad finally left us. We held his hands and told him it was okay to go. His tremors became more pronounced, he gasped, his body became rigid, and then nothing. We gathered our things and for the first time in nearly a month we stepped back into the outside world, unsure of where we belonged.
* * *
It has been a year and we still haven’t adjusted to our lives without Dad. We don’t know where we belong, except to each other. I am exhausted as I finally pull off the highway to find Mom and Chicklet. We feed him steak for breakfast and take him to his favorite park to sit on the damp grass. I’m sure he is annoyed by all the attention, but he lacks the energy to shrug it off. Finally, the time comes, and we drive to the vet. I sit in the back of the car petting him, running my hand over his protruding ribs. I tell him how much we are going to miss him. I am holding back tears as I carry his little body inside. As a family, we’ve had over a dozen dogs and have stood here, in this same situation, many times before. But I always feel uncertain. I ask the vet for confirmation that this is the right – the only – decision. She shows me his x-rays and explains about the tumor and the complications. The dark mass growing inside him looks not unlike the one that slowly took Dad from us. It is pressing on his stomach and preventing him from eating. If we do nothing – he too will starve to death. This is the closest I will come to being sure we were making the right decision. “I think that pets, unlike people, are lucky that we have an option to end their pain and suffering so peacefully,” she says. We stroke his head and tell him that he is going to see Dad while the vet gives him the injection. And in an instant, he is gone.
Mom and I sit in the car outside the vet’s office for a long time, each one offering to drive, but neither of us able to. I think about the year before when we had finally returned to Mexico, after Dad died. Chicklet had barked, yelped, and howled when he saw us. He’d made panicked sounds that brought tears to my eyes. He’d jumped into my arms, scolding me for leaving him for so long, and then scrambled desperately to leap into Mom’s lap before she could get out of the car. But after greeting us, he kept searching. He started running circles around us, sniffing, and whimpering, looking for Dad. Later that day I was sitting on the floor when Chicklet walked over and curled up in my lap. All I could think was, 'what will we do when we lose him too? This little furry connection to Dad, the last dog we will all have together.' Today we found out. Today we said goodbye to another member of our family. The only comfort Mom and I finally find is knowing that he is no longer searching for Dad. Somewhere they have found each other again. We picture them, sitting on a beach under a palapa in the sun waiting for the fish to arrive. And with that we finally drive away.
7 Things I Learned at Baker Lake
Hike 6 | Even though we were disappointed to miss out on completing the whole Skoki Loop, the smoke did clear enough for us to spend two days on it. I learned a few things on this hike - from the practical to the ridiculous - and here there are!
Hike #6 | 860m Elevation Gain | 26.2km Hiked
Even though we were disappointed to miss out on completing the whole Skoki Loop, the smoke did clear enough for us to spend two days on it. We hiked out and back to Baker Lake and had an incredible trip. The scenery was stunning and constantly changing. Once we got past the long logging road start to it, the hike became more engaging and we enjoyed the streams, nearly haze-free views, and snack stops along the away.
I learned a few things on this hike - from the practical to the ridiculous - and here there are!
1. Learn from Others
I had never hiked with Corrina or met Laura. I suppose it can seem a little risky to plan a multi-day trip with people you don’t know all that well, however, you can learn so much from new people. Everyone has their own way of doing things that they’ve learned along the way. Whether it’s about what to pack, when to eat, what to do at camp, or anything else, these little tips and tricks – take them or leave them – can help you to refine your own personal backpacking program.
Pay attention, ask questions, and share stories. At the very least you will get a line on how to make decent Bloody Mary’s in the wild.
2. Pack Camp Shoes
When we decided that we were only going to do one night on the Skoki Loop, I repacked my bag and took out some unnecessary items like extra clothing and food. I also made the poor decision to leave behind my flip flops.
After a long day of hiking, there is no better feeling than taking off your hiking boots. . . and then putting them right back on. Once at camp there was still a lot of walking around to do to get to the lake, the bear-proof food cache, and the eating area. While I have tough little hobbit feet, the ground was a bit too pokey to go barefoot for long. Without comfy shoes to slip on, I ended up walking around in my hiking boots with the laces undone, which unfortunately by the next morning had led to a small blister.
Luckily, I had everything I needed on hand for blister care and it didn’t bother me when we hiked out the next day, but flip flops would have been a welcome addition to my supplies.
3. Drink Water
For the first time, I hiked with a bladder instead of a water bottle. It allowed me to carry three litres of water at a time and to continually drink it, rather than having to stop and take the bottle out. Also, the added nearly 7 pounds of weight is a great motivator to drink all your water.
As a comparison – when we hike just over 13km to Jewell Pass, I carried a day pack with a bottle of water in it and barely drink a litre of water. On the hike to Baker Lake, which was almost the same distance, I drank roughly 5 litres of water.
The bladder was especially handy for this trip as we found out when we arrived at the second stream crossing that it had been treated to kill off an invasive species of fish and couldn’t be used for drinking water. Instead we collect out water when we arrived at the lake and there I used a SteriPen to treat the water.
4. Don’t Panic
I tucked into my sleeping bag when it was still somewhat light out, so I put my headphones in with an audio book on and pulled my toque down over my eyes. I zipped my mummy bag all the way up and pulled the little built-in mittens on the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands.
When the temperature dropped, I woke up in the middle of the nigh face down in my sleeping bag with no opposable thumbs, no understanding of why I couldn’t see, and Tina Fey conversationally telling me about Saturday Night live. I panicked like a cat trapped in a sack.
I’m going to go ahead and assume that no one else wake up imprisoned in their sleeping bags, but if you do – take a deep breath and just remember that you haven’t been buried alive. And then remind yourself that you are actually sleeping outdoors, enjoying nature, and that this is something you chose to do. Then spend the next fifteen minutes trying to free your hands. Also, pick up a copy of Tina Fey’s Bossypants if you haven’t read it yet.
4. Small Comforts are Sometimes Worth the Space
I packed for this trip during a heatwave at home and somehow convinced myself that I would never be cold again. It was very clearly the end of the world and the temperature would always make my eyeballs sweat. It turns out that wasn’t true. My first night camping with the girls in the Bow Valley was fairly sleepless due to the freezing temperatures.
When we visited Canmore that day I bought a giant pair of fuzzy ‘heat’ socks from Canadian Tire. All I could think about was how cold my feet had been the night before and how much I wanted to be able to sleep. When we packed up for our hike, I looked at the socks which were roughly the same size as my uber-light and packable sleeping bag, but man, were they cozy. In they went.
And I’m so grateful to have had them. We woke up at Baker Lake to frost and but my feet were warm. That was all that mattered. It’s easy for me to get obsessed with super light hiking and packing, but at the end of the day you are always going to want a little comfort - and some chocolate.
5. A Meat Log Goes a Long Way
Cured meat is a lifesaver. With all my eating restrictions, I spend a lot of time having to prep my own meals and snacks for every hike, so when I’m able to buy something substantial to include, it’s pretty exciting. It can be really hard to find a salami that doesn’t have garlic in it, but there are a few out there – you just have to read the ingredients carefully.
One salami will cover my lunches for up to a five day hike and is great to add to protein to dinners on shorter hikes too. Just remember to hang it with your other food - I once woke up one the West Coast Trail to realize that I had slept with a salami right next to my tent. Luckily no bears came sniffing around.
6. I Can Do It by Myself
In recent history, I’ve spent a lot of time hiking with Stu or with other people who are stronger and more experienced hikers than I. Due to my struggles with energy and health, I’ve often leaned on my hiking partners (at their offering) to lighten my load. When I hiked the West Coast Trail last year, my friend Tree, carried our tent and took photos for us and on most hikes with Stu he tends to carry more weight than I do. Going in to this hike, I wanted to test myself and see how independent I could be. I carried the tent and everything else I would need to be completely self-sufficient - and found the energy to still take pictures along the way.
While having incredibly supportive community has kept me as active as possible in the last few years, there is something powerful in knowing that you are capable on your own. Not only was I happy to find out that I could manage just fine with everything I needed, I also felt like I made a big step towards my goal of completing some solo hikes in the next year while working towards my #40hikes goal.
7. Have an End Goal
While our hike out from Baker Lake was mostly downhill, we were still tired from an active few days and having something to look forward to was, not only a big morale booster, but also a great way to pass the time as we walked. Corrina and I had decided that we wanted to have margaritas when we finished, and we talked about them in so much detail that we even convinced Laura – who is a beer enthusiast – that she wanted one too. It was the first thing we ordered when we arrived to Canmore and the drinks were every bit as good as we had hoped.
A big thank you to Corrina’s mom, Kristy, who had sent Corrina money to buy us our celebratory dinner and drinks!
For multi-day hikes in the future, I might consider having margaritas at camp for some daily motivation.
Understanding Fear in Mountain Biking
Fear is a topic that isn't often publicly discussed in mountain biking. Admitting to feeling it can cause us to feel insecure, uncomfortable, and isolated. After speaking to athletes about it, it also became clear that feeling fear is neither a limiter or predictor of success.
Fear is a topic that isn't often publicly discussed in mountain biking. Admitting to feeling it can cause us to feel insecure, uncomfortable, and isolated. It wasn't until the Q&A session at the Crankworx Fox booth last year when Claire Buchar and Katrina Strand fielded a number of question about managing and overcoming fear in mountain biking, that I realized how common of an emotion it is in our sport. It also became clear, the more I spoke to athletes about it, that feeling fear is neither a limiter or predictor of success.
Take It Easy
Instead of heading Dad’s advice – as you tend not to do with parents – I got a tattoo of swallow about eight years ago, as a tribute to him, on my left bicep. After he passed I got a second swallow on the same arm. Finally, the other day, while I was sitting on the couch doing nothing in particular, it occurred to me what I would write in a banner if I had one. And so, I made another appointment.
Dad dropped out of high school and joined the navy when he was 17. Having no experience with boats he quickly learned he was prone to seasickness and lost two weeks of his life barfing while trying to complete his duties. This was a lesson that he would relearn decades later when he took a job as a deckhand out of Bamfield and was forced to hitchhike home from Prince Rupert.
The only action he saw while in service was the experimental bombing of a couple islands and getting mugged at knifepoint while in port in Jamaica. As he told it, Dad’s navy career was mostly about drinking in port with the guys from the ship and trying to meet women. . . which is how he ended with so many tattoos.
My favourite story I used to have him tell was about the morning he awoke to find he had a new banner across his chest. It was held up by swallows on either side and in the middle, it twisted where it was clearly meant to hold the names of two star-crossed lovers. Since Dad didn’t have a girlfriend at the time, it just had his name on one side – Syd.
Dad was embarrassed by his tattoos to some extent and never wanted us, kids, to make the same mistake he had. But I loved that his tattoos represented a life before us. They were just one reminder of the other experiences that had built to who he was as a father. And while he was flawed like the rest of us, I loved him and could have listened to the stories of his youth all day long.
Instead of heading his advice – as you tend not to do with parents – I got a tattoo of swallow about eight years ago, as a tribute to him, on my left bicep. After he passed I got a second swallow on the same arm. Finally, the other day, while I was sitting on the couch doing nothing in particular, it occurred to me what I would write in a banner if I had one. And so, I made another appointment.
Dad loved the Eagles, we listened to them on vinyl growing up and would sing their songs while out fishing. They had come to play in Vancouver many times and I always wanted to take him, but I was always too busy. Life would frequently get in the way and I would always think ‘next time.’ Finally, I made it happen. Dad and I went to see the Eagles. They put on a fantastic show, telling the story of their history, the inspiration behind their albums and songs, and of course, playing all their hits. It also turned out to be the second to last time I saw him alive – and one of my most cherished memories.
When he passed, Take It Easy, seemed like the perfect anthem for his life. A message about not getting hung up on the breakdowns in life told through an upbeat, vibrant harmony with witty lyrics. We sang it at both his memorial in Bamfield; over a hundred people gathered on about thirty boats at the mouth of the harbour, and again in Mexico; around a guitar on the beach. The words are even etched into the lid of the handmade wooden box that still holds some of his ashes.
One of the first times that I visited Bamfield alone after Dad passed, I went into the old garage and grabbed a handful of his CD’s to listen to on the way home. The CD on top was 60’s Jukebox Hits and I threw it in, expecting to hear Rock Around the Clock – but Take It Easy played. He was always giving me shit for putting his CDs back in the wrong cases (sorry Dad). It goes without saying that whenever I hear that song, I think of him. It has become a powerful way for his memory to stay alive within our family and community. I occasionally get texts from friends telling me ‘your dad’s song is playing.’ My cousins even stopped on the corner in Winslow Arizona for a photo op. Just writing about these memories makes me smile.
I got the words ‘Take It Easy’ tattooed on my banner for Dad, but also as a reminder to myself to make more time for what’s truly important. It is easy to get hung up on the small things in life and miss the bigger picture. These stresses contribute to depression and other health issues. Buy the concert tickets, take a break from work, take a walk outside, stop thinking that being busy is what’s important in life. These are lessons I’m learning – and that’s part of the reason these words are important to me.
On my drive home from Vancouver, Take It Easy came on the stereo. I smiled. Dad once told me that he liked that I put so much thought into my tattoos and that they had meaning. He had always felt like his were carelessly acquired. But I still love Dad’s tattoo stories the best – seriously, who gets drunk and wakes up with a chest tattoo? Syd Baker did.
Tattoo by Trevor Shea at Three Point Tattoo.
Red Bull Articles
I started working for Red Bull as a freelance writer in 2018. Since then I have worked on multiple projects including short form content, long form articles and interviews, and event coverage.
I started working for Red Bull as a freelance writer in 2018. Since then I have worked on multiple projects including short form content, long form articles and interviews, and event coverage.
Here is a complete list:
How to keep your local trail builders happy
Emil Johansson wins his first Red Bull Joyride
How women made history in Speed & Style at Crankworx
Here's your first look at the redesigned 2019 Red Bull Joyride course
Brandon Semenuk shreds Utah for his fifth Raw 100
Watch Brandon Semenuk and Ryan Howard party lap in Parallel
Rupert Walker on pushing the limits in mountain bike filmmaking
Join #TeamCoast2Coast and run across Canada on May 5th
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Prairie View Trail to Jewell Pass
Hike 5 | Expectations can be both motivating and devastating. No matter how much we try not to anticipate something, try not to get too excited, or try not to think about what the future holds, we can still find ourselves completely disappointed when our Tinder date spends the night talking about his mom – or in this case when wildfires threaten to cancel your hike.
Hike #5 | 756m Elevation Gain | 13.8km Hiked
Expectations can be both motivating and devastating. No matter how much we try not to anticipate something, try not to get too excited, or try not to think about what the future holds, we can still find ourselves completely disappointed when our Tinder date spends the night talking about his mom – or in this case when wildfires threaten to cancel your hike.
Back in May, my friend Corrina got in touch about doing a hike in the Banff National Park in August. She lives in Hawaii and wanted to visit the Canadian Rockies. She invited her friend Laura from Washington and organized permits for us to spend three days hiking the Skoki Loop.
To be honest, because we made the plan so far ahead of time, I didn’t put a lot of thought into it initially. But when I set my 40 hikes goal last month, I began to excitedly anticipate what would be the first multi-day hike to check off my list. Then, just a week out from the trip, Laura messaged with concerns about the wildfire smoke in the area and made the first suggestion that we might not be able to complete the hike. My heart sunk. Without really realizing it, I had pinned a lot of expectations on this trip. As I looked at my pile of supplies that I had been organizing on our living room floor, my disappointment over our uncertain plans grew.
I texted with friends in Canmore to get a sense of the visibility and air quality, but nothing was concrete. And so, when I finally set off on my eleven-hour drive east, I still didn’t know what our plan would be. I was in a bit of a funk about it, feeling like the long drive and all the preparation was pointless if we weren’t going to be achieving the goal we had set. I was tense as I drove through increasingly smoke-filled post-apocalyptic towns. At noon as I passed through Salmon Arm, the sun barely made it seem like twilight and the air stung my eyes. As I rolled into the Rockies hours later, the mountains themselves were nowhere to be seen and it was surprisingly eerie to have no landmarks to navigate by.
When I arrived at the campground to meet the girls, they had already been in the area for a few days and were experiencing some challenges with the smoke. We knew there was rain in the forecast that would help, but it sounded like it would arrive a day later than we needed it to start the hike. We ran through dozens of other options but came to no conclusion. We all just wanted to wake up in the morning to clear skies and start the hike we had been planning for the last three months. We decided to put off making the call on what to do until the latest possible moment and set our alarms for 6am the next morning.
I woke up in the back of my truck and peered out the window. I couldn’t see the mountains. Corrina texted me from the tent she was sharing with Laura and we decided that we would go to one of our Plan B’s. Instead of hiking the whole Skoki Loop, we would spend another night camping in the Bow Valley and do a local hike to see how we felt in the smoke. Hopefully it would rain overnight, and we would do an out and back to Baker Lake which would have been our second night on the loop.
We were all disappointed and a little unsure what to do with ourselves. It took a long time for us to get moving that morning and even longer to decide on a hike to do. Finally, using the All Trails App – it’s basically Tinder for hiking as it finds trails that are close to you and gives you enough details to decide if you want to check them out in person – we found the Prairie View Trail to Jewell Pass in the Bow Valley Provincial Park. It is a 13.8km loop with 756m of elevation. At this point, we had pretty low expectations for our day. We had already made the difficult decision to give up on our big plans, the smoke was still obscuring the grand views the Rockies are famous for, and all we knew for sure was that this hike wasn’t going to be as good as what we originally had planned for the day.
The trail started off with a long stretch of double track under some powerlines and along Barrier Lake. After that it turned right and started to thread through the forest along a dry river bed before beginning a steady climb. After a couple hours of hiking – and only a few minutes after we had a discussion about Type 2 fun – we abruptly came to the edge of a cliff. The view over the turquoise lake and deep green tree tops was stunning. We could see all the way back to where we had parked the car which gave us an incredible appreciation for how far our legs had taken us both in distance and in elevation. The shear rock face that we stood on top of had an impressively jagged ridgeline set against the hazy mountains that were starting to show in the distance. When we climbed to the precipice we met a Scottish couple and the man – who had a long red beard – said in a thick accent “I feel like a young Gandalf up here!”
It was hard to believe our luck when our day had begun with such disappointment, but there we were in a breath-taking place that we had never stood before – and possibly never will again – feeling like our own versions of young Gandalf in the breeze and appreciating how much better life is when you let go of your expectations. It was hard to look at the 360-degree view without realizing that if all had gone to plan, we never would have set foot here.
Multi-Day Hike Packing List
Below is a look at what I've packed for a multi-day hike of the Skoki Loop. This is by no means a minimalist hiking list. I've carefully balanced comfort and weight while planning out what I would take.
A few months ago, my friend Corrina from Hawaii got in touch about doing a hike in Banff National Park. She has organized the whole trip and tomorrow I'm driving ten hours to meet her and another friend, Laura, in Canmore. The next day we will start our three-day/two-night hike of the Skoki Loop; a 37.7km hike with 1,796m elevation gain.
Here is a look at what I've packed. This is by no means a minimalist hiking list. I've carefully balanced comfort and weight while planning out what I would take.
Packing List
Sleeping Bag
This year I treated myself to the Patagonia -1C bag. It packs up smaller and lighter than my Big Agnes winter bag and is warmer than my 15-year-old 7C synthetic bag. I've used it a few times already this season and really love it!
Sleeping Pad and repair kit
I bought the Therm-a-rest NeoAir Trekker after borrowing Stu’s for the West Coast Trail last year and also seeing friends use theirs. I've had bad luck in the past with leaks in pads but (knock on wood) this one seems to be a great balance between weight and durability.
Packable Pillow
Sil Tarp
Tent with cord and stakes (not pictured)
earlier this year, Stu and I started camping with just a tarp (just like my grandma used to). We loved the simplicity of it, however with some of the trips we are doing this year we were worried about bugs keeping us up at night, so we got the MSR Thru Hiker Mesh House. It weighs next to nothing and is easily erected under your tarp using your hiking poles.
Tent Footprint
Trekking Poles
Rain Jacket
Packable Puffy Jacket
Just like my toque, I take a Patagonia Nano puffy jacket with me everywhere I go, even on day hikes. It almost always comes in handy on hikes with a lot of elevation gain.
Rain Pants
For this hike, I am taking a pair of water-resistant hiking pants made by Patagonia. They stand up well for moderately wet hikes and are somewhat insulating, making them a great second layer over long underwear for around camp on a chilly evening.
Wool Baselayer/Long Underwear Bottoms
Wool Shirt
Shorts (Light Quick Dry)
Pants (Light Quick Dry)
T-Shirt (Quick Dry/Synthetic)
Tank Top (Quick Dry/Synthetic)
Light Long Sleeve Shirt (Synthetic)
Bathing Suit
2 x Sport Bra
Sunhat
I tend to be more sensitive to heat stroke than sunstroke and therefore don’t usually wear a hat when hiking. That said, I’ve recently discovered the Sombrio Digger hat which has a light mesh fabric that doesn’t hold in heat like a ball camp and has a wide brim for extra protection – and for when you want to enter into full tourist mode. It’s also super packable and doesn’t take up much space.
Toque
I take my thin wool icebreaker toque with me almost everywhere I go in both the winter and summer. It packs up small and is super handy for cold alpine nights.
Poop Trowel
Bear Spray
Hiking Boots
3 x Wool Socks
Packable Towel
3L Bladder (not pictured) and an insulated water bottle
I bring both. The bladder keeps me drinking water all day without stopping and also allows me to fill up enough while we hike for cooking at camp later. The bottle is great for adding hydration tablets (you don’t want them in your bladder as they make it slimy and gross and you can’t get the flavor out), it is also great for scooping water out of streams to fill your bladder. I bring an insulated one for making tea around camp and sometimes taking it with me on cold start mornings.
Notebook and Pen
Book
Flip flops
for around camp
Pot
Toilet Paper
Solar Panel (for charging phone)
Phone with extra battery, waterproof case, and solar charging panel (includes map, trip description, and GPS)
Stove
Matches
Multi-Tool
Utensils
I’ve just purchased this for water treatment. My cousin had one on our West Coast Trail trip and we loved how fast and easy it was to use.
Headlamp with Extra Batteries (not pictured)
Extra Cell Phone Battery
Battery Operated Air Mattress Pump
The electric pump is a splurge, but it’s small and light, and after a long day hiking, having it blow up my air mattress while I make dinner is almost as good as someone handing me a margarita!
Sunglasses
Not Pictured
Backpack
my hiking pack is the Arc’tyrex Altra 62 and is weatherproof, otherwise, I would bring a pack cover as well.
3 x Underwear
Gaiters
Camera and batteries
Flask of Whiskey
Fuel for Stove
Garbage Bags
I use X-Large Ziploc bags to avoid any leakage or odor in my bag
Waterproof Stuff Sack with Rope and Carabiner
for hanging food
Watch
Cash
if you time it right, you can stop by Skoki Lodge for High Tea on this hike.
Sun Block
Lip Balm
Insect Repellant
Soap
I bring Bronner's soap because it is biodegradable and also works on dishes and hair. I bring the unscented one as I assume bears love the smell of lavender and peppermint as much as I do.
Toothbrush with Travel Size Toothpaste
Hand sanitizer
Deodorant (Travel Size)
Ear Plugs
Dental Floss
First Aid Kit (more on that below)
Emergency Gear
Disclaimer about my First Aid/Emergency kit - it is a collection of things I've bought, found, and been given over the years. Do some research if you are planning on building your own, there is a lot of good information out there! But always be prepared.
Antibacterial Wipes
Non-stick Gauze
Sunscreen
Advil
Emergency Blanket
Tick Removing Tweezers
Strike Pad and Waterproof Matches
Whistle
Fabric Medical Tape
Mirror
Bug Sting Relief
Duct Tape
Fishing Hook and Line
Safety Pin
Triangular Bandage (not pictured)
Food
This will be my first multi-day hike since I started eating on the SIBO diet. I've prepared breakfasts and dinners (Pad Thai recipe here) in Ziploc freezer bags so that I can simply add boiling water to them. I've also prepared 'just add water' versions of my smoothies that I make at home and will be eating a garlic-free salami with homemade almond flour crackers for lunch. Additionally, I've packed fruit leathers, individual packs of almond butter, and homemade coconut cream fudge! The great thing about hiking is indulging in all those healthy fats!
Breakfast Recipe:
2 tbsp + 2 tsp Red Lentil Flakes
2 tbsp + 2 tsp Quinoa Flakes
1 tbsp Almond Butter Powder
1/2 tsp Cinnamon
1 tbsp Coconut Milk Powder
1/8 tsp Truvia (sweetener)
a handful of Freeze-dried Blueberries
a handful of Slivered Almonds
Put everything except the slivered almonds into a medium Ziploc freezer bag. Fill with 1/2 cup to 2/3 cup boiling water. Add almonds. Enjoy.
Calories: 225 | Protein: 15g | Fat 3.5g
Camping Smoothie Recipe:
1 scoop Chocolate Vega Protein and Greens
1 tsp Chocolate Powder
1 tbsp Almond Butter Powder
1/2 tsp Cinnamon
1 tbsp Coconut Milk Powder
1/8 tsp Truvia (sweetener)
1/8 tsp Holy Basil Powder
a handful of Slivered Almonds
When I'm camping I take lunchbox-sized almond milk tetra packs and a blender bottle to make these, but for backpacking, I just add water to the powder and use a spoon to mix it up.
Calories: 266 | Protein: 25.5g | Fat 4.7g
A few years ago, when I was feeling at my worst, I committed to doing a multi-day hike on the Sunshine Coast Trail with a friend. I was out-of-shape due to simply being too exhausted to do anything active and the night before the trip I picked up my backpack for the first time and burst into tears. It was so heavy. I couldn't imagine hiking with it. I did and I finished the trip. But throwing my bag on tonight felt so great! It can be easy to forget that I am making gains in health and fitness - and this week it was especially hard to remember that, but when I threw my pack on with ease, it put the biggest smile on my face!
Al Habrich's Trail: A Cautionary Tale About Hiking with PMS
Hike 4 | I have always hesitated to mention PMS in any of my writing because it’s a bit of a polarizing topic. Some doctors don’t believe in it. Men don’t get it. Some women have it, some claim they don’t have it, and well, there isn’t another category there. I land in the category of women who get it – and get it in an exceptionally bad way.
Hike #4 | 340m Elevation Gain | 7km Hiked
I have always hesitated to mention PMS in any of my writing because it’s a bit of a polarizing topic. Some doctors don’t believe in it. Men don’t get it. Some women have it, some claim they don’t have it, and well, there isn’t another category there. I land in the category of women who get it – and get it in an exceptionally bad way.
You know that list of symptoms that you might get from PMS? I have them all – and then some. I get everything from weight gain to nightmares, depression to joint pain, and exhaustion to digestive issues. Overnight I will gain five pounds, lose all interest in my regular activities, and spiral into a deep depression. No matter how healthy I feel physically and mentally the rest of the time, this will cut me off at the knees. It feels a lot like a tiny alien has taken control of my body; a tiny drunk asshole alien.
The experience varies from month to month, but I usually spend roughly a week struggling to survive as opposed to truly living. And that’s complete balls – or is it a lack of them? Either way, this was the reality that I woke up to last Tuesday morning and that was how I was feeling when we started to hike the very exposed, Al Habrich’s Trail at noon. I wish I was about to tell you a victory story, but really, it’s more of a cautionary tale about hiking with hormones.
Al Habrich’s trail starts at the top of the Sea to Sky Gondola and climbs steadily up through short wooded areas and longer rock slabs to offer a number of gorgeous vistas and different perspectives of Howe Sound and downtown Squamish. At the highest viewpoint, you are treated to a 270-degree view that looks back down toward the Summit Lodge where the hike begins.
BLISTERS
As Stu likes to say, "Moleskin is the biggest scam perpetrated on the outdoor community." Instead, his magical combination of non-stick gauze cut to size with white medical tape to secure it has saved me time and time again. If you are prone to blisters like I am, I highly recommend you keep some of this stuff in your first aid kit!
We, unfortunately, were forced to start our hike at the hottest time of the day during a heat wave. It was so hot that when our gondola up temporarily halted and turned quickly into a sweltering sauna, I was genuinely concerned for the two elderly couples in it with us. Within minutes they were planning a mutiny and discussing how to pry open the doors. Luckily, we started moving again before things got too desperate. Just a few steps onto the trail and it felt like a neighborhood bully was holding his giant magnifying over our little ant bodies. The trail was dusty and loose, I was sweaty and sticky. And I was having a hard time battling through my existing exhaustion just to get one foot in front of the other. I complained frequently but refused to turn around. As I’m sure you can imagine, this was a great experience for Stu.
We stopped often to drink water in the slightly less hot shade of the single skinny trees we could find on the rock slabs and tried to make light of the situation. No matter how deep I am in the self pitty pool (and that thing is as bottomless as a happy hour pitcher of margaritas), I can still laugh at myself. It's not fun having your personality, your happiness, and your health all tugged out from under you - especially when you have worked hard for them. But I also have immense compassion for Stu who still finds just the right time to poke fun at me and remind me that the sky isn't actually falling.
The fog of my bad mood hadn’t lifted at all and although I tried to will myself into a better headspace, the reality was that I needed to concentrate simply on moving forward. Eventually, my stubbornness paid off and, even through blisters from my packed out old hiking boots, we got to the top of this not-actually-that-challenging-not-actually-that-long-felt-like-death hike. While looking out from the rock bluff we were standing on I realized that I was looking down on The Chief and therefore this was the highest vantage point that I’d seen Squamish from. It briefly occurred to me that there was a message here in that idea of changing perspectives but then my hormones were like ‘screw that hippy shit.’ Instead, I used the little energy I had left to make the trek back down. The heat had completely zapped us by the time we crossed back onto the gravel road would take us to the gondola and we dragged our melted selves into the lodge for overpriced cold drinks like common tourists.
I have given up a quarter of my life to these hormone fluctuations for almost three decades. And even though I came home that afternoon and cried from sheer exhaustion in front of our fan and even though I was miserable for most of our hike, I didn’t simply pull the sheets over my head that morning and will the day away. Instead, I made a memory. It’s a memory of a shitty, dirty, struggle hike – but there’s something in there that feels a little like a win. It feels a little like I gave the hormones that were wearing me like a skin suit the middle finger. And it also feels like maybe next month around this time I might be doing solo hikes. . .
CHOCOLATE CHUNK BANANA BREAD
4 bananas 2 1/2 cups mashed
4 eggs
1/2 cup almond butter
4 tablespoons coconut oil melted (it's been so hot that my coconut oil is already melted)
1/2 cup almond flour
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
pinch of sea salt
6 oz. dark chocolate chopped (I used unsweetened)
Grease one 9x5 loaf pan (or 8"x8" square pan, which is what I used) and preheat the oven to 350ºF.
In a large bowl or mixer, combine the mashed bananas, eggs, coconut oil, vanilla extract and nut butter until fully combined.
Add the coconut flour, cinnamon, baking soda, baking powder, and sea salt to the wet ingredients and mix well. Fold in the chocolate chunks.
Pour the batter into the prepared pan and spread it evenly.
Bake in the preheated oven for about 40 minutes if using a square pan, and 50-60 if using a loaf pan. A toothpick inserted into the center should come out clean, and when you press down lightly on the loaf, it should spring back, not stay indented. If a toothpick comes out clean but the loaf isn't springing back, keep it in the oven until it does to ensure it's baked through.
Remove from oven and allow to cool on a wire rack for about 1/2 hour. Flip out onto a cooling rack to finish cooling.
I found this recipe here and only made a couple small changes. Not only is it packed with healthy fats and natural sugars that made it a great snack on the hike, but the chocolate in it helped satisfy my cravings. I love banana bread and was so happy to find a sugar-free and sweetener-free recipe.
The Three Sisters with the Whole Family
Hike 3 | We set out from Nitinat on Saturday for a day hike; thirteen of my cousins and aunties and three dogs in all. My family has been hiking on the West Coast for the last five generations and even though it was previously out of necessity, I can’t help but think that it’s in our blood to explore.
115m Elevation Gain | 4.5km Hiked
Nitinat Lake has been a special place for my family for generations. As a baby, my grandpa would visit here on canoe trips with his parents and as my cousins and I often spent our summers here with our Grandma Logan. There is a special anticipation that grows from the moment you hit the gravel road until you turn into the shady, winding drive, and get the first cool breath of fresh air off the lake. It feels like we are returning not just to a place that we love, but also to all the memories that we’ve shared here over the years.
The lake sits just beyond a thin barrier of trees, just past the ancient cabin with moss growing on the roof, and beyond a beach that is constantly changing with each winter flood. The wind comes up at 11:30 am each morning like clockwork and we’ve all adopted Grandma’s tradition of having our morning coffee and tea while the lake is still as calm as glass.
We set out from Nitinat on Saturday for a day hike; thirteen of my cousins and aunties and three dogs in all. My family has been hiking on the West Coast for the last five generations and even though it was previously out of necessity, I can’t help but think that it’s in our blood to explore. My great-great grandparents and great-grandparents traveled by foot along the coast frequently to maintain telegraph and trap lines before they were charged with building the Lifesaving Trail (now known as the West Coast Trail). In more recent generations my Grandma Logan hiked the West Coast Trail with the majority of her children and grandchildren – and even, sometimes, alone.
From Grandma Logan, we learned about following water downhill if we were lost – “it will get you to the ocean and you’ll know where to go from there,” she would tell my cousins. She proved to us that a tarp or a sheet of plastic was all you needed for shelter as she would hike off in her gumboots with her (now) vintage external frame pack. My cousin Andrea recalled sleeping in a cave with Grandma during one particularly stormy trip, while my Aunty Sherry told a story about the having to scramble up a cliff when the tide came in on them. My mom told a story about hiking with Grandma during which she hollered back to the younger girls, “oh you can make it girls, we are going to have a happy hour when we get there!” And they did.
For our hike this weekend, we headed off to see the Three Sisters, a group of giant trees, in Carmanah Valley. This area, known for its incredible old growth forest and the size of some its feature trees, draws in visitors from all over the world. But I vividly recall hiking it with an unimpressed Grandma Logan as a kid – she would look up at the dizzyingly tall trees, shrug, and say, ‘I’ve seen bigger.’
The total hike was about 5 kilometers return and mostly flat other than the 20-minute hike uphill at the end. Boardwalks have been built for much of the trail, however, some have been twisted and smashed by falling trees. And while most of the trail is easy hiking, it can lull you into complacency and trip you up in the few sections where you need to pay attention to what your feet are doing. The trail winds along the Carmanah Creek which provided ample opportunity to stop for snacks and to let the dogs swim and the kids play. While we sat on the river bank, a few of my aunties and cousins asked me if this hike would count as one of my 40, to which I answered, “of course!” My goal of completing 40 hikes by next November (2019) isn’t simply about racking up elevation or setting a record for distance, it’s about much more than that. It's about reclaiming parts of myself that I've lost through illness over the last few years.
Being sick means being tired. Being tired means avoiding social situations. In the last few years, I’ve found the business of making small talk, raising my voice over music to be heard and even just staying up past 10 pm to be exhausting. There are days that the idea of meeting new people, which used to thrill me, is excruciating. And sometimes just finding the energy to leave the house so that I can spend more energy – not an easily renewable resource – is too much. So, it may seem strange that spending time camping and living communally with my huge family is something that I look forward to. While it may look like a never-ending wave of chaos filled with kids, dogs, and unending conversations to an outsider, to me it feels like pulling one of grandma’s threadbare blankets up to my chin while she tucks me in. While my family volleys a multitude of conversations like the professional talkers that they are I can participate or choose to just observe. I can rest while the noise around me escalates and erupts in laughter over and over. When I am exhausted and feeling my worst, this is the gift that my family gives me. I can belong without effort. Being able to laugh along with them without having to set up the joke or remember the punchline is a beautiful thing. I have been fortunate to find many friends in my life with whom I have this level of ease, but my family are the O.G.s who made me realize that this kind of relationship existed.
When we reached the Three Sisters, my cousin Nick looked up at them and said “oh, I thought they were going to be cedar trees. I don’t really like spruce trees.” And I know that Grandma Logan was smiling down on us at that moment, not only because she is the reason that Nick knows when to be impressed by a tree, but also because she would have been thrilled that we were all there together. And so was I.
Reflections at Brew Lake
Hike 2 | Our drive to the trailhead for Brew Lake was a bit like a live action version of the Telltale Heart. Being a Poe fan, you would think that I would have thoroughly enjoyed a game of ‘what’s making the knocking sound in my truck?’ But by the time we got home, we would have pulled apart everything that could possibly have been loose, only to discover that it was the bike rack. . .
Hike #2 | 322m Elevation Gain | 6km Hiked
Our drive to the trailhead for Brew Lake was a bit like a live action version of the Telltale Heart. Being a Poe fan, you would think that I would have thoroughly enjoyed a game of ‘what’s making the knocking sound in my truck?’ But by the time we got home, we would have pulled apart everything that could possibly have been loose, only to discover that it was the bike rack. . .
The inconspicuous trailhead took us a couple passes to find, giving us ample opportunity to further speculate on what was about to fall off my truck and if it was important. The 6-kilometer (return) hike started in a cut block and gently gained its modest elevation (322 meters) over a number of talus fields, along some small stretches of alpine forest, and through some meadows full of wild flowers. It was a gentle hike, and not once did I feel as though I wanted to curl up like a little wood bug and take a nap while waiting for Stu to return – that was how I spent most of our last hike feeling.
Maybe because the hike wasn’t technical, and I wasn’t digging into the depths of my soul just to complete it, I was captivated by the surroundings the whole way. The views of Armchair Glacier and Black Tusk across the smoke filled hazy sky were familiar markers, the wild flowers of all colours and shapes buzzed with bees and butterflies, and Stu spotted half a dozen frogs along the way. The hike was gentle and when we crested the rise above the basin, the rock rimmed lake was rich in reflections and completely deserted. In the time we spent having lunch we saw a few other people passing through at a distance, too far away to even hear their conversations. Being able enjoy such a stunning area virtually alone on a sunny day was truly a reward in and of itself.
Last week when we hiked Wedgemount Lake we saw nearly 40 people (many of whom were in over their heads – out of water and wearing tennis shoes). The hike was steeper gaining 1100 meters over 6-kilometres (one way). But reaching that stunning turquoise alpine lake had made every exhausted step (and every time I hadn’t curled up under a leafy plant to nap trailside) worth it. While I sat next to Brew Lake enjoying the solitude – Stu had come off night shift again and was taking a nap in the shade – I thought about the different ways we can choose to access our goals.
Sun-dried Tomato Lentil Hummus
1 can of lentils, drained and rinsed
1/2 teaspoon natural sea salt
1/4 cup of tahini paste
1 teaspoon hot smoked paprika
1 teaspoon cumin
3 tablespoons lemon juice
2 tablespoons olive oil
1 tablespoon garlic oil
1/4 cup sun-dried tomatoes
Place the tomatoes in a small bowl and cover with boiling water. Set aside. Place all the other ingredients in a food processor and blend. Drain tomatoes and add them to the food processor, blend until you are happy with the consistency.
About four years ago I stopped being able to eat garlic and onions. I get violently ill from them now - it truly sucks (for lack of a better word). But I am able to digest garlic oil. Being able to add the flavor back into a few things has been a treat!
It can be hard to find a salami that doesn't have garlic in it, but they are out there. Add in some rice crackers, mini cucumbers, and lentil hummus, and you're all set for lunch by the lake.
Cacao Nib and Sea Salt Sticky Bites
(Makes 12 servings)
1 cup uncooked sticky rice
½ cup uncooked quinoa flakes
2 cups water
2 Tbsp honey
2 Tbsp cacao nibs
½ tsp vanilla extract
Dash of sea salt
Topping
½ tsp sea salt
Combine quinoa flakes, rice, and water with a dash of salt in a rice cooker (I don't have a rice cooker so I cooked this based on the direction on the rice package in a pot on the stove) and cook. Let cool to the touch.
In a medium bowl, combine the cooked rice and oats with the remaining ingredients. Stir to incorporate the flavor throughout the sticky mixture.
Press into an airtight storage container or shape as individual bites. Sprinkle lightly with salt. For hiking, I wrapped each sticky ball in a small amount of saran wrap and placed them in a reusable baggy together. I adapted this recipe from here.
Homemade Chocolate Shot Gels
1 1/2 bananas
1 avocado, pitted and peeled
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
3 tbsp clear honey
1/2 tsp pure vanilla extract, optional
1/4 tsp ground cinnamon
I've been wanting to make my own shot gels for some time, and Stu had the great idea of using this dessert recipe in our reusable 'goo' tubes. I adapted it slightly and it worked perfectly and was a great treat on the hike.
Note: if you have a piping bag (for icing cakes), use it to fill the goo tubes and save yourself some mess.
The challenges I’ve experienced with health over the last few years have felt very much like a steep and loose climb that has threatened to defeat me at every turn. More than once I have had to take a break simply from trying to get better because it is exhausting work between appointments, tests, restricted diets, and not knowing what’s next. And the whole time I’ve been hoping for that beautiful cool alpine pool full of health and answers to be waiting for me at the top. I’ve been holding out for the dramatic finish because I’ve been doggedly putting in the struggle-steps. But this hike to Brew Lake reminded me that there is another way. A gentler way. It’s less glamorous for sure and it can require more motivation because often it feels like the reward is less when the work isn’t as difficult. However, simply finding a sustainable grade will allow me a more consistent path towards getting better. And for every minute that I haven’t gone full-wood-bug, I am moving forward – and in the end that may be a more successful journey.
And just to clarify – I’m only talking about my health. There will be plenty of full-wood-bug moments to come in the next 38 hikes. I’m sure of it.