Previously, on Degree 32...
"the first person I met was Stan"
"furnished with free Bombay Sapphire"
"you're all questioning my good fortune"
"I was mightily impressed"
PART TWO
"So, my first night in San Francisco was a total surprise, a spectacular whirlwind with Stan. Totally innocent, totally harmless..."
I mean, in this day and age it's fine to help cut the hair of a stranger, isn't it? It doesn't mean anything untoward is happening. I was the groomer, not the groomee, right!
More on Stanley to come...
[this whole palava brought to mind a kindred spirit, as featured here from about 9m45s in]
Out of character with the rest of my time to date within the States, San Francisco has been punctuated with episodes of crime and punishment. It's not all hopeless though. One night, an armed road junction bust resulted in two guys being led away in handcuffs, post Miranda, having been removed from their car at gunpoint by the officers in attendance. Just hours earlier, the daylight bag-snatch I witnessed (3 youthful males on a lone twenty-something woman) prompted a reaction from every San Franciscan within 100 yards. Many went to the aid of the victim whilst at least three cyclists altered their intended courses in pursuit of the felons. My final experience of lawfullness over that weekend was wholly my own doing. I visited Alcatraz on an amazingly sunny day, saw inside the infamous cellhouse and, along with hundreds of others, took the audio tour - walking in the very footsteps of some chillingly cold-blooded individuals.
Another excursion I took myself on while in San Francisco was over the Golden Gate bridge to Muir Woods, a State Park and home to the biggest trees I've ever seen. The website was accurate in its' assertions that it would be busy, the crowds swollen by the hot and sunny weekend weather. I took myself off the beaten track in favour of some solitary commune with the stately beings, making for a trail which promised views of the Pacific above the canopy. The pathways up the side of the valley were a massed lattice-work of woven roots and jutting nubs, holding the epic Ents in their vertical formations. From the top, I and the gathered redwoods cast our gaze along the valley, between the hills and out to sea.
San Francisco, of course, is fairly well known for its' streets. Bullitt is perhaps the best-known of films to utilise the hills of Russian and Nob for its' chase sequences. Charles, if you are reading the blog, you will be pleased to hear I took the opportunity to experience driving these hills myself while I was in the city. The hostel was just south of Nob Hill, as it goes, so it was an easy job to get there, although the Purple Nimbus did struggle a little with the 45 degree uphill incline at one point. Now, my vehicle is clearly not a Mustang, but certain custom features I think made anyone who witnessed its' descent rather jealous. Steve McQueen certainly didn't have a Queen-sized bed in his motor, did he.
Before I draw a line under San Francisco, I must finish telling you about Stan.
As I mentioned, he was born in California, and raised under the false pretence that he was brain-damaged at birth. In 1979 he moved to New Orleans and fell in love with the city, the people, the music, only to be made homeless by Hurricane Katrina. He moved back to California and now resides just a few blocks from where I stayed in Santa Monica.
Upon first meeting him, you may think he's not quite all there (the impression he left on some other hostellers who only met him briefly suggests as much), yet he trumped me at every turn with his knowledge and reading during the evening we spent together. On top of his talent with art - he creates collages in homage to the people of New Orleans - he is an art therapist. You draw a picture featuring a number of specific things - a tree, a house, a sun, a body of water and a snake - and he will tell you about your spirituality, your philosophy of life, ego, sexuality and creativity. He did it for me and, I have to say, I could relate to everything he told me.
Despite the great upheavals he has faced in life, his own philosophy is wonderfully positive: if you can make someone smile, or laugh, it brightens their day. So he says 'hello' to anyone he passes in the street, and carries around blowing bubbles, asking people he meets if they fancy a blow.
Someone once said laughter is the best medicine. And I reckon they might be right.
(Unless you've got broken ribs.)
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Thursday, 27 October 2011
#022: San Francisco - A Tale in Two Parts
I'm conscious the blog is in danger of turning into a collection of my saying 'wow, look at that', such is the frequency with which I witness beautiful things. I'll try to counter this by adding insightful comment and conjecture about the things I see and do. Like how I've bought myself a big piece of card and a Sharpie and have made my very own 'Where Have I Been' map of the USA, which leans against the window inside the Purple Nimbus [insight]. Here is a picture of it right now (clicky). I drew it freehand - I'm very proud of it, in a totally unbecoming way as ever [conjecture]. And yes, the nights are long. So very long.
Anyway, back to the 'wow, look at that'...
I spent my couple of nights in Big Sur at a campsite housed amongst the (well-protected) roots of scores of coastal redwoods, and spent the day in-between on a hard-to-find little beach, the shores of which were lined with huge rock outcrops.
I wonder if this awe-struck sensation I keep getting is how it feels to look upon things with a child's virgin eyes. Not literally, obviously, because that would involve stealing the eyes of a child. Which is frowned upon. Moreover, it could involve stealing the eyes of a virginal child, depending on how you interpreted that sentence a few back. That, too, is frowned upon, by the way.
You know what, this conjecture thing is a doddle!
After Big Sur, I made my way to San Francisco, and three days in the city, staying in one of the hostels there.
----------
Competition Interlude!
True Fact! I'm a hit in Paraguay! Or, rather, I got a hit in Paraguay. The blog did, that is. If you feel you could be my Paraguayan reader, leave a comment and I'll share with you a never-before-seen and never-to-be-seen-again photo of loads of tourists taking a picture of a deer that looks like a wallaby. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance!
----------
The first person I met in San Francisco was one of my roommates, Stan, a 63 year-old gent, originally from California, but well-travelled. Little did I know, upon saying hello, what this chance meeting (I was minutes from leaving the hostel for the evening when Stan arrived) would lead to.
Within an hour of our introduction I was at the Californian art world's equivalent of The X Factor, being furnished with free Bombay Sapphire cocktails and hob-nobbing with the great and the good of the scene. Stan, you see, was one of the thirty-odd artists in this stage of the competition. And I was his special guest.
I know, you're all questioning my good fortune, aren't you. How is it I, already on the trip of a lifetime, find myself whisked away into the evening by a stranger. Why shouldn't I get taken out on the town within minutes of arriving in a new city? Well, there ain't nothing wrong with helping out a gentleman who, you know, needs a hand getting ready. So I helped him to...get ready...and my reward was spending the night as his guest at an exclusive art opening in one of America's greatest cities.
Stan spent a proportion of the night approaching the prettiest women in the room (they weren't in short supply) and sketching their portrait. It was as if he were somehow totally without tension. He acquired quite a few phone numbers using this technique - I was mightily impressed. In fact, if you click here you can see one of his sketches. I think you'll agree, his subject is quite the treat!
So, my first night in San Francisco was a total surprise, a spectacular whirlwind with Stan. Totally innocent, totally harmless...
/...to be continued
Anyway, back to the 'wow, look at that'...
I spent my couple of nights in Big Sur at a campsite housed amongst the (well-protected) roots of scores of coastal redwoods, and spent the day in-between on a hard-to-find little beach, the shores of which were lined with huge rock outcrops.
I wonder if this awe-struck sensation I keep getting is how it feels to look upon things with a child's virgin eyes. Not literally, obviously, because that would involve stealing the eyes of a child. Which is frowned upon. Moreover, it could involve stealing the eyes of a virginal child, depending on how you interpreted that sentence a few back. That, too, is frowned upon, by the way.
You know what, this conjecture thing is a doddle!
After Big Sur, I made my way to San Francisco, and three days in the city, staying in one of the hostels there.
----------
Competition Interlude!
True Fact! I'm a hit in Paraguay! Or, rather, I got a hit in Paraguay. The blog did, that is. If you feel you could be my Paraguayan reader, leave a comment and I'll share with you a never-before-seen and never-to-be-seen-again photo of loads of tourists taking a picture of a deer that looks like a wallaby. It's a once-in-a-lifetime chance!
----------
The first person I met in San Francisco was one of my roommates, Stan, a 63 year-old gent, originally from California, but well-travelled. Little did I know, upon saying hello, what this chance meeting (I was minutes from leaving the hostel for the evening when Stan arrived) would lead to.
Within an hour of our introduction I was at the Californian art world's equivalent of The X Factor, being furnished with free Bombay Sapphire cocktails and hob-nobbing with the great and the good of the scene. Stan, you see, was one of the thirty-odd artists in this stage of the competition. And I was his special guest.
I know, you're all questioning my good fortune, aren't you. How is it I, already on the trip of a lifetime, find myself whisked away into the evening by a stranger. Why shouldn't I get taken out on the town within minutes of arriving in a new city? Well, there ain't nothing wrong with helping out a gentleman who, you know, needs a hand getting ready. So I helped him to...get ready...and my reward was spending the night as his guest at an exclusive art opening in one of America's greatest cities.
Stan spent a proportion of the night approaching the prettiest women in the room (they weren't in short supply) and sketching their portrait. It was as if he were somehow totally without tension. He acquired quite a few phone numbers using this technique - I was mightily impressed. In fact, if you click here you can see one of his sketches. I think you'll agree, his subject is quite the treat!
So, my first night in San Francisco was a total surprise, a spectacular whirlwind with Stan. Totally innocent, totally harmless...
/...to be continued
Monday, 24 October 2011
#021: I'm Margot Kidder
It transpired my Purple Nimbus is just a big tease - who'd have thought - displaying the warning sign the instant I'm at the farthest point from a petrol station. I was running on fumes for the last five miles into Lompoc the next morning, but made it all the same. The gent in the campsite shop had shown me where in town to find petrol. On the way I passed a sign to Buellton - home of the "Hitching Post" as made famous in the film Sideways. I'm finding it difficult to strike a balance between mid-term goals and short-term attractions. Paul Giamatti is one of my favourite actors, and the idea of tasting a glass of wine at the bar where he once portrayed that very art is quite appealing. But at the back of my mind is Yellowstone, a three-day drive from San Francisco if I were to go straight there, and that bypasses two whole states on my list: Oregon and Washington!
I decide that Buellton is close enough to LA that I could swing by at the end of the trip, time permitting. However, I also decide to spend another night at Jalama Beach. The scene in the morning, the fog having cleared, was quite the surprise. I had wound up in a camper site right alongside dunes and a secluded beach, bound by rocky cliffs; a mini-paradise. It would be such a waste to have driven there in the dark and fog, slept and then driven away again. So I spent the afternoon on the beach reading, writing, snoozing, sun-blocking, and continued north the following day. Next destination: Big Sur.
I think a lot of my choices on this trip are going to be swayed by things which resonate to some extent. I was chatting to a French girl in the Santa Monica hostel about accents and how I can distinguish American/English/Australian accents with some ease, but would struggle with differentiating even a Quebecois French accent from mainland French. She said she had no such trouble, naturellement. Everyone's a bloody comedian. My point was, in the UK we are - subjected is the wrong word - exposed to America so much, that a lot of it, a lot of what can be found here, is already very familiar. Having developed a liking for cinema and a chunk of American music, both contemporary and historically, there are a great many locations across these States that appeal to me, on top of the natural wonders which abound.
Why Big Sur then? Slightly embarrassingly, because of the first album by a band called The Thrills. A surf-tinged pop record, hardly a classic, which referenced the region and left something to resonate within me. I think, possibly, the climax of the Terence Stamp/Peter Fonda film The Limey took place in Big Sur too.
The drive from Lompoc continues on the PCH, winding through fields of beans with teams of workers out in force before, with about an hour to go, it hits the coast proper. This next section of the drive is wondrous. The road is dramatically cut into the sea cliffs, a hundred or more feet above the ocean. The guide books do their best to explain it, but there's nothing like actually being there, taking the bends yourself, as the Pacific stretches away to the horizon below. Condors swoop across the sun, casting wide shadows upon the road, waiting for their next dose of carrion. It is the sort of drive that would see Top Gear presenters implode in fits of vainglory. And, at its' end, you are met by the southern-most edge of one of this part of the world's greatest attractions: forests of giant redwoods.
Obviously I'm immensely privileged to be doing what I'm doing, but a part of me was slightly thankful to have gotten beyond the coastal road. We were stopped on it for about 20mins while workers cleared enough space for one line of traffic to pass - a rock slide had showered the road in boulders leaving a couple of sizeable craters in the tarmac. I can only assume it happened shortly before I got there, as I was only about ten or fifteen cars back in the queue. I'm reminded how close I am to the San Andreas fault. Santa Cruz, not far north from here, was levelled by an earthquake in 1989.
Hmm.
Rather than close on that optimistic note, I'll take this opportunity to point out I'm well-versed in in-vehicle earthquake survival. Stop the car, stay within the car. Unless I'm Margot Kidder, and Gene Hackman is trying to create a new American West Coast.
I'm not Margot Kidder.
I decide that Buellton is close enough to LA that I could swing by at the end of the trip, time permitting. However, I also decide to spend another night at Jalama Beach. The scene in the morning, the fog having cleared, was quite the surprise. I had wound up in a camper site right alongside dunes and a secluded beach, bound by rocky cliffs; a mini-paradise. It would be such a waste to have driven there in the dark and fog, slept and then driven away again. So I spent the afternoon on the beach reading, writing, snoozing, sun-blocking, and continued north the following day. Next destination: Big Sur.
I think a lot of my choices on this trip are going to be swayed by things which resonate to some extent. I was chatting to a French girl in the Santa Monica hostel about accents and how I can distinguish American/English/Australian accents with some ease, but would struggle with differentiating even a Quebecois French accent from mainland French. She said she had no such trouble, naturellement. Everyone's a bloody comedian. My point was, in the UK we are - subjected is the wrong word - exposed to America so much, that a lot of it, a lot of what can be found here, is already very familiar. Having developed a liking for cinema and a chunk of American music, both contemporary and historically, there are a great many locations across these States that appeal to me, on top of the natural wonders which abound.
Why Big Sur then? Slightly embarrassingly, because of the first album by a band called The Thrills. A surf-tinged pop record, hardly a classic, which referenced the region and left something to resonate within me. I think, possibly, the climax of the Terence Stamp/Peter Fonda film The Limey took place in Big Sur too.
The drive from Lompoc continues on the PCH, winding through fields of beans with teams of workers out in force before, with about an hour to go, it hits the coast proper. This next section of the drive is wondrous. The road is dramatically cut into the sea cliffs, a hundred or more feet above the ocean. The guide books do their best to explain it, but there's nothing like actually being there, taking the bends yourself, as the Pacific stretches away to the horizon below. Condors swoop across the sun, casting wide shadows upon the road, waiting for their next dose of carrion. It is the sort of drive that would see Top Gear presenters implode in fits of vainglory. And, at its' end, you are met by the southern-most edge of one of this part of the world's greatest attractions: forests of giant redwoods.
Obviously I'm immensely privileged to be doing what I'm doing, but a part of me was slightly thankful to have gotten beyond the coastal road. We were stopped on it for about 20mins while workers cleared enough space for one line of traffic to pass - a rock slide had showered the road in boulders leaving a couple of sizeable craters in the tarmac. I can only assume it happened shortly before I got there, as I was only about ten or fifteen cars back in the queue. I'm reminded how close I am to the San Andreas fault. Santa Cruz, not far north from here, was levelled by an earthquake in 1989.
Hmm.
Rather than close on that optimistic note, I'll take this opportunity to point out I'm well-versed in in-vehicle earthquake survival. Stop the car, stay within the car. Unless I'm Margot Kidder, and Gene Hackman is trying to create a new American West Coast.
I'm not Margot Kidder.
Saturday, 22 October 2011
#020: Chaucer, Raphael and, er, Samuel L. Jackson
Despite what I implied in the previous installment, I could get used to sitting on the beach all summer. I found myself returning to it on more than one occasion each day last weekend - it's going to be a bit of a wrench to leave Santa Monica, truth be told. But, of course, it is not the summer. It's pushing on towards November already, which means the more northerly regions are cooling rather more rapidly than I care to imagine. And, given the appeal of Yellowstone is one of the reasons I came to the States early, I should head there before it freezes over completely.
Now, I'm in the southern reaches of California, and Yellowstone is predominately housed in Wyoming, a couple of states east of the northwest Pacific coast. There just so happens to be a road which runs the length of the western edge of the country - the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). It would be rude of me not to travel along it.
Before that can happen, though, I need a means. And it is at this stage that I have to introduce you to my Purple Nimbus. There is only really one easy way to do this - without modesty getting the better of me - and that is to show you a picture of it. But first, some preamble, by way of dramatic tension!
Monday started with packing up my things at the hostel and jumping on a Big Blue Bus that took me the 45 minutes to the edge of Inglewood. I don't know about you, but my only exposure to even the notion of Inglewood before now was what I could garner from Jules Winnfield, Samuel L. Jackson's character from Pulp Fiction. Not the best reference point, granted. Anyway, I had a measure of totally unfounded apprehension as I walked past the 'Welcome to Inglewood' sign and the homeless shelters under the San Diego freeway on my way to meet Raphael.
Raphael is the man with the means. I knew I'd get on well with Raphael within minutes of meeting him; he legitimately used 'discombobulate' in general conversation and had an admiration for the word 'maidenhead' - I felt compelled to explain Chaucer's usage and started to think that maybe Pulp Fiction had been a mite misleading. We took our time working through the paperwork and finances; there was no great rush. Sooner or later, though, the conversation turned to my trip.
Raphael was of the opinion that, given I'd be on the road for eighty-five days, I'd be guaranteed to meet a lot of ladies. He told me to be wary, however. No matter how genuine those ladies appear with their intentions, they would all be after one thing and one thing alone: my Purple Nimbus.
I have to concede, he is probably right.
It is a striking beast, undoubtedly guaranteed to turn heads. Yet it is also beautifully delicate, where the purple blends to veins of mauves and violets. To call it flawless would be bold, but few could disagree it is a work of art. For me to try and compete would be futile. I just have to accept that my Purple Nimbus is pretty much unrivalled, and try to make the most of our association.
Click here for a picture (NSFW).
We won't be alone on the journey. My package includes a choice of free guides, bizarrely. I went for Emily, a well-to-do British girl, from her voice slightly older than me. She is (usually) excellent with directions. I'll let you know how we all get along.
So. North. San Francisco is the next major marker on the map, and I figured I'd spend three days getting up there, taking in a couple more beaches on the way. At times the PCH followed right along the coast - think Dawlish in Devon except here it's cars rather than locomotives and beige rather than rouge. One bridge we crossed had a sign which read 'Speed enforced by aircraft' - my mind immediately envisaged John Travolta in a broken arrow. I stuck to the limit with not a second thought.
Aside from Emily, I've got various navigational and reference material: a road map, a USA lonely planet, a USA roadtrip guide and a copy of Woodalls - effectively a Yellow Pages for RV campsites. About a third of the way to San Fran was a town called Lompoc, and nearby - 15 miles off the PCH - was a campsite called Jalama Beach. I made that my first destination. I had filled up the van before I left Inglewood. I say filled up, except none of my cards worked, so I paid cash which got me to just over half a tank with what I had on me.
This had become just under a quarter of a tank at the Jalama Beach turnoff but, a couple of miles on, the needle suggested I was almost empty. At the same time I found myself driving into an encroaching sea fog - it was 8pm by now so pitch black dark as well. It got to the point where I could see little more than a few yards in front of the van, with a rapidly emptying tank of petrol and ten miles in either direction before civilisation. I pulled over. I re-read the blurb about Jalama Beach, what facilities there might be. Should I turn around? And had I really just managed to strand myself on the very first day of the roadtrip? I suppose, if I was going to meet my end at the side of that road in the dusty Californian coastal hills, at least I had a three sets of plastic crockery and a duvet.
As it happens, the petrol gauge started to move as I sat there, wasting petrol, back up towards a quarter-full. Perhaps I had been going uphill when it dropped before? I decided to press on. The fog was really thick and I didn't fancy the prospect of doubling my time in it.
I made it to the campsite where I was greeted by a very friendly ranger. It was as I pulled into my site and reached for the ignition that the 'Low fuel' light came on. It's a likely twenty miles to the nearest petrol station from here. But I'll worry about that in the morning...
Now, I'm in the southern reaches of California, and Yellowstone is predominately housed in Wyoming, a couple of states east of the northwest Pacific coast. There just so happens to be a road which runs the length of the western edge of the country - the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH). It would be rude of me not to travel along it.
Before that can happen, though, I need a means. And it is at this stage that I have to introduce you to my Purple Nimbus. There is only really one easy way to do this - without modesty getting the better of me - and that is to show you a picture of it. But first, some preamble, by way of dramatic tension!
Monday started with packing up my things at the hostel and jumping on a Big Blue Bus that took me the 45 minutes to the edge of Inglewood. I don't know about you, but my only exposure to even the notion of Inglewood before now was what I could garner from Jules Winnfield, Samuel L. Jackson's character from Pulp Fiction. Not the best reference point, granted. Anyway, I had a measure of totally unfounded apprehension as I walked past the 'Welcome to Inglewood' sign and the homeless shelters under the San Diego freeway on my way to meet Raphael.
Raphael is the man with the means. I knew I'd get on well with Raphael within minutes of meeting him; he legitimately used 'discombobulate' in general conversation and had an admiration for the word 'maidenhead' - I felt compelled to explain Chaucer's usage and started to think that maybe Pulp Fiction had been a mite misleading. We took our time working through the paperwork and finances; there was no great rush. Sooner or later, though, the conversation turned to my trip.
Raphael was of the opinion that, given I'd be on the road for eighty-five days, I'd be guaranteed to meet a lot of ladies. He told me to be wary, however. No matter how genuine those ladies appear with their intentions, they would all be after one thing and one thing alone: my Purple Nimbus.
I have to concede, he is probably right.
It is a striking beast, undoubtedly guaranteed to turn heads. Yet it is also beautifully delicate, where the purple blends to veins of mauves and violets. To call it flawless would be bold, but few could disagree it is a work of art. For me to try and compete would be futile. I just have to accept that my Purple Nimbus is pretty much unrivalled, and try to make the most of our association.
Click here for a picture (NSFW).
We won't be alone on the journey. My package includes a choice of free guides, bizarrely. I went for Emily, a well-to-do British girl, from her voice slightly older than me. She is (usually) excellent with directions. I'll let you know how we all get along.
So. North. San Francisco is the next major marker on the map, and I figured I'd spend three days getting up there, taking in a couple more beaches on the way. At times the PCH followed right along the coast - think Dawlish in Devon except here it's cars rather than locomotives and beige rather than rouge. One bridge we crossed had a sign which read 'Speed enforced by aircraft' - my mind immediately envisaged John Travolta in a broken arrow. I stuck to the limit with not a second thought.
Aside from Emily, I've got various navigational and reference material: a road map, a USA lonely planet, a USA roadtrip guide and a copy of Woodalls - effectively a Yellow Pages for RV campsites. About a third of the way to San Fran was a town called Lompoc, and nearby - 15 miles off the PCH - was a campsite called Jalama Beach. I made that my first destination. I had filled up the van before I left Inglewood. I say filled up, except none of my cards worked, so I paid cash which got me to just over half a tank with what I had on me.
This had become just under a quarter of a tank at the Jalama Beach turnoff but, a couple of miles on, the needle suggested I was almost empty. At the same time I found myself driving into an encroaching sea fog - it was 8pm by now so pitch black dark as well. It got to the point where I could see little more than a few yards in front of the van, with a rapidly emptying tank of petrol and ten miles in either direction before civilisation. I pulled over. I re-read the blurb about Jalama Beach, what facilities there might be. Should I turn around? And had I really just managed to strand myself on the very first day of the roadtrip? I suppose, if I was going to meet my end at the side of that road in the dusty Californian coastal hills, at least I had a three sets of plastic crockery and a duvet.
As it happens, the petrol gauge started to move as I sat there, wasting petrol, back up towards a quarter-full. Perhaps I had been going uphill when it dropped before? I decided to press on. The fog was really thick and I didn't fancy the prospect of doubling my time in it.
I made it to the campsite where I was greeted by a very friendly ranger. It was as I pulled into my site and reached for the ignition that the 'Low fuel' light came on. It's a likely twenty miles to the nearest petrol station from here. But I'll worry about that in the morning...
Monday, 17 October 2011
#019: A Thing or Two
Well, I'm in the States. Santa Monica to be precise, on the beach. Boy oh boy, I'm a lucky lad. God only knows how I got away with leaving those things in my carry-on bag. How did I get around security? Onto the airplane? I know there's an answer. I don't know what it is though. I do know I certainly won't do it again - I could easily be back home right now.
Anyway, yeah, Santa Monica. Here today, and for the weekend. To be honest I'm waiting for the day - Monday - when I pick up my rental van, say to it, "Let's go away for a while," and drive off up the Pacific Coast highway. Sitting on the beach isn't something I could do all summer long, that's not me, but to while away a couple of days in the Californian sunshine...well it ain't so bad, eh. Further round the coast to the north is Santa Barbara, an' right next door to the south is Venice beach, with its muscle pits and frankly amazing basketball players. I've been keeping an eye out for that most famous of California girls, CJ, but, so far, the only one I've seen is, what was her name? It's in the back my mind. Caroline? No, Stephanie. That's it.
I'm staying in a hostel just one block from the beach. It's decent enough, pretty big and pretty busy, and has decent WiFi so it's easy for me to jump online with my phone and start surfin'. USA sim card deals aren't quite as good as UK ones with regards data yet, but I'll pick one up so I can stay connected while I'm all alone in my car, driving about the place. There are ten people in my room. Ten people at various stages of jet lag but, despite that, I went to sleep last night with no problems. Sleep was good. Vibrations from the phone ringing in the bunk above at 7am was not good.
I've just been for a wander along the beaches. There was a guy by the stalls that line Venice beach showing off this large iguana he had as a pet. Sounds kind of odd doesn't it. Then I realised he was charging a buck for each photo people took of it and it made perfect sense. There was another guy sat on a bench. All he had was a paper cup of change and a cardboard sign that said, simply, "Advice." Not sure how he can help me.
Round-a-bouts aren't something you see in the States, what with the block system. LA is no different. It makes finding your way quite easy, even if all the walking is done at right angles. I sometimes think: wouldn't it be nice to stumble upon a little back alley to explore once in a while. A little deuce coup back alley. Full of heroes and villains. That'd be fun fun fun. Ahem. Sloop John B. Cough. Bless you. Thank you. You're welcome.
Anyway, yeah, Santa Monica. Here today, and for the weekend. To be honest I'm waiting for the day - Monday - when I pick up my rental van, say to it, "Let's go away for a while," and drive off up the Pacific Coast highway. Sitting on the beach isn't something I could do all summer long, that's not me, but to while away a couple of days in the Californian sunshine...well it ain't so bad, eh. Further round the coast to the north is Santa Barbara, an' right next door to the south is Venice beach, with its muscle pits and frankly amazing basketball players. I've been keeping an eye out for that most famous of California girls, CJ, but, so far, the only one I've seen is, what was her name? It's in the back my mind. Caroline? No, Stephanie. That's it.
I'm staying in a hostel just one block from the beach. It's decent enough, pretty big and pretty busy, and has decent WiFi so it's easy for me to jump online with my phone and start surfin'. USA sim card deals aren't quite as good as UK ones with regards data yet, but I'll pick one up so I can stay connected while I'm all alone in my car, driving about the place. There are ten people in my room. Ten people at various stages of jet lag but, despite that, I went to sleep last night with no problems. Sleep was good. Vibrations from the phone ringing in the bunk above at 7am was not good.
I've just been for a wander along the beaches. There was a guy by the stalls that line Venice beach showing off this large iguana he had as a pet. Sounds kind of odd doesn't it. Then I realised he was charging a buck for each photo people took of it and it made perfect sense. There was another guy sat on a bench. All he had was a paper cup of change and a cardboard sign that said, simply, "Advice." Not sure how he can help me.
Round-a-bouts aren't something you see in the States, what with the block system. LA is no different. It makes finding your way quite easy, even if all the walking is done at right angles. I sometimes think: wouldn't it be nice to stumble upon a little back alley to explore once in a while. A little deuce coup back alley. Full of heroes and villains. That'd be fun fun fun. Ahem. Sloop John B. Cough. Bless you. Thank you. You're welcome.
Sunday, 16 October 2011
#018: Loose Ends
I have a small gap which I feel I should fill: the four days between the Rockies and the three-offensive-weapons-on-a-plane-to-the-United-States mishap.
I boarded the train at Jasper for the final leg of the mammoth journey. I'm still struggling to comprehend the vastness of Canada. I spent not far off four whole days sat on the train between Montréal and my final destination, Vancouver. Upon arrival there I headed straight for the Provincial capital of British Columbia, Victoria, on Vancouver Island (itself the size of the UK). I chose to travel by bus and, ergo, passenger ferry, across, and saw sea lions or seals in the Pacific waters as we went.
Victoria proved to be awfully wet whilst I was there, so my outdoor excursions were somewhat limited to repeated bouts of sheltering. I did see the coast of the American Pacific Northwest through the haze though, as Victoria lies south of the 49th parallel.
Back to Vancouver then, for a couple of nights enjoying the hospitality of Sarah and Clare - my sister Becky and Sarah went to school together. I think it's fair to say Sarah and Clare like to make the most of Vancouver's burgeoning restaurant scene so, both nights, we deliberated on the merits of various cuisine and establishments before plumbing for Rogue and Hamburger Mary's. We also shoehorned in an impromptu visit to 'True Confections' - a dessert-only restaurant where the cakes are upwards of a cubed foot in volume. One slice was quite enough.
I went Racoon hunting. Well, not hunting as such. That would go against certain misgivings I have about personally doling out death to things what are alive and that. It was more like Racoon looking-for. That's a lot closer to the truth. So I went to the Stanley Park spot Sarah had pointed out as a Racoon spot, but didn't see one Racoon and, thus, continued on my way, quickly forgetting the notion, the Racoon-looking-for notion, entirely.
Minding my own business I was, walking I was, head in the clouds, listening to 'Fuzzy Logic', seeing how many joggers make eye contact as they pass (hardly any; a walker is much more likely to cast a glance than a jogger), head in the clouds, when I damn-near stepped on one of the little fellas (a little fella being a Racoon rather than a jogger). Stopped me dead in my tracks. I said: "Well I damn-near stepped on you, little fella," as I removed my camera from its' pocket sheath.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The scorn was plain to see: "You damn-near stepped on me."
At which point he sauntered off into the undergrowth, timing the disappearing of his rear-end perfectly, so as to prevent me from committing any part of him to film.
I boarded the train at Jasper for the final leg of the mammoth journey. I'm still struggling to comprehend the vastness of Canada. I spent not far off four whole days sat on the train between Montréal and my final destination, Vancouver. Upon arrival there I headed straight for the Provincial capital of British Columbia, Victoria, on Vancouver Island (itself the size of the UK). I chose to travel by bus and, ergo, passenger ferry, across, and saw sea lions or seals in the Pacific waters as we went.
Victoria proved to be awfully wet whilst I was there, so my outdoor excursions were somewhat limited to repeated bouts of sheltering. I did see the coast of the American Pacific Northwest through the haze though, as Victoria lies south of the 49th parallel.
Back to Vancouver then, for a couple of nights enjoying the hospitality of Sarah and Clare - my sister Becky and Sarah went to school together. I think it's fair to say Sarah and Clare like to make the most of Vancouver's burgeoning restaurant scene so, both nights, we deliberated on the merits of various cuisine and establishments before plumbing for Rogue and Hamburger Mary's. We also shoehorned in an impromptu visit to 'True Confections' - a dessert-only restaurant where the cakes are upwards of a cubed foot in volume. One slice was quite enough.
I went Racoon hunting. Well, not hunting as such. That would go against certain misgivings I have about personally doling out death to things what are alive and that. It was more like Racoon looking-for. That's a lot closer to the truth. So I went to the Stanley Park spot Sarah had pointed out as a Racoon spot, but didn't see one Racoon and, thus, continued on my way, quickly forgetting the notion, the Racoon-looking-for notion, entirely.
Minding my own business I was, walking I was, head in the clouds, listening to 'Fuzzy Logic', seeing how many joggers make eye contact as they pass (hardly any; a walker is much more likely to cast a glance than a jogger), head in the clouds, when I damn-near stepped on one of the little fellas (a little fella being a Racoon rather than a jogger). Stopped me dead in my tracks. I said: "Well I damn-near stepped on you, little fella," as I removed my camera from its' pocket sheath.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The scorn was plain to see: "You damn-near stepped on me."
At which point he sauntered off into the undergrowth, timing the disappearing of his rear-end perfectly, so as to prevent me from committing any part of him to film.
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Newsflash...Newsflash...Newsflash
So. New plans. That means new travel preparations. New last minute travel preparations. Despite being separated by nothing more than an imaginary circle around the world, everyone had told me the customs process from Canada to the States was just as rigorous as everywhere else. Maybe even more so. They even do it all before you board the plane in Canada - customs, passport control, the works. Probably to save on deportations.
So the point at which my carry-on bag disappeared into the security X-ray machine was probably not the best time to have the shocking realisation that there might be a Stanley knife concealed within. And a pair of scissors. And a multitool with a blade. Heart palpatations doesn't quite cover it.
I told myself: nothing you can do about it. Pretend everything is okay for the nice security lady. Act normal. Besides, you probably didn't even bring the little sewing kit with those offending items with you, precisely for this reason. It'll be in the UK. Nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.
No-one has said anything. I must be right. I did leave it in the UK. Fuss over nothing. Carry on through border control. Tell them how you're on a sabbatical, travelling, New Zealand next, touring the US. And I'm into the departure lounge. Safe. Coffee. Something to eat. Everything is okay.
Sitting in Starbucks. I wonder: will there be additional security at LA. Maybe they'll do X-rays again as part of the rigours. Maybe I should check in the bag. Just for peace of mind, you know. Besides, it won't be there. It can't be. Thorough checks. No-one said a word.
Open the zip. The little pocket with the whistle and the compass.
And the sewing kit.
Mark. Oh Mark. You absolute *****.
So the point at which my carry-on bag disappeared into the security X-ray machine was probably not the best time to have the shocking realisation that there might be a Stanley knife concealed within. And a pair of scissors. And a multitool with a blade. Heart palpatations doesn't quite cover it.
I told myself: nothing you can do about it. Pretend everything is okay for the nice security lady. Act normal. Besides, you probably didn't even bring the little sewing kit with those offending items with you, precisely for this reason. It'll be in the UK. Nothing to worry about. Everything is fine.
No-one has said anything. I must be right. I did leave it in the UK. Fuss over nothing. Carry on through border control. Tell them how you're on a sabbatical, travelling, New Zealand next, touring the US. And I'm into the departure lounge. Safe. Coffee. Something to eat. Everything is okay.
Sitting in Starbucks. I wonder: will there be additional security at LA. Maybe they'll do X-rays again as part of the rigours. Maybe I should check in the bag. Just for peace of mind, you know. Besides, it won't be there. It can't be. Thorough checks. No-one said a word.
Open the zip. The little pocket with the whistle and the compass.
And the sewing kit.
Mark. Oh Mark. You absolute *****.
Friday, 14 October 2011
#017: Into The Wild pt4 - The Best Laid Plans...
The hostel in Banff was a cut above: huge Swiss-style pine cabins with roaring fires in the common room and all mod cons. Although, upon entering my 2-bunk room, I was confronted with the proverbial bomb site - clothes, rubbish and emptied beer cans strewn everywhere. Australians? Or South Africans? Maybe even Brits! So, when it transpired they were actually German, I was somewhat surprised. My thin gild of latent 1950's racism revealed.
I started my first day in Banff by setting off on foot from the hostel. The glorious weather of the drive south was but a memory as steady drizzle fell the whole day. I walked down the mountain through the forest to Bow River and got some shots on video that could almost be out of "Into The Wild" itself (were "Into The Wild" shot on a really shaky handycam). Alas, still no bears.
The next day I jumped in the car and headed to Lake Louise and Lake Moraine, both highly recommended by all parties. In fact, Shelley and "John" had shown me a couple of photos a few days before that were enticing to say the least. Clouds had been loitering at my dorm window when I arose, and they stayed put as I got myself ready. As I ventured out, the skies were positively catastrophic. It was almost as if a great forest fire were burning nearby, and all the smoke was gathering in and around Banff. Thick fingers of rainclouds choked the necks of the mountains and sidled through the trees.
Lake Louise lies just off Hwy 1 - the Trans-Canada - from Banff. Upon that highway, regular during the summer, takes place a phenomenon known as a 'bear jam', whereby traffic grinds to a halt as those-with-the-cameras disembark and rush to stick their lenses into the faces of any unwitting bears. I thought I had encountered one in the driving rain, but no, merely a simple human who had plunged their car nose-first into a ditch in the atrocious conditions. I put my camera down, placed my hands back on the steering wheel and turned my attention back to the road.[Sorry]
The lakes met the expectations set by the rest of the region. However, the weather inevitably detracted from the view, so I resolved to swing by again on the Saturday, when I would be driving past on my way back to Jasper (and my reacquaintance with the train).
Heading back to Banff, the conditions were appalling. Sheets of rain hammered down and water began to pool up on the 2-lane highway. I - sensibly I thought - used the cruise control so I could keep my foot hovered over the brake. Nearing Banff, the gathering water became more frequent until one puddle caused my side of the car to aquaplane. The cars' reaction was swift and decisive: cruise control off, traction control on, everybody safe. I'm going to miss him when we go our separate ways.
Saturday, and the drive back to Jasper, and clear skies again. Perfect timing. Stopping off at Lake Louise I decided to do a little hike to a spot called 'Plain of the Six Glaciers'. Surprisingly enough, it's a place - a plain - where six glaciers converge, and feed the waters of the lake below. It was about a three-hour round trip and, despite the final stretch of track being closed for safety reasons, the views were still amazing. One part is named the 'Death Trap', a cliff-lined passage which passes directly below the lip of a glacier 100ft above. The area was one of the first set-up for mountain tourism in Canada (around the end of the Victorian era - Louise was Queen Victoria's fourth child), so there is a log cabin teahouse up in the plain ("we can't export the mountains, so we'll import the tourists").
Lastly, I should shed some light on the title of this post...
Many of you will know I intended to go to Fiji and stay with a tribe on a desert island over Christmas, visiting New Zealand before and finishing the sabbatical with a US road trip. Unfortunately, local landowner politics mean the tribe is unable to welcome guests right now, so i won't be living on a Fijian beach in December. Much of my last couple of weeks has therefore been given over to deciding what i should do: could I defer some sabbatical, or go elsewhere in Fiji, or extend my time in other locations?
Here is what I have decided:
I'll be going to the States straight from Canada, road-tripping between mid-October and about the 10th January, starting and ending in LA. I know one or two of you were toying with meeting up in the US over winter, so my apologies if my change of plans scuppers that. (You can, of course, swing by in the next three months. I'm thinking I'll do a clockwise lap starting and ending in LA, but will have my own wheels so can feasibly be anywhere at anytime.)
I'll then head to New Zealand for five or six weeks, before closing the sabbatical with a different local community on a different sustainable/no-impact living project on a different beach: John Obey, about 20 miles south of Freetown. In Sierra Leone...
Here's the best of the pics I managed with my phone in the Rockies:
I started my first day in Banff by setting off on foot from the hostel. The glorious weather of the drive south was but a memory as steady drizzle fell the whole day. I walked down the mountain through the forest to Bow River and got some shots on video that could almost be out of "Into The Wild" itself (were "Into The Wild" shot on a really shaky handycam). Alas, still no bears.
The next day I jumped in the car and headed to Lake Louise and Lake Moraine, both highly recommended by all parties. In fact, Shelley and "John" had shown me a couple of photos a few days before that were enticing to say the least. Clouds had been loitering at my dorm window when I arose, and they stayed put as I got myself ready. As I ventured out, the skies were positively catastrophic. It was almost as if a great forest fire were burning nearby, and all the smoke was gathering in and around Banff. Thick fingers of rainclouds choked the necks of the mountains and sidled through the trees.
Lake Louise lies just off Hwy 1 - the Trans-Canada - from Banff. Upon that highway, regular during the summer, takes place a phenomenon known as a 'bear jam', whereby traffic grinds to a halt as those-with-the-cameras disembark and rush to stick their lenses into the faces of any unwitting bears. I thought I had encountered one in the driving rain, but no, merely a simple human who had plunged their car nose-first into a ditch in the atrocious conditions. I put my camera down, placed my hands back on the steering wheel and turned my attention back to the road.[Sorry]
The lakes met the expectations set by the rest of the region. However, the weather inevitably detracted from the view, so I resolved to swing by again on the Saturday, when I would be driving past on my way back to Jasper (and my reacquaintance with the train).
Heading back to Banff, the conditions were appalling. Sheets of rain hammered down and water began to pool up on the 2-lane highway. I - sensibly I thought - used the cruise control so I could keep my foot hovered over the brake. Nearing Banff, the gathering water became more frequent until one puddle caused my side of the car to aquaplane. The cars' reaction was swift and decisive: cruise control off, traction control on, everybody safe. I'm going to miss him when we go our separate ways.
Saturday, and the drive back to Jasper, and clear skies again. Perfect timing. Stopping off at Lake Louise I decided to do a little hike to a spot called 'Plain of the Six Glaciers'. Surprisingly enough, it's a place - a plain - where six glaciers converge, and feed the waters of the lake below. It was about a three-hour round trip and, despite the final stretch of track being closed for safety reasons, the views were still amazing. One part is named the 'Death Trap', a cliff-lined passage which passes directly below the lip of a glacier 100ft above. The area was one of the first set-up for mountain tourism in Canada (around the end of the Victorian era - Louise was Queen Victoria's fourth child), so there is a log cabin teahouse up in the plain ("we can't export the mountains, so we'll import the tourists").
Lastly, I should shed some light on the title of this post...
Many of you will know I intended to go to Fiji and stay with a tribe on a desert island over Christmas, visiting New Zealand before and finishing the sabbatical with a US road trip. Unfortunately, local landowner politics mean the tribe is unable to welcome guests right now, so i won't be living on a Fijian beach in December. Much of my last couple of weeks has therefore been given over to deciding what i should do: could I defer some sabbatical, or go elsewhere in Fiji, or extend my time in other locations?
Here is what I have decided:
I'll be going to the States straight from Canada, road-tripping between mid-October and about the 10th January, starting and ending in LA. I know one or two of you were toying with meeting up in the US over winter, so my apologies if my change of plans scuppers that. (You can, of course, swing by in the next three months. I'm thinking I'll do a clockwise lap starting and ending in LA, but will have my own wheels so can feasibly be anywhere at anytime.)
I'll then head to New Zealand for five or six weeks, before closing the sabbatical with a different local community on a different sustainable/no-impact living project on a different beach: John Obey, about 20 miles south of Freetown. In Sierra Leone...
Here's the best of the pics I managed with my phone in the Rockies:
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
#017: Into The Wild pt3 - Mouth Open, Heart <...>
I've probably already said, I've scheduled myself a week in these here Rockies, and the next three nights are to be spent in Banff, a three or four hour motor south along what is purported to be the greatest drive in the world: the Icefield Parkway. In the first 30mins or so it dawns on me I have grossly underestimated my car. It is not a toy. Nothing of the sort, in fact. It is actually the one in charge in this relationship, the brains behind the operation, and proves it by talking to me as we ascend into the cloudline: "There could be ice on the road, so drive carefully, yeah," it warns. "No need to fret though. I've engaged the traction control so if things do get slippery, we'll be alright. I know these roads pretty well anyway."
When SKYNET comes to rule, the Chevrolet Impala license J36556 will be commanding the front line.
Curse the elements: the grey duvet extends all about, hanging just above the trees, only offering the briefest glimpses of mountains through the haze. Such a tease! Like the softest comely brush of the skin at your hip, followed by a sudden goodbye. Urge inducing; guttural potential. And yet, crushingly disappointing.
I intersperse the journey with irregular breaks, as determined by the National Park signs at the road side:
*Horseshoe Lake, where I wander through the forest whistling David Thomas Broughton tunes to ward off the predators (though with their cloaking devices and mid-range laser cannons, it is probably futile. Guffaw).
*Athabasca Falls, a touristy and reasonably impressive drop in the Athabasca river, which flows from the Columbia Icefield (more on that later, I expect) right out to the Arctic Sea near Inavut in the Northwest Territories.
*Beauty Creek, which is pretty much just that.
And it is in the vicinity of Beauty Creek that, once more in life, I am proven too hasty in my assumptions. Wafts of cloud cling to the road in spectral visions as, from the sky, the sun attempts an impersonation of deathbed 'light at the end of the tunnel'. But then! Patches of blue, rockfaces, and more. The tops of mountains, thinning cloud, and sunshine! The cloud duvet was low and the elevation of the road has brought me upon it. It sits behind me, below me, masking the valley beyond, and all around the precious mountains are revealed!
The next few hours are a joy; the landscape I came here to see in all its' glory. Eyes wide, mouth open, heart full; a new relish for the adventures and for the road ahead.
The aforementioned Columbia Icefield itself is out of reach, high atop the peaks of the mountains on the BC/Alberta border. The Athabasca glacier running from it, however, is not. A rapidly receding tongue of ice, feeding its' namesake river, darts down from the icy plains above and immediately takes its rightful place amongst the wonders this planet has to offer which have befallen these eyes of mine. High banks of rock and shale, scarred by the frozen drag, are pressed up against both sides of the glacial valley - evidence of the former scale of the ice flow. Nearby literature tells of the effects of climate change: how, in as little as 100 years time, the glacier will disappear at its' current rate of reduction; how the forests are making their way upwards, advancing on the peaks; how this magnificent alpine region could become alpine no more, wildlife wiped out as habitats recede into nothing.
I press on. Already I have been five hours on the road and have covered only a third of the distance I need before nightfall. After today I'm starting to get quite fond of my car. All he asks of me in the partnership is to keep a cock in my ankle, poised above the brake pedal. I am more than happy to oblige. The pain is worth it.
The remainder of the journey, well, I don't know that I can do it justice with words alone. I'd need to carve out a piece of myself and somehow implant it into you, dear reader, to give the first inkling of how this place makes me feel. I thought walking in the very footsteps and up to the toe of a glacier was affirmation enough of the human capacity for awe and wonder, then I drove the other 180km to Banff. Whichever part of my disparate being thought itself wanting upon the train has been restored a hundred times over.
The crags, the cliffs, the caps and the creeks, the woods and the wildlife and the waterways, and the sheer unadulterated devastation at the revealing of a pure and shimmering emerald lake as the corner of a mountain trail is rounded...I am in a very, very happy place this night.
See for yourself why, on youtube.
When SKYNET comes to rule, the Chevrolet Impala license J36556 will be commanding the front line.
Curse the elements: the grey duvet extends all about, hanging just above the trees, only offering the briefest glimpses of mountains through the haze. Such a tease! Like the softest comely brush of the skin at your hip, followed by a sudden goodbye. Urge inducing; guttural potential. And yet, crushingly disappointing.
I intersperse the journey with irregular breaks, as determined by the National Park signs at the road side:
*Horseshoe Lake, where I wander through the forest whistling David Thomas Broughton tunes to ward off the predators (though with their cloaking devices and mid-range laser cannons, it is probably futile. Guffaw).
*Athabasca Falls, a touristy and reasonably impressive drop in the Athabasca river, which flows from the Columbia Icefield (more on that later, I expect) right out to the Arctic Sea near Inavut in the Northwest Territories.
*Beauty Creek, which is pretty much just that.
And it is in the vicinity of Beauty Creek that, once more in life, I am proven too hasty in my assumptions. Wafts of cloud cling to the road in spectral visions as, from the sky, the sun attempts an impersonation of deathbed 'light at the end of the tunnel'. But then! Patches of blue, rockfaces, and more. The tops of mountains, thinning cloud, and sunshine! The cloud duvet was low and the elevation of the road has brought me upon it. It sits behind me, below me, masking the valley beyond, and all around the precious mountains are revealed!
The next few hours are a joy; the landscape I came here to see in all its' glory. Eyes wide, mouth open, heart full; a new relish for the adventures and for the road ahead.
The aforementioned Columbia Icefield itself is out of reach, high atop the peaks of the mountains on the BC/Alberta border. The Athabasca glacier running from it, however, is not. A rapidly receding tongue of ice, feeding its' namesake river, darts down from the icy plains above and immediately takes its rightful place amongst the wonders this planet has to offer which have befallen these eyes of mine. High banks of rock and shale, scarred by the frozen drag, are pressed up against both sides of the glacial valley - evidence of the former scale of the ice flow. Nearby literature tells of the effects of climate change: how, in as little as 100 years time, the glacier will disappear at its' current rate of reduction; how the forests are making their way upwards, advancing on the peaks; how this magnificent alpine region could become alpine no more, wildlife wiped out as habitats recede into nothing.
I press on. Already I have been five hours on the road and have covered only a third of the distance I need before nightfall. After today I'm starting to get quite fond of my car. All he asks of me in the partnership is to keep a cock in my ankle, poised above the brake pedal. I am more than happy to oblige. The pain is worth it.
The remainder of the journey, well, I don't know that I can do it justice with words alone. I'd need to carve out a piece of myself and somehow implant it into you, dear reader, to give the first inkling of how this place makes me feel. I thought walking in the very footsteps and up to the toe of a glacier was affirmation enough of the human capacity for awe and wonder, then I drove the other 180km to Banff. Whichever part of my disparate being thought itself wanting upon the train has been restored a hundred times over.
The crags, the cliffs, the caps and the creeks, the woods and the wildlife and the waterways, and the sheer unadulterated devastation at the revealing of a pure and shimmering emerald lake as the corner of a mountain trail is rounded...I am in a very, very happy place this night.
See for yourself why, on youtube.
Friday, 7 October 2011
#017: Into The Wild pt2 - Marky Meets Mr. Moose
Up until now my time in Canada has been graced with good weather, clear skies, concerns over UV exposure and hydration rather than how wet or cold I might get if I venture outdoors. Shame then, that it is precisely when I want to be outdoors that my luck with the elements changes. The mist may be mystical, but the cloud cover forms a closed canopy over the region, so the surrounding whitened heights are purely a thing of my own imagining.
The rain is heavy and the clouds low on my first full day in Jasper, so I drive the relatively short distance into British Columbia, to the base of Mount Robson - the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies. Only fleeting glimpses of its' sheer 2000m south face - adorned with glacial flows - are afforded through the gathered water droplets, yet its' size is clear. It is vast, a whole kilometer nearer the top of the sky than anything I've seen in my 32 years. I choose against setting out on foot up its' lower reaches - an apprehension of the conditions and the fact I'd be on my own keep me in the car. Further research has revealed it is best to not venture out alone at this time of year, lest you find yourself confronted by the local inhabitants. Safety in numbers an' all that.
That evening the hostel is graced by a large high school contingent from a few hours south. The totalitarian teacher-in-charge ensures all decks are thoroughly swabbed (including toilets!), but the added volume of hostelers makes cooking awkward to say the least. Granted, four hobs and as many sinks is ambitious in a building that houses up to 100 people. The youths are trusted with cooking for themselves - refreshing in one respect - and an assortment of cuisine makes its way through to the dining area during the course of the night. Of course, these young 'uns have the wholly predictable diets of resident North Americans, winner of the most ridiculous meal going to the lad who cooked himself nothing but five massive steaks. Needless to say, he was the envy of all his contemporaries. The greedy ******.
I risk an early night, trusting my deep-sleepedness to keep me under for the duration of whatever unruliness might occur in the small hours, sharing a dorm with loads of kids. Next morning a couple from Yorkshire regale me with tales of bunk-jumping, phone games, angry teachers and not-much-sleep at 4am. I try really, really hard to hide my smugness.
The objective of day two is Maligne Lake, an hour or so's drive with promises of a turquoise lake (the Canadian Rockies biggest, in any colour) surrounded by snow-clad peaks. The first part of the drive is down the highway, where I experience my first wildlife encounter of the week: a moose! Mr. Moose! Well, not a moose exactly. More of a caribou, too big for the passenger seat, maybe in the back, and he wishes to cross the road. I don't get in his way. Two minutes later something catches my eye in the bushes off to the side of the highway, so I dart into a handily-placed side road and start filming...four more caribou, no doubt part of the same herd, are captured for prosperity.
En route to the lake I stop off at Maligne Gorge, a canyon formed over the millennia through weathering, water-flow and erosion. It's here, outside of the car, where the regular advice to not be alone is most profound, so I attach myself to Shelley and John (or Bob) (or something) (sorry John, er, Bob), an American couple from Tampa, Florida. "John" lived in Earls Court during 1966 and survives on a heady concoction of trail mix (nuts, currants and M&M's all thrown together) and beef jerky ("15oz of protein in every pack"). He gets it from Wall-Mart ("where all the really obese folk shop"). Shelley, meanwhile, had a relative whom studied at Exeter on exchange for a time. We exchange stories of not-seeing any interesting wildlife when the object had been otherwise (for me: Icelandic whale-watching minus the whales, etc.), and don't meet any bears, or cougars, or wolves, or anything really. In fact, in the three or four hours we spend with each other (we visit Medicine and Maligne lakes together too), the most vicious being we see is a squirrel, and a ridiculously tiny one at that.
Once again, the weather is poor, so the famed mountains around Maligne Lake are nowhere to be seen. The grey of the skies somewhat muddies the colour of the water too, so the lake isn't all it was cracked up to be. That said, the whole environment is still spectacular, and deer and mountain goats grace the road on the way back to Jasper.
The rain is heavy and the clouds low on my first full day in Jasper, so I drive the relatively short distance into British Columbia, to the base of Mount Robson - the highest peak in the Canadian Rockies. Only fleeting glimpses of its' sheer 2000m south face - adorned with glacial flows - are afforded through the gathered water droplets, yet its' size is clear. It is vast, a whole kilometer nearer the top of the sky than anything I've seen in my 32 years. I choose against setting out on foot up its' lower reaches - an apprehension of the conditions and the fact I'd be on my own keep me in the car. Further research has revealed it is best to not venture out alone at this time of year, lest you find yourself confronted by the local inhabitants. Safety in numbers an' all that.
That evening the hostel is graced by a large high school contingent from a few hours south. The totalitarian teacher-in-charge ensures all decks are thoroughly swabbed (including toilets!), but the added volume of hostelers makes cooking awkward to say the least. Granted, four hobs and as many sinks is ambitious in a building that houses up to 100 people. The youths are trusted with cooking for themselves - refreshing in one respect - and an assortment of cuisine makes its way through to the dining area during the course of the night. Of course, these young 'uns have the wholly predictable diets of resident North Americans, winner of the most ridiculous meal going to the lad who cooked himself nothing but five massive steaks. Needless to say, he was the envy of all his contemporaries. The greedy ******.
I risk an early night, trusting my deep-sleepedness to keep me under for the duration of whatever unruliness might occur in the small hours, sharing a dorm with loads of kids. Next morning a couple from Yorkshire regale me with tales of bunk-jumping, phone games, angry teachers and not-much-sleep at 4am. I try really, really hard to hide my smugness.
The objective of day two is Maligne Lake, an hour or so's drive with promises of a turquoise lake (the Canadian Rockies biggest, in any colour) surrounded by snow-clad peaks. The first part of the drive is down the highway, where I experience my first wildlife encounter of the week: a moose! Mr. Moose! Well, not a moose exactly. More of a caribou, too big for the passenger seat, maybe in the back, and he wishes to cross the road. I don't get in his way. Two minutes later something catches my eye in the bushes off to the side of the highway, so I dart into a handily-placed side road and start filming...four more caribou, no doubt part of the same herd, are captured for prosperity.
En route to the lake I stop off at Maligne Gorge, a canyon formed over the millennia through weathering, water-flow and erosion. It's here, outside of the car, where the regular advice to not be alone is most profound, so I attach myself to Shelley and John (or Bob) (or something) (sorry John, er, Bob), an American couple from Tampa, Florida. "John" lived in Earls Court during 1966 and survives on a heady concoction of trail mix (nuts, currants and M&M's all thrown together) and beef jerky ("15oz of protein in every pack"). He gets it from Wall-Mart ("where all the really obese folk shop"). Shelley, meanwhile, had a relative whom studied at Exeter on exchange for a time. We exchange stories of not-seeing any interesting wildlife when the object had been otherwise (for me: Icelandic whale-watching minus the whales, etc.), and don't meet any bears, or cougars, or wolves, or anything really. In fact, in the three or four hours we spend with each other (we visit Medicine and Maligne lakes together too), the most vicious being we see is a squirrel, and a ridiculously tiny one at that.
Once again, the weather is poor, so the famed mountains around Maligne Lake are nowhere to be seen. The grey of the skies somewhat muddies the colour of the water too, so the lake isn't all it was cracked up to be. That said, the whole environment is still spectacular, and deer and mountain goats grace the road on the way back to Jasper.
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
#017: Into The Wild pt1 - Marky versus Cougar
My couple of days in Winnipeg passed relatively quickly. The gig - purpose of my stop - was a good hit-laden affair; Winnipeg art gallery had a new exhibit by a local man of Ukrainian extraction, his acrylic of the northern lights over vast wheatfields particularly resonant for me (for the astral displays rather than the fields of corn); a German room-mate who worked in - wait for it - Maidenhead for 18 months last year (his opening enquiry: "What's the best nightclub in Maidenhead?"..."Smokey Joes", I replied. How to make friends and influence people rule number 1).
Back to the familiar green-blue-grey upholstery of the train, the westward procession of bodyless telegraph crucifixes continues. Seemingly endless expanses of flat prairie, yet this leg passes quicker than the first (relatively). A young deer or two; a lake; a sudden unexpected gorge, too swift to be committed to film.
I approach Jasper, and a week of exploring the National Parks of the Canadian Rockies. There will be trails and glaciers and spectacular views aplenty. There may also be wild animals, as my Rough Guide is only too happy to point out...
"Two types of bears roam the Rockies - black bears and grizzlies - and you don't want to meet either...grizzlies are unpredictable and readily provoked...if confronted don't run, make loud noises or sudden movements, all of which are likely to provoke an attack.
"Cougars pose a somewhat lesser threat...while you would be unlucky to encounter them...unlike bears, the best strategy is to try and fight them off..."
I went to a Pocketbooks gig a couple of days before I left the UK. I am ready.
It transpires the cumulative sixty-four-hours-on-a-train is worth it. The last ninety minutes into Jasper is unparalleled. The train snakes its way out of pine forests and above large logging settlements into the beginnings of the Rockies: glacial rivers, as wide as a small town, accompany the telegraph poles on the flanks; crystal lakes lap against pine-lined shores; everything is cradled in the fingertips of snow-wristed mountains.
The Park Information Centre in Jasper tells me "all types, everywhere" when I enquire which animals are in the vicinity right now. My visit, it seems, is perfectly timed. Whether that timing is perfectly good or perfectly bad, well, hopefully I'll be able to report at the end of the week. Second job upon arrival is to pick up my toy car (public transport exists, but distances are such that I'd be a slave to it without my own wheels). My car moves just by turning it on, which is novel, and it requires only one limb to pilot rather than the customary four.
The five minute "drive" from car park to hostel is utterly breath-taking. Alan Wake/Twin Peaks/erm/Twilight (sorry)...whichever takes your fancy...I am truly blown away.
Back to the familiar green-blue-grey upholstery of the train, the westward procession of bodyless telegraph crucifixes continues. Seemingly endless expanses of flat prairie, yet this leg passes quicker than the first (relatively). A young deer or two; a lake; a sudden unexpected gorge, too swift to be committed to film.
I approach Jasper, and a week of exploring the National Parks of the Canadian Rockies. There will be trails and glaciers and spectacular views aplenty. There may also be wild animals, as my Rough Guide is only too happy to point out...
"Two types of bears roam the Rockies - black bears and grizzlies - and you don't want to meet either...grizzlies are unpredictable and readily provoked...if confronted don't run, make loud noises or sudden movements, all of which are likely to provoke an attack.
"Cougars pose a somewhat lesser threat...while you would be unlucky to encounter them...unlike bears, the best strategy is to try and fight them off..."
I went to a Pocketbooks gig a couple of days before I left the UK. I am ready.
It transpires the cumulative sixty-four-hours-on-a-train is worth it. The last ninety minutes into Jasper is unparalleled. The train snakes its way out of pine forests and above large logging settlements into the beginnings of the Rockies: glacial rivers, as wide as a small town, accompany the telegraph poles on the flanks; crystal lakes lap against pine-lined shores; everything is cradled in the fingertips of snow-wristed mountains.
The Park Information Centre in Jasper tells me "all types, everywhere" when I enquire which animals are in the vicinity right now. My visit, it seems, is perfectly timed. Whether that timing is perfectly good or perfectly bad, well, hopefully I'll be able to report at the end of the week. Second job upon arrival is to pick up my toy car (public transport exists, but distances are such that I'd be a slave to it without my own wheels). My car moves just by turning it on, which is novel, and it requires only one limb to pilot rather than the customary four.
The five minute "drive" from car park to hostel is utterly breath-taking. Alan Wake/Twin Peaks/erm/Twilight (sorry)...whichever takes your fancy...I am truly blown away.
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