Put together the ideal conditions of timing, wind, water, weather, and you have my recent paddle on Premier Lake. Situated south of Invermere approximately 1.25 hours drive (the last thirty km on gravel roads with teeth clacking washboard) Premier Lake is in a provincial park. The payoff for driving the rough road came when a momma deer and her fawn modelled their spring coats in the middle of the road, entertaining us for several minutes.
The cozy park had an adequate concrete launch, managing steady traffic when we arrived at 10:00 a.m. The lake formed a typical pattern for this province, curving down a valley between two mountain ranges. With only a 10 kph wind, the surface spread like a mirror, reflecting the greens and purples of the surrounding scenery, while displaying the deep turquoise colour caused by powdered limestone in the water.
The whitish bottom formed a canvas on which nature displayed the skeletal outlines of fallen trees. Although I did see a man fishing, I never saw so much as the shadow of a minnow in our circumnavigation.
The Park and water access is on the west end of the lake. For the first 3/4s of its length there are tiny gravel beaches where you can pullout for a quiet lunch or stretch.
At intervals small creeks run into the lake, marking their entrance with the merry sound of rippling water. As you approach the east end ‘private property’ signs appear on tree trunks, and more cabins peeked out of the stands of fir. Crossing the end of the lake you pass by a developed area of cottages and landscaped lots, with buoys guiding you away from the shore.
However, the long paddle heading south gives you back a sense of being in the wilderness, though the odd dock breaks the waterline. Again, we found fascinating rock formations and little creek mouths feeding their hungry mother.
By early afternoon, the wind gusted 20 kph down the length of the lake on our sterns, giving us an effortless paddle back to the launch.
Within the curve of the shoreline fronted by a small island we swam, off-setting temperatures that had climbed to thirty-five degrees Celsius. Again, we found the small boat launch in demand, and a line-up of vehicles waiting to load. Exceptional circumstances made Premier a near perfect paddle. I would recommend this silver treat in the mountains for those who like scenery, solitude and silence.
I watched the ripples form ten feet from my kayak and called to my friend, “A large fish just jumped right by my bow,” Before I finished speaking the fish turned and plowed into the starboard side of my kayak with enough force to tilt me to port. I added this unknown behaviour onto the long list of crazy things already making up this paddling trip.
It started at 4:30 a.m. when I rose and dressed in warm clothes. The temp, lower than anticipated, made me cast aside the lighter clothing I had out. Within thirty minutes we were on the road, headed for Swift Current, where we picked up my paddling buddy and her kayak. I’d checked the driving distance from The Landing – 2 hours – and now informed her ½ an hour into our trip that it was a two-hour drive. So, of course we arrived at Eastend a half hour ahead of schedule.
Eastend does not advertise its dam – which I understand is a major tourist attraction for their area – or the access into the boat launch on one side of the reservoir. With directions from a townie, we headed out, only to find the road blocked by SK highway signs. A helpful woman on the nearby farm drove out and explained the road had been closed for the next six months, after the high school students used it to access the dam and paint the traditional graduation graffiti on it. She offered to lead us around to the boat launch a different way. In her yard were three small donkeys. While she fed the horses one of the donkeys came up to the fence and brayed. The cacophony of unexpected sound scared my husband and friend and sent us off into another bout of hilarity.
We would never have found the boat launch on our own. Eastend doesn’t believe in signage. The woman led us back into town and then on a twisting combination of side roads and trails to a concrete launch and small pier in the middle of nowhere. “Be careful,” she called before driving away, “the end of the launch is slippery.” The Frenchman’s River is also called the White Mud by locals, because of the heavy deposits of clay along its banks and bottom. The clay has the consistency of grease.
We unloaded the kayaks onto the steep surface and sorted our gear. “My lunch is back in the fridge at home.” I announced, giving them yet another laugh. After organizing what I had brought, I settled in my kayak and slid myself backward down the launch. As soon as a third of my 14.5-foot Perception floated on water, my bow wobbled dangerously, and my kayak did a slow sideways slide and dumped me upside down in the river. My husband, who usually has the reaction time of a rattler, stood frozen. I emerged from my kayak and tried to stand, but slippery clay on smooth Dawg soles doesn’t compute. I fell, stood, fell, and finally my companions acted. My husband pulled my flooded kayak onto the launch and reached out a hand. Still, I couldn’t walk up the launch and crawled up on my hands and knees, accompanied by their snickers.
Thank goodness for dry bags. While they pumped out my kayak and dropped all my soaked gear into the truck bed, I changed. My extra set of clothes were dry but not proof against the chilly 35 kph wind the weatherman assured would be 20 kph. I put on my damp PFD set my dry butt in my wet seat and with my husband holding my bow launched again. What makes my dunking especially ludicrous is that on my last paddle with this newbie kayaker I had tipped on a rock and gone through the same dry out routine. She had three months of paddling to my twenty-three years, and yet again I looked like the beginner.
We headed across the reservoir in a south westerly direction skirting huge islands of plants. We couldn’t tell if we were over six inches of water or six feet, because the plants always grew to the surface.
Within thirty minutes we were caught in a large swampy area with no visible exit. We paddled from one end to the other, back and forth across, into high reeds on waterways only as wide as our kayak and backed out again. We were lost. My friend used Google maps to try to locate the main channel, and half the time they told her she was on land. I phoned my husband and said we couldn’t get up river to the spot he had suggested for take out. He was already sitting there, having reconnoitred and received permission from the farmer who owned the land. He drove back to the main launch. I put my phone away and minutes later paddled out into a clear, deep stretch of water – heading for the bridge my husband had just left. Twice more we got into dead end backwaters and found our way onto the main river. The 35 kph wind made some stretches hard work, and cold. Finally, my jacket draped across my deck under my deck lines dried and I pulled it over my life jacket and felt a little warmth.
For all the comedy of playing hide-and-seek with the main river channel, we had some wonderful experiences. Red-wing Blackbirds, and Yellow-headed Blackbirds flitted alongside us through the high rushes. A variety of plants filled the surface of the water, so we floated over an ever-changing palette of colours. A bald eagle rode the wind currents, circling above us like one of nature’s drones (which by the way we decided would have been enormous help in navigating this maze). In one of the back channels, we flushed out a deer, who bounced along beside us like a toy on springs.
Finally, after three hours on the water, we pulled over for a stretch break on the only piece of rock-strewn shoreline that allowed for a decent landing. We walked about, loosening our hips and feeling elated we were on the main channel heading north into the current and the wind, but toward our LZ at the bridge. I phoned D and told him we were on the right track to get to him. Where was he. “Back at the original boat launch having a nap.” Apologizing for making him relocate once again, I started paddling. “I bet we’ll see the bridge around this next turn,” I called to my buddy. I turned the curve and gasped, then started laughing. She drew even with me and shared the joke. We were back at the main launch where we’d started.
We had planned on four hours of paddling time, and had only been on the water for three, but a quick discussion determined neither of us had faith we’d find our way back if we retraced our steps. Figuring my husband would already be driving back to the bridge I phoned him, found out he was still at the launch and could see us. He promised he’d get me onto the concrete without tipping, so we paddled across the reservoir to the launch, while he backed the truck into position. When my hull hit the cement, he dragged me forward so fast my kayak didn’t have a chance to wobble.
We enjoyed lunch at Jack’s Café established in 1920 and still putting out good food, then started the drive home, now two hours ahead of schedule. On the way, urged by my husband, I regaled my friend with other ludicrous things that happened with my younger sister. I wondered if this paddling buddy, like my sister would bring out the crazy, whenever we paddled together – a symbiotic screw-up every time we went out. We laughed so hard we had an excess of happy hormones to carry us through the next week. With my new moniker, Side-slip Smid, I anticipate my next adventure – or dunking.
PS My friend sent me the Google Map tracing of distance travelled and it looked like we’d been knitting a patch on the water with a complicated stitch. We’d gone everywhere and reached nowhere, but fun.
A popular idiom suggests, “don’t borrow trouble.” It means don’t spend a lot of time worrying about something that might never happen. While I’m a minute-by-minute cynic (I want to go kayaking so I’m not surprised when a 30 kph wind rises as I leave the launch) I have never seen the benefit of worrying. I think along with the scar tissue I grew from my many surgeries I accepted the belief life is transient. What is the point of planning ahead? “We might be dead by then,” I say to my long-suffering husband who is trying to organize a winter holiday or renovations on the house.
I guess saving energy – mine in particular – being a priority, I don’t see the point on wasting any on a plan a multitude of variants can demolish in seconds. I’m sure many of you are arguing with me all ready. How can you get through life if you don’t plan? I’ve had trips, with my suitcase already loaded in our private plane cancelled last minute for bad weather, family trips set aside for sick children. Kayaking partners pulled out of expeditions, planned for months, because of deaths in the family, and big pieces of my life disappeared into the black hole of illness. Life taught me a goal can be snatched away at a moment’s notice.
My plans are based on the latest information and last-minute decisions. Yes, I realize I must book the tickets for the cruise ahead, but the cynic in me says, “Don’t count on taking it.” I am not a brink master, getting an adrenaline high from doing things at the last minute. I am most comfortable working ahead of deadline and commitments, reconnoitering a new situation before I go into it, and finishing one thing before starting another. I am mystified by my insistence on painting in the details at the last minute. What a contradiction.
Part of this refusal may stem from the annual increase in my analytic side. It is shooting up like a pubescent teen I can’t keep in shoes. I hesitate in making these decisions in case they are wrong. It is an annoying trait—yes as annoying as that contentious teen!
Right now, we are going through renovations. “Pick the type of countertop you want,” my husband requests. I dally as long as possible, then make a choice. But based on experience my gut, intuition and cynic huddle together whispering, “They’ll be out of that one.” I choose a soaker tub, and my analytic wonders if a better one will appear on the market the next day. I am infuriating, but I am not borrowing trouble.
We just had our sewage tank tested by the provincial park authorities. We fill it to the top; they measure the amount it holds and twenty-four hours later measure again. No leakage. Hurrah! Aside from the inconvenience of not using it for that period, it had no impact on my life. However, for two weeks prior to the scheduled test my husband agonized over the possibility of a leak in the tank. This would mean purchasing a new tank, and the cost of having the old one dug up and removed, moving a shed, destroying a cement retaining wall on two sides of the yard, taking down a pergola, and digging up a 25-foot Ponderosa pine. Aware this might be a possibility, I didn’t dwell on it. Take action only when required. The test is done. The tank doesn’t leak, and my husband is just recovering from a near panic attack brought on by his propensity for borrowing trouble.
While I applaud those, who embrace a glass half full attitude, I examine all the negatives up front, eliminate or accept them and think positively about the end result. Am I negative because I voice my concerns first? Is a spurt of anxiety while I assess the situation like several weeks of worry over a possible result? Am I borrowing trouble? If so, I pay the lender back before any interest is owed, because I believe things happen for the best – maybe not the way I envision, but the way they are meant to be.
“When the pupil is ready, the teacher appears.” This old Buddhist saying is as relevant today as it was a thousand years ago. It is certainly the main source of my learning. For the people around me teach me the most – not when they want to, not when I want them to, but at that magic moment when openness, understanding and lesson come together creating new understanding.
I’m certain many of my teachers stood by frustrated and feeling helpless as the lesson flew over my head like an arrow missing the target. Some arrows of learning did hit, over and over and over again, but they bounced off without sticking. My bull’s-eye remained unsullied – and I unwilling or unable to take in and understand.
But the teachers did come and from them I gained much knowledge. The first I credit, is my mother. She passed on her imagination, modelled through life, and offered up as a fanciful way of learning. without limitations, my imagination created a world in which adventure shoved me towards new ideas, new approaches and new understanding.
My second learning tool is books. From other writers I learned how to rock climb, what a bazaar in Jakarta smells like, how to perform a tracheotomy. But the lessons went deeper. From Jane Austen I learned don’t judge. Kahil Gibran taught me, “Accept your truth.” Gary Zukov demonstrates risk pays big dividends. Eckart Tolle, live in the now.
Nature has been a wonderful instructor, winning my heart, mind and spirit with its first touch. I find the fearsome, awesome and mysterious amongst her many treasures. I am alive, each cell sparked with energy when I experience these powers. Nature teaches the necessity of balance – just as water can buoy me up, its immense power can submerge me. A sunset bleeding crimson across the sky delights my eyes while piercing my heart with sorrow. Tranquility/rage, healing/destruction all the opposing forces found in nature, must be learned, minded and respected.
From women I’ve ingested an encyclopedia. Shared feelings, philosophies and every day occurrences give me self awareness, and a sense of being part of the whole. Through discussions on the minutiae of life, I see others go through the same tests and triumphs. I accept who I am and why I am, supported by their openness. My women friends give me – me.
Dark times like the death of my father when I was sixteen, and many years of fighting Crohns encouraged me to grab at life. There might not be a later. I’ve kayaked rivers, lakes and oceans, tandem parasailed, and down-hill skied every mountain I can reach. I’ve camped alone in the wilderness, zip-lined across the country, been deck-hand on a sailboat, co-piloted a plane, and co-authored a book – grasping knowledge with each experience.
Thinking back over the short life my father lived, I gain invaluable understanding from his example. Know what you want, reach for your dreams with both hands, embrace the results, believing the transformative power within makes all things possible. I Wonder, what lesson is waiting for you?
When I look back over decades of my life, I discover my greatest treasure trove of learning comes from the experience of having Crohn’s disease. An old adage often voiced states, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I believe this; and also that it makes you wiser.
The first lesson I learned from Crohns was how to deal with pain. This lesson slapped me up the side of my head for many years before I ‘got it’. In accepting pain as a given in my life, I lessened its importance, and thus reduced its impact.
While coping with the disease, I reached a deeper level of empathy. When my husband pushed me down the hospital corridor in a wheelchair because I was too weak to walk, we passed a diabetic woman who had no legs. At one point, I was attached to so many machines, tubes and drains that movement was out of the question, yet, in the next room the nurses unhooked machines from a patient who couldn’t be saved. Crohns put me in the hospital, where I learned compassion and gratitude.
I was 29 when I was diagnosed, and at that time, I ran my life like a balance sheet for giving and receiving. It was okay for me to give more than anyone gave me, but I must never run a deficit. My lengthy illness made caring for my family or myself impossible at times. I became a ‘taker’ on a large scale. This caused me considerable stress until the epiphany that in accepting someone else’s gift I gave them back a gift. I provided the opportunity for their act of generosity—so they could reach beyond their own problems and feel good. I learned that instead of saying, “you shouldn’t have” or “It wasn’t necessary”, I could ennoble their gift. I could wrap my appreciation up in the bow of sincere words like, “The energy you saved me by bringing dinner let me play with my children for an hour. Thank you.”
I concluded early if I couldn’t walk in someone’s moccasins, I could at least try them on. I gained a new respect for all hospital employees. In the long waits for test, I practiced patience. In coping with the mistakes of doctors and nurses I acquired tolerance. And I came to see I didn’t improve a situation by being negative, complaining or whining. Crohn’s forced me to grow up. (A caveat here. I admit my inner child still shows up to pout and stomp verbally.)
I can testify some people really do keep marriage vows and follow their spouse into hell. Though he often teased my mother with, “if I knew she was in this bad of shape I’d have bought a warranty,” my husband suffered terribly, as men do, who feel helpless. Yet, he stayed through sickness as well as health.
Crohns also introduced me to a few new philosophies and strengthened some beliefs I already held. I received the proverbial second chance at life and learned each moment is precious – not to be sullied or wasted.
I proved to myself over years of hospitalization and experimenting with wellness that humans are potentially self-healing by design. So, I must create the balance of mind, body, spirit that induces healing.
Out of every difficult situation comes good and I recognize the benefits at some point during or following my travail. Just as the difficulty encompass many people, so does the good – often it is a blessing with immeasurable results. For example, the changes in our family life, because of my illness, molded our children into strong, independent, adults.
I learned “man really is an island”. Granted I could reach across the water surrounding me for help and often even hold the hand extended, but bottom line is you make the hard choice alone. “Yes, I’ll have the surgery.” or “No I won’t allow you to give me that treatment.” Only I could throw the dice of life and death.
With these beliefs as an intellectual springboard, I created the lifestyle that best allows me to honor them. We built our home by the river. I do the work I love. I actively seek the solitude and quiet I know will keep me in balance.
Crohn’s disease appeared like a terrorist, inducing fear. In fighting the fear with love, I grew and flourished—body, mind and spirit. I broke free of its cruel death grip with a will to survive that amazes me to this day. Occasionally, my illness attacks again, and I struggle against it. But I do so now with deliberation rather than rage; because I am certain this fierce combatant still has more to teach me.
At a time when I’ve become more dependent on technology than ever, I lost my Wi-Fi for three days. As emails piled up, and deadlines loomed, I sought patience, juggled my to do list, found other ways to communicate and shuffled along as best I could. Others were just as inconvenienced. Across from me lives a woman who works fulltime out of her home – and couldn’t get on the Internet. A man, I know trades on the stock market daily and would lose thousands of dollars if he needed to sell and couldn’t connect.
Technology has brought us so far at the detriment of so much. Computers will make paper obsolete experts declared. Yet, I remember when I shopped and the clerk would ring up my sales on a cash register, take my money and give me a six-inch strip of paper. Now I wait while they print off a sales invoice, staple it to a receipt, that has a back up receipt attached, and possibly a gift receipt. Scads of paper are handed over along with my purchase. Recent statistics show the sell of books has increased and demand for e-books decreased.
I’ve moved from writing on a typewriter, where the biggest problem would be having to retype a page, to working on a PC. I am a victim of kidnapped chapters, murdered files, and updates that beat up my programs. I will never learn to fix these things myself, because the workings of a computer form the threshold of my total lack of interest. I expect my PC, like my eggbeater will do its assigned task. Thus, I’ve spent a fortune on tech assistance over the years.
Yet, technology, when it works gives me an ease, which I cannot replace. The speed of typing a manuscript into my laptop, knowing I can copy it, move it, share it, store it, and get it back, all with just a few strokes of the keys, is something I will not give up.
Using a computer for work is like having a gambling addiction. I keep going back, regardless of the risk. Will this be the time I lose it all? I wager that I can deliver, never knowing from one second to the next if my software fails, my hardware breaks, or Internet service will go down. Knowing this I still step up to the table and throw the dice.
I guess I should consider myself lucky I am such a small target it’s unlikely I’ll be hacked. I watch the big corporations facing ransom hackers and realize there is yet another player in the game. I can’t see a future when we ever have a sense of full security and safety. I have a vision of the plastic sleeve holding photos, folded like an accordion, we would take from our purses and flip open for any viewer (interested or not!) and compare it with the lengthy list of passwords we must keep near. Most of us don’t try and end up storing them in some easily identifiable file – a courtesy to any hacker attempting entrance. I have a phobia about having my identity stolen, believe my phone and laptop are spying on me, and can’t imagine giving my house over to an artificial intelligence that can inventory my fridge, decide what I will want to eat next week, shop for me online, then pay the store with my financial information. Or, God forbid, let an AI like Alexa control my home and have access to my bank account.
I realize my age is showing because thousands of millennials take these services for granted. They run their lives through the software on their phones, downloading apps that operate every aspect of their day, from making their coffee to shutting down the house at night. We worried about the crash of technology on the centennial. We are so much more vulnerable now. I wonder how our younger generations would survive being unplugged. I know I’ll go on strong with or without connectivity.
My husband and I in a combined lack of wisdom – or maybe a Covid haze, just built a grow box. I believe we were initially motivated by rumours there would be a scarcity of fresh fruits and vegetables in the grocery stores, as border closings would mean less truckers and farm workers. We have a big yard and for the past three years have been reducing the amount of labour required with choices like less pots (for me) and a riding lawnmower for my husband. Men can always find a power tool for their pleasure! So, I shake my head in confusion. Why did we take on another project?
My husband built the box over several days of hard work. We chose the back end of the Japanese garden for its location – out of sight of the rest of the yard, surrounded on two sides by fence, one by the back of the shed, and sitting on pea gravel for neatness. When I viewed the finished project, I gasped at the size. Huge! He assured me he’d used the exact measurements given him. So, together we lined it with plastic. Smiling smugly at each other, we discussed the next step. Our smiles slid off our faces as we acknowledged our second bad choice. Instructions were ‘fill the grow box with four inches of river rock and gravel, then topsoil’. We looked around our tidy, enclosed space and realized we had no way of accessing the box other than on foot. Everything going into this wonderful, raised garden must be carried in by pail. We laughed at our idiocy.
My husband did the river rock on his own, together we hauled in the gravel. The next day I shovelled the box of a half ton truck full of soil into two pails, while he carried alternate pails, trip after trip. I worried about his weakening legs. He expressed concern for the tendinitis in my arm. Every eight pails full we stopped to relieve the muscle spasms in our lower backs and chat. The sun shone, the air had a lovely damp earth smell, harmony reigned.
I looked like a bent hag as I hobbled around the kitchen making supper for my hard-working guy. I so admired his perseverance, and the multitude of skills that had gone into designing and building the box. The next morning, he shuffled stiffly as he brought me a cup of tea, telling me he appreciated that I’d sacrificed my kayak arm to help him by shovelling. As we hugged – an excuse to rub each other’s back – he insisted he’d finish alone while I rested. When I questioned his jumping up and down into the truck, he said he’d build a ramp. With visions of him crashing onto the sidewalk, I insisted I’d shovel. Together we finished the job. His mother always said, “It doesn’t take long if there’s two of us.”
Together we stood by our box appreciating our work. As we levelled the rich soil our hands touched, and our thoughts meshed. We grinned with satisfaction at what we’d accomplished together – planning, building, filling and hopefully growing something in our grow box. We relaxed in our double glider in the Japanese garden and felt peace settle around us. The grow box is a permanent fixture, we agreed, at no time will we put the energy into emptying it.
I think of the great lumbering thing with affection. If we’re lucky (neither of us is a gardener) we might get a crop of veggies in the fall. However, the big take away is our garden has already produced a bounty of kindness, mutual respect, appreciation, and love.