Trains, Cranes, Two Truths and a Lie

As usual Jan knew better. I was doubtful when she decided we wanted to commence our 2011 spring transcontinental in novel fashion: by train. My imagination ran to fits of claustrophobia and uncontrolled insomnia. But her balance of good ideas over bad is generally positive so I decided what the hell. We boarded Via Rail’s The Canadian on Tuesday evening and cast our fate to the guys in the lead locomotive.

Close quarters force train travelers to be friendly whether or not they’re normally inclined that way. Personal space is invaded in the corridors, observation car and dining room. We never had a dining car table to ourselves. We breakfasted with Diane of Calgary and 5-year-old grandson Isaac, both enjoying their first-ever train trip, lunched with Stan and Marlene, a husband-and-wife team from Sidney, both proudly descended from English convicts exiled to Australia more than two centuries ago. In strictly friendly terms we weighed whether it was the Aussies or Canadians who were the WWI pride of the British Army. Come suppertime we broke bread with another husband-and-wife team, Bob and George, of Philadelphia (George the wife half). Bob and I had lots to talk about, mostly books and baseball. They introduced us to a train parlour game: ’Two Truths and a Lie’. In my turn I tried this combo: 1] a naked young woman recently told me I am an attractive man with a good body; 2] I once turned down an offer of sex with Miss California; 3] I was a three-letter man at university. Which is the lie? Bob guessed right.

The train took us through no lifer territory. Travels in Leo and the Taj have led us through Vancouver-to-Winnipeg territory before. But I am normally at Leo’s wheel, duty-bound to pay attention to the road rather than what lies on either side of it. I discovered how congenial it is to find a comfortable seat and watch the world go by as someone else does the driving. There was much to see: the dry BC interior along the South Thompson River, Mount Robson and its sister peaks, still-iced alpine lakes. Unbidden, Gordon Lightfoot came to mind: There was a time in this fair land when the railroad did not run . . . John A. Macdonald too: I made a mental note to hunt down a well-worn copy of The National Dream and make time to read it this summer at Big Bras d’Or.

We detrained awhile at Jasper just as the skies cleared and the sun came out. We found the war memorial and learned that the community was tiny in 1914 and known by another name: Fitzhugh. The list of WWI fallen included just six names.

By sunup Thursday mountains were behind us, the train window featured long vistas under big prairie skies. I do not resonate with those who feel the grasslands are a bore. Every pothole flashing past the window featured waterbirds settled in for breeding season: ducks, coots, grebes. A pair of British birders claimed to see two whooping cranes. Yeah right.

CBC keeps us well advised of the troubles visited upon Saskatchewan and Manitoba communities by flooded rivers. Via Rail enabled us to see with our own eyes. At St. Lazare sandbag-ringed houses looked lonely and vulnerable amidst the Assiniboine floodwaters. A long delay ensued as Via Rail engineers weighed the safety of bridges. Due to the flood we arrived at our destination two hours late but welcomed nonetheless by Steve and Elizabeth. Five days in greater Winnipeg beckon.

Now viewed in the rear view mirror the train trip looks sufficiently swell that Jan might well talk me into another sometime soon. I shall invest some small effort in devising claims for the next round of Two-Truths-and-a-Lie.

King Robert Pays a Royal Visit

We were honoured by a royal visit from one-of-a-kind, incomparable Bob Nagel. At the airport we initially looked in vain for Robert and were approached by a shaggy old hippie. I reached into my pocket for some loose change before realizing the old bum was Robert himself. Wow. He hasn't had a haircut in nearly a year, having decided he wants to enjoy a ponytail before checkout time. Good on him.

Robert knows how to have a good time like no one else of my acquaintance. That's why I and all the others who know him elbow each other for the privilege of hanging out with the old guy. Mary and Mike are among the elbowers. They came for supper and partook of an evening of irreverence and raucous ribaldry. No one called the police.

We took him on a little grand tour -- to Granville Island and Gastown in Vancouver, to Bowen Island where niece Sarah has a new domicile with Pier and two-year-old Teo, to Coquitlam to see soon-to-be-three Lexi and those other people she lives with.

I had completely misconceived Bowen Island: I imagined it an enclave for BMW-driving Howe Street types but no, it turns out to be more like Lasqueti Island, where long hair and Patchouli oil are still in vogue. Sarah and her guys live on the side of a rainy mountain slope. On Friday evening a trusty woodstove kept us warm. Teo liked the red fire engine we brought for him and took it to be bed at slumber time. On Saturday morning we all hiked to Dorman Point, soaked up the views across English Bay to UBC and Wreck Beach then we caught the noon ferry.

It is good for us that Lexi loves the outdoors. Her entourage joined her for a perambulation through the big wood across the road. We exchanged pleasantries with squirrels and turned over logs in search of salamanders and rough-skinned newts but had to settle for centipedes and sow bugs instead.

Robert is ordinarily not a big eater but the Pacific Buffet on the ferry back to Vancouver Island was altogether too tempting even for him. He pronounced it a feast to remember.

Marc and Cai made Bob's acquaintance two summers ago, in Cape Breton. Like so many others they fell victim to Bob's charms instantly. On returning from a day and a half-long trip to PEI they greeted us not with 'Hey it's great to see you!' but with a querulous 'Where's Bob!?' So of course they too elbowed their way to the front of the queue for a merry meet-and-greet.

On Tuesday we climbed Mount Wells to look for warblers and ogle the early satinflower extravaganza. Now bear in mind that Nagel is in his 82nd year; nonetheless he was the one with energy to spare for a flurry of show tunes all the way up the hill. Pal Judith returned in the nick of time after several weeks in Cuba; on the last evening she came to have her way with her old friend.

There was just one problem: it all ended too soon. Robert stayed eight days and then it was done. There is consolation. We can comfort ourselves in the knowledge true and certain that, if we're spared, in just a matter of weeks festivities resume on the opposite coast.

Island to Ourselves

How many of my fellow humans would drool at the prospect of spending a winter weekend on a 25-acre island rock boasting just one man-made amenity: a drafty cabin ventilated by woodpecker holes and shared with a fragrant family of minks residing somewhere below the floor? When pal Mary proposed we mark my 64th birthday with a weekend on a tiny uninhabited island I leapt at the chance with at least as much gusto as other folks might contemplate a stretch at a south-sea resort or California vineyard.

We might never have known a thing about the island and its cabin had Mary not been elected to the BC Land Conservancy board and consequently learned that the TLC owns a property, South Winchelsea Island, one of 19 islands in the Ballenas-Winchelsea Archipelago opposite Vancouver Island between Nanaimo and Parksville. South Winchelsea has a cabin that TLC rents out to people whose joie-de-vivre isn't dependent on proximity to a mall, casino or 4-star hotel.

Boatman Lyle ferried us -- and our lode of food, drink, optical gear, warm clothes and bedding -- on the 25-minute run from Schooner Cove to SWI. For me it really was love at first sight. As we approached the southern island group I saw a wisp of rock spotted with patches of Garry oak, arbutus and shore pine. Lyle lingered only long enough to fire up the propane-powered fridge and hot water heater. Then we had SWI to ourselves (excepting the platoons of sea lions and battalions of gulls just off our doorstep). At Winchelsea water comes not from a well but from a cistern storing rainwater collected from the roof. Solar panels power a few dim lights. A boardwalk leads to a facility boasting a more splendid view than I've seen from any other outdoor privy.

We spent most of our daylight hours exploring the island, botanizing and birding, taking pictures, savouring splendid water and mountain vistas in every direction. We found early wildflowers -- sea blush and blue eyed mary -- but were initially foiled in efforts to locate the prickly pear cactus we understood flourishes on SWI. Fortunately Mike found a riot of it on the last morning, just a stone's throw from the cabin door.

Come sundown we ate and drank well, played Hearts, provided our own merriment. With apology to Lennon & McCartney my pals sang me their own special version of 'When I'm 64': Now that you're older, losing your mind -- and your O-ring too...

The island offered a night life too; under a cloudless sky we aimed the spotting scope at Orion, showed Mike giant Betelgeuse and the amazing Trapezium. The cosmos features billions of galaxies with billions of stars in each. We looked for the soft blur of the nearest galactic neighbour: Andromeda, just 2.3 million light-years distant. Contemplating the night sky helps maintain perspective.

The 48 hours passed too quickly. I can think of nothing to gripe about. No guff. My Winchelsea weekend rates a perfect 10. What a way to take the pain out of turning 64.