Tag: canada

a non-camper’s guide to camping

My friends and I traipsed along a wooded path. Pine trees towered above our heads, and their needles and cones formed a blanket beneath our feet. Beams of sunlight darted through the sparse canopy, warming the air that was still cool even in June. Scrubbier greenery lined the path, and a bunny scampered away at the sound of our footfalls.

We reached the end of the path and surveyed the farthest campsites from the parking lot, then doubled back, favoring instead one of the first ones we had looked at. This one was bordered by a slight embankment that led to a cheerfully babbling brook down. Its gentle gurgling could have been recorded for a sleep sounds app.

This would be our home for the evening. “Isn’t it beautiful?” my friends asked me.

our home for the evening

I couldn’t deny that. But they were missing the point.

I didn’t object to being out in the woods and enjoying nature. I didn’t object to sitting around a campfire drinking wine. The part of camping that I dreaded was the part where you have to sleep on the cold, hard ground.

Let me back up. As the title of this blog (and my profile) might suggest, I am not a camper.

Don’t get me wrong, I have camped. When I was a small kid, my parents would take me tent camping in the forests of northern New Jersey (yes, the Garden State really does have forests, cue the Jersey jokes). Campfires, roasted marshmallows on sticks, ghost stories, all the fun childhood camping stereotypes.

When I was an older kid, we lived in Kentucky, and my mom declared herself too old to sleep on the ground (adult me commends my mom’s stand here), so my dad bought a crappy used tent camper. He spray-painted it forest green and towed it behind his Chevy Astro minivan on our way to campsites around the Bluegrass State. The beds in the tent camper made this a slight step up from camping in a tent, but still captured the essentials of the experience.

In college, I camped multiple times in the high desert of central-to-northern Arizona. My roommate and I bought a cheap tent at Walmart, which we may have used a couple of times. Other times, I slept in my car. Camping in college was less about the experience of camping and more about underage drinking far away from any authorities.

These college trips were my only experiences camping as “an adult.” I have some fond memories, like sitting around campfires while guys crooned ‘90s alternative songs to their guitars. (To this day, “Plush” by STP, “Elderly Woman Behind a Counter,” by Pearl Jam, and “Losing my Religion” by REM never fail to evoke these times.)

But I also have memories of freezing on the ground during cold desert nights, unable to get comfortable on the rocky ground despite being drunk enough that passing out should have been a cinch.

Like my mother before me, my problem with camping was always singular: sleeping.

In my college days, I didn’t particularly have a problem with insomnia. But I have since my mid-to-late 20s, which happened to coincide with the period in my life where I started making some money and got introduced to a nicer class of hotel than a Holiday Inn, by virtue of traveling domestically and internationally for work.

Once you’ve stayed in a virtual palace like the Ritz-Carlton in Moscow, your standards start to shift.

Once I recognized that I could now afford a 3-star hotel with clean, freshly ironed white sheets and comfortable pillows, the appeal of camping disappeared for me.

In short, this was the period in my life when my tastes started getting bougie.

Fast-forward around 15 years. I am in Jasper National Park, Alberta, Canada with two camping-enthusiast friends, and I have agreed to give camping a fresh try.

Partly, this was because my friends promised me that I would get photo opportunities that would be impossible to get otherwise (this did not pan out). Partly, it was because I had recognized during previous trips to the wilderness that there are remote corners of the world that are more accessible if you’re willing to camp a night or two. And partly, it was because it had been 20 years since I’d last camped, which made it almost like a new experience. I rarely turn down a new experience.

Perhaps with better gear, because we were actual adults now, it would be more comfortable.

Still, the enthusiasm with which my friends hyped the event drew my skepticism. “You’re going to love it!” they insisted. “Maybe we’ll even spend more than one night!”

The first thing I learned about camping was that it had gotten much more complicated in the last 20 years. There’s a whole culture around it, with specialized vernacular and oh-so-much gear.

The night before we departed for Jasper, my friend took out two tubs full of camping gear and soon the living room of our AirBnB in Canmore looked like we had robbed an REI. All the camping doo-dads, wee-hookies, and thingamabobs—only some of whose functions I understood— generated a great deal of enthusiastic discussion.

They called my attention to one set of items in particular: sleeping pads. These will make all the difference for being able to get a good night’s sleep, they assured me. I had to admit, it sounded more promising than sleeping with nothing but a thin nylon tent and sleeping bag separating me from the ground.

The next 24 hours introduced me to even more new terminology.

When camping, apparently water can come in multiple colors, at minimum grey and black, and perhaps purple and orange as well for all I know. The distinction between these was apparently very important to bear attack prevention.

The spot we chose was officially designated a “walk in” spot, vice a “car camping” spot, but my friends gleefully said it may has well have been a car camping spot. (Because we didn’t have to walk far.) The food locker (again, because of bears) was right by the site as well.

It was early afternoon when we selected our campsite. Before we could enjoy the rest of our day, we had to pitch the tents to claim our spot. Pitching the two tents was, with apologies to my camping friends, an ordeal.

These nylon palaces had to be erected with great precision, with a long series of sticks that had to be assembled and bent just so, staked into the ground, clipped into place, and then there were rain flaps that also had to be clipped into place and fastened, and even when all that was done the whole thing looked a little lopsided and the doors didn’t seem to line up where they were supposed to.

And even then, we had only built our shelters, but not our beds. Putting out the sleeping bags and sleeping pads would have to wait until later, because… theft I guess?

A nice thing about hotels and AirBnBs? Your shelter for the night is already arranged when you arrive. You do not have to spend an hour building it before you can go on with your day. ‘Nuf said.

After this we ventured up to Miette Hot Springs, which I have to say was skippable. I love hot springs in almost all their forms, but this one had all the ambiance of a public pool that just happened to be hot—both in terms of the aesthetics and the behavior of its guests. A peaceful spa this was not.

But I digress.

On the way back to the campsite, we ran into three bears (and it has just now occurred to me that they may well have been Papa Bear, Momma Bear, and Baby Bear), demonstrating that I really did need to pay attention to all these rules about water color.

Papa Bear

Mama Bear and Baby Bear

Back at the campsite, we had to finish the construction of our sleeping quarters by dragging the sleeping pads and sleeping bags into the tents. (Making the beds: another thing that is already taken care of in a hotel or AirBnB.)

The rest of the evening was nice enough. We ate food from the cooler that really did not amount to a proper meal but sufficed.

We built a fire in a poorly constructed fire pit that was sunk a little too deep into the ground to properly oxygenate. But this was the one challenge of camping that I was entirely up for, as I do love a campfire. And we drank wine around our little gimpy fire, which was really the one part of camping that I was looking forward to.

Then came the part I was dreading. Sleeping.

Though it was June, it was still chilly in the Canadian Rockies. When it was sunny during the day, we could shed our layers down to a long-sleeve t-shirt. But as the sun went down, it got cool then cold. Even with the campfire weakly blazing, I had on my Paka hoodie, mid-weight Patagonia winter coat, cashmere hat, and gloves.

In the tent, under my sleeping bag, I still struggled to warm up. My SmartWool socks were doing nothing to warm my toes, and (upon my friends’ advice) I had taken off my coat to serve as a poor facsimile of a pillow.

I couldn’t get warm, and I couldn’t get comfortable. All night I shivered, burying my head under the sleeping bag. And the sleeping pad that my friends had so touted did not solve the fundamental challenge of sleeping on a hard, cold ground.

I must have slept some. At least my FitBit told me I did. But it was not a happy sleep.

I do get the appeal. I awoke in the morning in a beautiful place. I inhaled the scent of pine needles and the leftover musk of campfire smoke. The chirps of birds and the gurgle of the brook greeted me good morning.

But in my book, no amount of pleasant outdoorsy things can compensate for a good night’s sleep.

Verdict? Still not a camper.

2024-09-22
photoessay: the colorful lakes of the canadian rockies

A big part of visiting the Canadian Rockies parks of Banff, Jasper, and Yoho is exploring their various lakes, famed for the array of colors you’ll find among their sundry waters. Lakes in the Rockies come from glacial melt. Glaciers erode rocks, which turn into finely ground particles that suspend in the lake water. The rocky sediments in the water reflect the sunlight, making the water appear striking shades of aqua, turquoise, blue, and green.

Most famous of these is Lake Louise. The Lonely Planet lauds its beauty: “there ought to be a rule in life that no one should depart this mortal coil without first visiting Lake Louise” (p. 102). Compared to the typical iconic shots of the lake, this is taken from the opposite shore, coming the Plain of Six Glaciers. We accessed this side of the lake by first hiking up the Lake Agnes trail, stopping for a bit of tea and scones at the Lake Agnes Tea House, and descending past the Beehives to the glacial plain. Here in the distance, you can see the famous Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise, originally constructed in the 1890s.

Lake Louise, seen across the glacial plain

For a slightly different, but no less beautiful hue, Yoho National Park boasts Emerald Lake. Red canoes dot the water, making for a picturesque contrast with the jade waters. We circumnavigated Emerald Lake on our first day in Canada. It was a easy, flat walk, perfect for adjusting to the elevation of 4000-5000 feet.

Emerald Lake, with red canoes

Peyto Lake is an even purer shade of azure. It can be reached by a short but steep hike up from the Icefields Parkway, which links Banff and Jasper National Parks.

Peyto Lake

Bow Lake doesn’t require a hike at all, just a quick stop on the Icefields Parkway. Here it is in the morning light, serving as an almost perfect mirror for Crowfoot Mountain and Bow Peak.

Bow Lake, a smooth mirror

We hiked around Lake Edith in Jasper National Park early one morning. Here it is reflecting three different hues: the fluffy clouds of the sky, the deep blue of the mountains, and the evergreen of the pines.

Lake Edith, reflecting sky, mountains, and trees

Early 20^th century explorer Mary Schaffer, the first white woman to ever see Lake Maligne, declared it, “the finest view…in the Rockies.” We found it a little bit of a letdown after that kind of advertising, perhaps only because its waters were a bit more muted that day.

Maligne Lake

But waters need not always be blue to have a sort of feral beauty. Here is shallow Lake Jasper, its muddy bed tossed by strong winds before a coming storm.

Jasper Lake, tossed by an approaching storm

2024-09-08
chasing wildlife through the canadian rockies

My friends and I were driving south down Rt 16 toward Jasper. I was sitting in the driver’s side backseat, peering into the distance toward the Athabasca River, looking for wildlife drinking by the riverside.

Nearer to the road, I glimpsed pale shapes moving. They were whitish, or perhaps tan or grey. My brain frantically tried to identify the shapes as we sped closer. Were they mountain goats or bighorn sheep? No. Dogs? No.

As our car drew almost even with them, I looked one directly in the eyes. It was a wolf.

They roamed in a pack of four, heading from the river back towards the mountains.

Our car sped past, and the moment was over. The whole encounter lasted perhaps a couple of seconds, but I will remember it for the rest of my life.

“Those were motherfucking wolves!” We were shouting in the car. “Holy shit!”

We were still moving quickly down a busy highway, and there was nowhere to pull off. But as soon as we could, the driver whipped the car around and returned the way we’d come, hoping to find the pack of wolves again.

It was a fruitless hunt. By the time we made it back, the wolves had already evaporated into their elusive mountain abodes.

Still, the fact that there was no question that we would turn the car around and try to find those wolves again was a friendship-affirming moment, a reminder that I had found my tribe in life.

I was in Canada for a friend’s 40^th birthday. She had decided to spend the whole month of June hiking, camping, and photographing her way through the Canadian Rockies national parks of Banff, Jasper, Yoho, and Kootenay, which span Alberta and British Columbia. I flew from DC to Calgary with another friend to join her for a week toward the end of the month, when she already had a good sense of bearings.

In theory, we were there to hike and see all the sights—the mountains, the lakes, the rivers, the waterfalls. As the wolf story highlights, extraordinary as all of those things were, the wildlife really excited us the most.

On the first day, we went to Yoho National Park and, among other things, hiked around Emerald Lake, with its vibrant waters dotted with red canoes and rimmed by mountains that were still snow-covered in June.

Emerald Lake

By the end of the day, we were disappointed to have seen no wildlife, so the birthday girl (by this time attuned to the movements of the local creatures) drove out toward Lake Minnewanka, where got our first glimpse of elk, grazing in the middle of a field dotted with yellow flowers.

elk near Lake Minnewanka

On day 2, we headed north to Jasper National Park. Less touristed than the more southern parks, Jasper was by far the most fruitful for wildlife viewing. As we drove out of the town of Jasper, we encountered mountain goats on the side of the road. At one point I sighted this guy on top of a rocky crag and cried, “Goat, goat, goat!” to get my friend to pull over for photos.

mountain goat near Jasper, Alberta

That night, when driving back to our campsite near Miette, we saw three black bears, including one tiny little baby foraging by the roadside. (Warning: Photos taken from the safety of a vehicle. Bears are dangerous, do not try to take photos like this if you are in the open.)

black bear near Miette, Alberta

The next day, it was a small herd of bighorn sheep, wading through some tall grasses outside of Jasper and snacking.

bighorn sheep near Jasper, Alberta

Later some more goats, including this little baby, as we drove south down the Icefields Parkway back toward Banff.

a baby and adult mountain goat on Icefields Parkway, Alberta

The next two days were disappointing, wildlife-wise (and only wildlife-wise… an entire post on Lake Louise is coming.) So the last day of our trip, we drove out to Kootenay National Park, in hopes of catching some last glimpses of creatures… maybe a moose? Or a grizzly? Alas, we drove for hours and only managed to see a few more goats.

a baby and adult mountain goat in Kootenay National Park, British Columbia

There were plenty of things we could have done with our last day. Surrounded by so many natural wonders, what was it that drew us to seek out the wildlife above all else? Why do animals so captivate us?

One could say it’s because we’re city gals, unaccustomed to seeing wildlife on the daily. Maybe people who live out in the wilderness no longer get excited when they see an elk or a bear.

I’m not sure about that explanation. My neighborhood is crawling with squirrels and chipmunks and I suppose they don’t excite me too much. But I also have a family of rabbits that lives in the vicinity of my building and I never fail to get excited when I see them.

Certainly rarity breeds fascination. No matter where you live, encounters with wolves are pretty fucking rare. And if you live in the suburbs of Washington DC, you’re very unlikely to encounter a mountain goat or a bighorn sheep. Still, I sometimes see deer when I’m hiking locally, or visiting friends who live in the country, and I still loved seeing these guys.

a doe and fawn in Jasper National Park, Alberta

Does the fascination come from the danger? The wolves, bears, and even moose are dangerous and engender a healthy sense of fear, even when you’re safely in your vehicle as we were. Is seeking out wild creatures then a form of thrill-seeking, the same as riding a roller-coaster?

Perhaps all of these provide a partial explanation, and they certainly are not mutually exclusive.

I think it’s deeper than that though. I think we seek out our wild animal brethren not because they are exotic, but out of recognition of distant kinship. We dearly love and have even co-evolved with our domesticated pets.

But we are not so distant on the tree of life from our mammalian kin who still roam free in the world’s jungles, forests, plains, savannas, and deserts. It was not so long ago that our ancestors lived among them, hunting prey and avoiding predators as a matter of life and death.

I love photographing wild creatures with my 100-400mm telephoto lens because it lets me get shots like this one.

a lone bighorn sheep near Jasper, Alberta

Look at this guy. He knows things. Maybe not the things that you and I know. Who knows what wisdom is of value to a sheep? But he is certainly not some dumb beast. He is alive and canny and as interested in me as I am in him.

When we see these guys across a field and they see us, we feel the excitement that we feel in spotting an old friend (or enemy) we haven’t seen in ages across a crowded room. “Oh hey there, fancy meeting you here. It’s been a while.”

Maybe for some of us, those of us who live most distant from the wild, it’s been longer than for those of you who live in cabins in the woods. But I still feel a thrill of kinship when I see my local bunnies.

That is why, as awe-inspiring as mountains and waterfalls are, there is some special excitement to seeking out wild creatures. At least for me. And for my well-chosen friends.

2024-09-01
3 reasons to travel while grieving
I’ve been absent here for a while. And it’s not because I haven’t traveled. I spent a week in Banff, Canada and its environs at the end of June, a trip I hope to write about in coming weeks. I just haven’t been up to writing.

On June 5, in the middle of the night, my good boy Felix passed away in his sleep.

Felix

He was about 13 and had started showing his age the previous fall. We had a cool spring here in Washington, DC, but as the weather started warming up, he visibly struggled to walk, plopping down and panting even on a short walk. A few times I had to carry him part of the way home (and he wasn’t light).

Exercise intolerance aside, he was still hanging in and showing joy in life until the last week, when after one bad night, he was diagnosed with pulmonary hypertension. He declined rapidly, ate up until his final day (he did love to eat), and passed away at a time of his own choosing.

This post isn’t about Felix’s death, though, not really. It’s about healing when a beloved someone passes, and how travel can be a vital part of that healing process. I’m focused on pets here because that’s most recent to me, but I think the lessons here could equally apply to humans as well.

I’ve been through a lot of death in my life, both human and animal. All of my grandparents and my dad are gone. We had three cats when I was a kid, and as an adult, I’ve had three pets of my own, all overlapping, for the last 18 years.

First was Amber, who passed away in 2019 at 12 years old, just a few months after my dad had passed.

Amber

Second was Frankie, who just passed away last year at 13 years old.¹

Frankie

Both cats had been with me since kittenhood.

I rescued Felix in 2017 after Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico, when he was already around 6 years old. He was probably around 13 when he died in June, leaving me petless for the first time since grad school.

After each of my pets died, I traveled. Here are the three ways that I think it helped:

Getting away from home gets you away from the ghosts

Within two weeks of Amber’s passing, I was in Miami Beach, staying with a friend who was living in one of those iconic high rises with views of aqua waters.

Miami Beach

I needed to be anywhere but at home, where Amber’s ghost still roamed the halls, and her fur still clung to the sheets.

Pets imprint themselves upon your life in infinite ways. After they are gone, they linger on their favorite chairs, rugs, and corners of the bed. You even miss their even their most annoying habits. Frankie’s howling at 5 am for someone to wake up and pay attention to him. Felix barking like mad every time the buzzer rang for a delivery. (Amber had no annoying habits, she was an angel.)

You even miss the pet hair, which you will still find in surprising places months and years later, a physical reminder that this beloved little creature really lived and shared your space.

Felix shed a lot, and now that he’s gone my condo is much cleaner. No more piles of black and grey hair collecting in the corners of rooms. I no longer trip over stuffed toys all over the living room. The new cleanliness feels like emptiness, and I don’t welcome it.

The ghosts of dogs are are more mobile than cats because in life they travel so many more places with you. Yes, Felix was on the couch, on the bed, greeting me at the door when I got home, begging for food in the kitchen, digging through his massive basket of stuffed toys. But he was also in the backseat of my car, rolling on the patch of grass in front of my condo building, frolicking on my favorite local hiking trails.

Felix on a hike

When he passed, I wanted to be anywhere but home. I almost got in the car and drove three hours to the ocean. I wanted to be free of his memory, as if I could actually forget my grief no matter where I was. Still, getting away from the places where his ghost lived offered the promise of relief from pain at a time when memory felt unbearable.

Getting away from normal responsibilities gives you mental space to grieve

In Miami Beach, I spent a few days there with my friend, exploring the beaches, eating Cuban food, and spending a memorable day on a sailboat, sunbathing to the rhythms of yacht rock.

Afterwards, I relocated solo to the Breezes Resort on Cable Beach, west of Nassau, Bahamas. For the first few days I was there, I did nothing. That is to say, I woke up in the morning, brought my Kindle out to the beach, and claimed a hammock under a palm-thatched roof. I laid in the hammock and read for hours on end, gently rocking back and forth in the hammock. Gazing out at the aqua waters. Occasionally grabbing a drink.

my hammock in the Bahamas

I’m typically a busy traveler. If I’ve taken the effort to get somewhere, I don’t like to waste time in the hotel, sleeping in, or walled off in some resort where I only interact with other American tourists. I try to cram in as much local sights, food, experiences, shopping, and culture as possible.

For the first few days in the Bahamas, I did none of that. I told myself I had nothing that I needed to do. No chores, no responsibilities, no obligation to do anything. And those days of utter, blissful inaction helped. My brain, heart, and soul had time to process what they needed to process. When I got home, I hurt less, and was able to—if not move on—at least function like a human again.

I already had the trip to Banff booked before Felix passed. One of my close friends had decided a year before that she intended to spend the full month of her 40^th birthday in Banff. She rented a place and invited friends and family visit for however much time they could. Another friend and I had planned for a week.

The trip started two weeks to the day after he died. In the intervening time, I actually had to pull myself together for important things like job interviews, which felt like a prodigious act of valor. In between moments of semi-human-functioning, I snuggled Felix’s stuffed toys and cried.

My friends and I settled on seating arrangements in the Subaru early on. The birthday girl was driving, as it was her car. The other friend was prone to carsickness, so she took shotgun. I willingly took the backseat, where I was a little isolated from the conversation in the front seat, chiming in when I felt like it, singing along to songs that moved me.

But mostly I was looking out the window, taking in the scenery and searching for wildlife, while swimming in deep pools of grief.

For the preceding two weeks, I hadn’t really let myself remember everything that had happened the day Felix died. Waking up in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom, stepping in poo, going to check on him, finding him cold, debating if he was really dead or not, stroking his dead body to comfort him just in case, moving his stiff corpse, waiting sleeplessly till morning when I could call someone, wrapping him up in a blanket, carrying his stiff body down three flights of steps, stuffing him into the car, and carrying him into the vet’s.

Having a pet die at home means confronting the physical realities of a dead body in ways that you don’t have to when you put them to sleep at the vet’s. There were a thousand tiny little visceral details that I took in stride at the time out of necessity, but may have traumatized me more than I realized.

I relived them all, looking out the window of my friend’s Subaru, simultaneously heartbroken and awe-struck by the mountains, streams, and lakes. At times, a stray tear trickled down my face, and I hoped I wiped it away before my friends saw it.

I’m sure I wasn’t the best travel companion on that trip. I was quiet, withdrawn, and probably not my most fun. I certainly participated very little in planning our days, and I was immensely grateful that I didn’t have to. The last night I got drunk and finally spilled my guts about how much I was struggling and how I’d been spending my time in the backseat.

Adventures remind you that you still have a lot to live for

I didn’t come home feeling rejuvenated after Banff the same way I did after the Bahamas. Here I am, almost three months later, just getting to the point where I feel like I can post again. Other things have happened in the interim too, mostly work bullshit that felt like the universe was repeatedly kicking me while I was down. I’ve been trying to give myself grace to recover, all the while feeling like “he was a dog, not a human, I shouldn’t be grieving this hard.” Apparently, that’s a common feeling when a pet dies.

Still, Banff was awesome in the original “awe-inspiring” sense of the word. Not just Banff, but Jasper and Yoho National Parks too. So many waterfalls, lakes, mountains, not to mention all the creatures! We saw black bear, mountain goats, bighorn sheep, elk, deer, and even—for a fleetingly wonderful instant (and from the safety of the car)—a pack of wolves. No amount of grief could subsume the wonder of that moment. More on the trip to follow, but here’s just a taste.

Lake Edith, in Jasper National Park, Alberta, Canada

By the last couple of days of my trip to the Bahamas, I finally felt capable of venturing off the resort. I snorkeled with some sharks and viewed the island where Captain Jack Sparrow gets marooned in Pirates of the Caribbean. I took a little jaunt around Nassau on a non-cruise-ship day, and delighted in the Pirates of Nassau Museum (especially the tales of lady pirates!).

Even though these were small excursions, I returned to the white sand of Cable Beach afterwards and was overcome with gratitude that I’m fortunate enough to be able to see so many of the world’s beautiful places. People will die, pets will die, but I want to keep going until I can see as much of the world as I can.
1. Frankie features shockingly little in this story of grief. He was indeed the little misfit of the family. Where Amber was a gentle soul, and Felix was a charmer, Frankie was, in my mom’s words “a little off.” It was less than a month after his death that I went to Dominica. But I don’t really recall being in mourning still then. Maybe I loved my misfit middle child a little less. Maybe I had just made my peace with his passing before it came. Poor Frankie. ↩︎
2024-08-29
wandering vancouver

“It’s the perfect drink for a hot day like this,” said the server at the Fairmont Waterfront of the Harborside Spritz, helping me decide which cocktail to order. We both laughed when I observed, “I love that this is considered a hot day in Vancouver.” The entire day had been sunny while barely topping 70 degrees.

a harborside spritz at the Fairmont Waterfront

It was mid-July, and I was less than 24 hours from embarking on a 7-day northbound Alaska cruise departing out of Vancouver—a bucket list item for my mother, who had just turned 70 the day before. I arrived on Wednesday night on a direct evening flight from Dulles to Vancouver and had the better part of a day to kill before my mother arrived Thursday afternoon.

With a 3-hour time change, I awoke early, and did what I always do in a new city: I walked. A lot. I took some pictures. I walked some more.

My starting place was the Fairmont Waterfront Hotel, which was located just across the street from Canada Place, a convention center that doubles as the cruise ship terminal. I picked up my go-to Starbucks order (latte with almond milk) and started working my way west along the waterfront.

The north shore of the peninsula on which downtown Vancouver is situated is lined with running trails and dotted with seaplanes and marinas. I squinted into the glare of the morning sun off the crystalline waters of Vancouver Harbor and watched the seaplanes take off and land for a while, trying to capture the perfect shot. I did not succeed. Buggers move fast.

a seaplane on vancouver harbor in the early morning light

a marina on vancouver harbor

stanley park

Stanley Park occupies a 400-hectare Brazil-shaped spit of land, awkwardly sticking out the end of the peninsula. Given more time, I would have explored much more of this urban forest. Even as it was, I spent several hours of my morning photographing pondside cattails, bees on flowers, and a blue heron feeding.

a cattail in Stanley Park

a blue heron feeds in Stanley Park

flora and fauna of Stanley Park

Rather than delving deeper into Stanley Park, I looped around to the south side of the peninsula and walked along the seawall and beaches that line English Bay. All the time my eyes were cast towards the bridges that crossed over the mainland, and more importantly, Granville Island, which was one of my must-visit destinations in Vancouver. How do I get to those bridges, I wondered.

granville island

I pulled out my phone had one of those rare moments of travel kismet—ferries! Of course in a maritime city like this there would be ferries. And just my luck, there was a ferry stop located just a few hundred feet away.

Perhaps I had not thought of ferries because, unlike Seattle’s massive ferryboats, Vancouver’s are adorably tiny. The False Creek Ferries, of which I became a patron that day, look like the little toy boats you give toddlers to play with in the bathtub. I do not say this to disparage—they were cute, convenient, and efficient.

No more than 20 min after I discovered the existence of the ferries, I found myself on Granville Island. This is precisely the type of place I’m drawn to everywhere I go. Like Pike’s Place in Seattle, Eastern Market in DC, Reading Terminal Market in Philly, or Spitalfields Market in London, it’s a place where raw fish, art, artisanal chocolates, jewelry, cured meats, and fresh cut flowers are all sold side-by-side with no apparent contradiction. I can and have wandered these sorts of places for hours, wanting to buy everything but ultimately buying little to nothing, overwhelmed by choice.

In this case, I had lunch at a little German place and bought my mom some birthday chocolates then ventured back to the False Creek ferry terminal. I took the scenic route, all the way to the other side of the narrow inlet that bisects Vancouver, and disembarked at the Plaza of Nations.

From here I meandered back through Chinatown (which did not have terribly authentic vibes, though I’m sure it must have been a real Chinatown at one time), and the Gaslight District, where I would have liked to spend more time perusing the shops, restaurants, and bars. But by this point I had been walking for at least 7 hours, and my mother was supposed to be arriving sometime soon (after several flight delays).

I sat in the outside patio of the bar, I ordered my Harborside Spritz, and I rested my aching legs.

That night I treated my mom to a seafood feast at Riley’s Fish and Steak. All I had really wanted for my mother’s birthday was a fancy seafood restaurant (but not so fancy that the portions were pretentiously small), with a view of the water that we have to walk too far to. We ordered The Deluxe seafood tower, plus an add-on of scallops, a side of brussels sprouts, and a bottle of white. For my seafood-, wine-, and water-loving but unpretentious mother, Riley’s checked all of the blocks except the view of the water.

the deluxe seafood platter

Believe it or not, this was actually my first time in Canada. I’m starting to get why all the Americans in a Handmaid’s Tale who managed to get out fled to Canada (geography aside). I found Vancouver to be a very picturesque, livable city, with lots of nature and greenery inside the city, lots of biking and running paths, seemingly fun neighborhoods like the Gaslight District. And did I mention that locals consider 70 degrees to be a “hot” day? Vancouver, you are on my list of cities to flee to if the US turns into Gilead. O Canada!

the sun sets over vancouver harbor

Up next: about that Alaskan Cruise!

2023-10-22