Spring Hike after last summer’s tornado

I thought I would share my hike along the Benmiller section of the Maitland trail with you.  We hiked this section last spring and it was one of the most beautiful trails we had hiked in a couple of years. Steep hills, rolling sections as well as some lush valleys with low bush and small creeks.  Then came the tornado, I think it was last June. This is the result of one minute or terror and utter distruction. Entire hillsides laid flat, all the trees lined in neat rows, as if a firing squad had executed them. We walked through at least 4 km of this distruction. What was equally amazing is what the Maitland Trail Association has accomplished in the short time they had to restore the trail last fall. Their accomplishment is nothing short of amazing. Whole new sections had to be opened because of the massive piles of tree trunks and roots.  Amazingly, some of the bridges were not touched by the storm.  I had a very uncomfortable feeling walking through some of the more messy sections. It felt as if we had no right to be there because the job was not done yet. I expected the entire hillside to slide into the river below. The return walk was better since the initial shock had worn off. It will be interesting what the greening of spring will accomplish. My feeling is that the signs of the tornado will remain, clearly visible, for many years to come.
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John Lees-Extreme Hiker at 65 (and still living)

John, you have made it to 65 and who’d have ever guessed it, leading the life of thrills and adventure that you do. Over the years your courage, limitless strength, your cunning, your skillful handling of danger, your ability to follow trail blazes, all have combined to make you one of the outstanding lowland hikers in the country (sorry, I meant county). Who shall ever forget your slide up the gully in Meadowlily, or for that matter, the downhill slide on the same trail. Such poise, such courage, such dedication to your chosen sport. Someday fellow hikers will say of him: he knew where he was going, he followed the white blazes without hesitation, he understood the different challenges of up and down, and he always respected his fellow hikers when the need for relief struck him. He was a private man, always seeking out a private spot for that private act that, now and then, visits us all. He knew the importance of a good hat and always respected what lay behind a good long thumb.

We, your lifelong companions, wish you a very happy 65th birthday and we really mean it when we say…. Take a hike!

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Majestic Lake Superior, our summer of sailing

“Come up to Thunder Bay and go sailing with us.” It was the summer of 2009 and that was the invitation from Joy and Rudy Warkentin, our friends up north. Beth had never sailed on Lake  Superior, and I assured her that, with Rudy at the helm, she was going to be in capable hands, and she would have the time of her life. I had sailed with Rudy the year before and we had enjoyed every moment of it. The spectacular northern shoreline is truly something to behold. Traveling close to shore gives one the opportunity to see the land in all of its true glory. Cliffs that rise skyward out of crystal clear water, inviting shore-lines, and protected harbours, make this massive lake a very special place.

The  ‘Arctic Fantasy’ is a 32-foot sailboat that Rudy built over the period of 7 years. It is a boat whose hull is constructed entirely of concrete, making it heavy, rugged and very safe. Over many years of hard labour and loving care, Rudy has created a very beautiful and capable craft. While she may lack some of the modern amenities, she is well equipped with the necessities required for performance and safety. There are no shortcuts available to operate this boat; the crew must know what to do and how to do it competently with basic ‘sheets’, pulleys, and navigation devices. (She is equipped with depth gauge and Radar, a must on this vast body of fresh water)

On the trip out we hugged the shoreline where we were treated to some of the most spectacular scenery imaginable. Cliffs rising hundreds of feet out of the water, scarred by ancient and recent rock-falls. Bald eagles soaring high above the cliffs, coasting lazily on the uprising air currents, and silence that is broken only by the reassuring rhythmic rumbling of the trusty inboard engine. Moving along under sail is only possible when there is suitable wind, the rest of the time you count on a strong, reliable, engine to take you to your planned destination.

Our trip took us to an island that has been lovingly developed into a luxurious, rustic, resort away from the hectic distractions of everyday life in the city.

The harbour is well protected by a snug entrance, making it safe in most storms that can suddenly blow up on Superior.

We tied up, along with three other visitors, and prepared to do what everyone does when they come here, sweat out all the accumulated tensions of our stressed lives in a sauna constructed by the people who know saunas best, the Finns. We had brought our own supply of seasoned wood and were soon stoking the boiler located in the change room of the structure.  The sweating part was comforting and peaceful, what followed is an archaic leftover from a time when men had to prove that they were indestructible. Superior’s waters are deep, clear and c.c.cold. Custom dictates that one is required to smartly burst out of the hot sauna and fearlessly perform a long and enthusiastic run down a very short pier, landing in the icy water. I have never been given a convincing explanation for this form of ancient torture, other than ‘it’s good for you’ and it seems to be a rite of passage. The initial nano-second when you hit the water is quite pleasant until you realize that you have just jumped into really cold, I mean icy cold, water. In a split second you rise to the surface gasping for air realizing that you, and everything that amounts to you, has just shrunk into a mere knot. Only one solution, get back into the comfort and safety of the sauna as quickly as possible. Ahh, it must be good for you.


Long, lazy afternoons, several hearty drinks, and a good book, best describe the atmosphere of this bucolic setting. Even ‘Princess’, the Warkentin’s Siamese cat, took advantage of the safety provided by the bench on the dock.

To avoid being labeled ‘lazy slugs’, Rudy, Beth and I hiked to the top of the island and enjoyed the panoramic view, a view that included the ‘Arctic Fantasy’ snugged up to the pier.

After two days in paradise, we started the engine and slowly and confidently left the safety of our harbour, heading for the next destination, Key Harbour, at the foot of the Friendly Giant.

Superior, while being majestic and beautiful, can also be a very moody and dangerous mistress, as we were soon to find out. Our bearing to the island we had visited was west of Thunder Bay; Key Harbour is to the east of Thunder Bay. The onboard marine radio had warned us of some strong winds from the west, along with traces of severe fog. For now the sky was clear, the air was still, the water flat as a mirror. We set our compass to due east, and expected clear sailing. To reassure myself I turned to the west to see if I could spot the impending fog bank, and was immediately shocked by what loomed in the distance. Out of a clear blue sky and unperturbed water appeared what I can only describe as an avalanche of threatening, heavy, black air. The promised fog bank was rolling upon us with a determination, purpose and speed that spoke of imminent and clear danger. Within minutes the winds in advance of the fog, forced us to drop our sails and tie down everything that was loose on deck. Beth and Joy went below and took care of loose bits and pieces there, while Rudy and I made certain that we would get through this rough spot safely.

The violent rocking of our boat and the turbulent seas surrounding us made certain that Beth would be properly inducted into the ranks of ‘Brave Sailors of Superior’. In other words, she became sea sick. Both Beth and Princess took refuge inside one of the rumpled sleeping bags, while the rest of us hung on for dear life…or so it seemed…

On the radio we heard two disturbing announcements. A sailboat had overturned in the storm and the sailor could not be located. The other emergency concerned a kayaker who sought refuge on a small island, had slipped on the rocks and cracked some ribs. He wanted to be picked up by a coastguard helicopter and was told to………..

After an unsettling hour of chaos the storm  abated and the fog dissipated. Beth lifted her head out of the pail, “is it over?”, she whispered as the colour returned to her smiling face. Arctic Fantasy slipped into Key harbour for a two day stay and some more relaxation.

The trip back to Thunder Bay was relaxing and pleasant. Once more Superior afforded us its majestic, warm and spectacular personality. Our sailing adventure had been a huge success. Even Beth held no grudge for the initiation she received at the hands of this, the greatest of all freshwater lakes, Superior.

Thank you Joy and Rudy.

Camping in the near north-2011

Camping in the near north-2011

For the past fifteen years our dog Shaka has been a constant companion on our annual fall camping trips. She is now an old dog who would rather sleep on her warm cushion in front of the heat duct in the kitchen, than tramp through the northern bush.  However, Beth and I, being her parents, decided that she should come along one more time.  We were thrilled when we saw that she seemed to come alive and actually enjoy the adventure. Here are some memories from our outing, complete with our favourite pup, Shaka.

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Bearly believe it, an adventure set in Churchill, Manitoba

Ptarmigan-winter plumage

The thin blanket of snow under our boots crunched like crushed cellophane as we left the Iceberg Inn, our home-away-from-home.  We cautiously crossed the dimly lit deserted street to have dinner at Gypsy’s, a favourite eating establishment in town.  This was our second day in Churchill, Manitoba.  The day’s excursion in the much publicized tundra buggies had disappointingly brought us face to face with nothing more than a couple of red foxes and a small flock of ptarmigan.  As a Texan tourist had so aptly put it, “damned tundra buggies, I’ve traveled 2500 miles by train and plane, just to see a fox and a couple of pigeons.”

The travel brochures had promised sightings and close encounters with a variety of wildlife, especially the king of all North American mammals, the polar bear.  After all, this is the polar bear capital of the world, and a promise is a promise.

For now the day’s activities were behind us and we were hungry.  We crossed the road, as everyone does up here, with the certain knowledge that the great white bear could suddenly appear from out of nowhere, at any time.  The local, popular advice is, walk with someone who is slower than you, that way you can at least outrun them.  I knew that I was safe in that department, although I felt like a cad for even thinking of leaving my beloved Beth to the wants of a gigantic flesh-eating monster.   Hearts beating a bit faster than normal we finally reached the entrance to the restaurant.  Hearing the door bang shut returned us, for the time being, to feeling safe.  We would deal with the walk home later.

We removed our awkward but cozy northern winter gear (I had purchased a fur-lined Siberian style hat for the occasion) and settled in for a comfort meal of fish and chips and hot coffee.  What a great little place in such a remote setting.  A dining room, the usual selection of photographs of bears, local gifts actually produced in the north, and a well stocked deli section.  It gave this establishment the appearance of a ritzy resort in the Rockies.

Next to us sat a very attentive young father and his 10-year-old future Wayne Gretzky.  They were discussing the evening’s hockey game at the local arena.

The young man leaned over and introduced himself.  “Hi, I’m Vern and this here is my son, you folks enjoying your visit to our town?”

“We are indeed,”  I replied, “except we managed to miss the move of the polar bears onto the ice, and we hope that some time this week we’ll be lucky to see at least one.”

Vern turned out to be a great source of information and lore about this part of the world.  He regaled us with stories of his father’s success in the tourist business, his plans, south of town, for a brand new resort complex, and plenty of scary stories about people getting attacked by bears in and around the town. By the time we finished our dinner, we had won over a good friend for the upcoming four days.  “Tell you what,” Vern offered, “take my truck tomorrow and go out to the dump, you’ll see bears for sure.  I, and the whole town, will be at the ‘Ducks Unlimited‘ banquet at the recreation hall, and your Innkeeper Dick can drive me home when the banquet is over.  The truck is white and it will be running in the front row of the parking lot. Pick it up and have a great time.”

Well, that was an offer too good to pass up—an opportunity to take my lovely wife to the dump, and finally a chance to see some polar bears.

Darkness comes early this far north and at the end of November.  Around seven o’clock the following day we nervously made our way down a deserted, unlit street, across, what seemed like a 60 acre field, and over to the parking lot in front of the recreation hall.  We moved quickly and nervously, knowing that we could most certainly be attacked at any moment.  Half hidden by a white cloud of hot exhaust, a white half-ton Chevy truck was idling and had probably been doing so for the past hour.  For some reason people will not turn off their vehicle’s engine, unless it’s absolutely necessary to do so.  Or so it seems.

Our hearts still pounding, we quickly climbed aboard. The heater had been running and our cab was very hot.

“Safe again Beth,” I said jokingly, “hang on for an adventure, you and I off to the dump in Churchill, cavorting with the great white bear of the north.”  I think she was impressed, and if not impressed, she certainly appeared excited about what lay ahead of us.

The drive out of town was quiet and beautiful. We silently skimmed across a fresh snowfall under a clear sky and a full moon. To the north of us we could see the ragged, blue-green, curtains of the aurora borealis whipping across the vast expanse of the northern sky.   We had the road to ourselves and we were gliding across the top of the world.

The 20 km partially paved road skirts Hudson Bay, passes the airport, the holding compound for delinquent bears, the now retired rocket range, the dump, and a few scattered cottages.  I guess even in a remote place like Churchill people find it necessary to escape the rat-race of town living.

“Let me see if this thing will shift into four-wheel drive on the fly, it might help us when we turn down the unpaved road into the dump,”  I said, talking mostly to myself.  Beth is not very much impressed with my love for all things mechanical.  I pulled the floor shifter forward and was indeed in four-wheel drive.  “Now that I know it works, I’ll just return to normal two-wheel drive until we get to the turn-off.”

That was to be the last statement of absolute certainty to come out of my mouth for some time.  From here on the mysterious forces of the far north took over our destiny.  I tried to shift out of four-wheel drive and into two-wheel drive on the fly, but only managed to grind the gears with a horribly destructive sound.  “I will have to stop this thing and make the change,” I said, trying to maintain a calm and rational voice so as not to show the panic that was suddenly welling up inside of me.  “No need to worry, I can, after all, drive this thing in four-wheel drive all day, it won’t hurt the truck.”  I know that it won’t hurt the truck, but I do want to prove to myself and to Beth that I can do this…I am a man and, I know something about cars.  “Only one thing left to do, I will pull over, shut off the engine, disengage four-wheel drive, restart the engine and Bob’s your uncle.”

Well–I did–and it did not.  No, it would not start.  I tried everything in my repertoire of possible solutions; it  just went ‘click’ as the lights momentarily dipped lower.  This truck is powered by propane, perhaps there is a switch somewhere that one must activate, perhaps a button to push, perhaps two at a time.  Why is there no light in this cab?  I just pulled the right radio knob off, how stupid is that?  Could it be that panic is robbing me of my mechanical know-how?  “Beth, where are we?” I asked, mainly to change the topic and to give the appearance of being in control and calm.

“I think we are about half a kilometer from the dump, and we have just passed the airport, and I am beginning to panic—my door is ajar will not close, the heater motor is screeching, you don’t seem to know what to do or where we are, there is no traffic in sight, and we are within a bear’s smelling distance of the dump.  Nobody will look for us for at least four hours, they’re all at the stupid ‘Unlimited Ducks’ thing, and by the time they do look for us we’ll be either frozen or eaten.”  That was the most she had spoken all night and, she seemed to be as scared as I was.

“Don’t worry” I said, giving the appearance of supreme confidence, “I know how to get somebody’s attention, I know the distress signal…surely there must be people at the airport nearby–just over the ridge–hidden just over the ridge.”  I started with the international distress signal, three of anything will do the trick, three light flashes, three horn beeps, three screams…”is anybody listening?”

With all of this commotion coming from our truck I was actually beginning to worry that I might be attracting the wrong kind of attention.  What if the bears at the dump thought that we were an interesting sort of flashing food conveyance, or someone wanting to compete for their stinking garbage?  What if they made their way over here to investigate…Beth’s door was still slightly ajar and would not close, a bear could easily insert one of those four-inch claws and rip the door wide open. Earlier that day we had seen the results of an SUV ripped to pieces and the windshield smashed by a polar bear who wanted to get at a scientist’s lunch.  Luckily he had left the vehicle and gone into a home nearby.  Our truck would be easy prey.

After about half an hour sitting idle in this tin can, our windows were beginning to freeze up from our hot breaths, and we were left with no view out.  Earlier on we decided not to run the screeching heater for fear of gaining the attention of hungry bears that must surely be closing in on us for a closer look.  The outside temperature was at least -15° C, it was getting cold in here—and still not a single soul on the road.

By now we had both lost all sense of humor and an eerie quiet had come over us.  In situations like this it was best to stay calm and rational, not to leave the safety of the vehicle, and hope that help is just around the corner.  “I am getting out to better see what is around us and perhaps I can get help.”  I said without any real conviction.

“Oh no you don’t!” Beth screamed at me. “You get your ass in here and you stay in here with me, and if they come and get us…they’ll find the two of us!”  I was not about to argue with her solid reasoning, and so we settled in for the long wait.

Suddenly, after what must have been a full hour of quiet terror and absolute resignation to our inevitable demise, lights appeared over the slight hill behind us.  Someone was coming from town.  I jumped out of the truck, stood in the middle of the road, and waved my arms like a crazy man.  All of my fear of bears gone…stop that vehicle!…was my only thought.

We were snatched from the claws and teeth of certain death, and safe in the comfort of our rescuer’s truck. He introduced himself with an East European accent as Boris, and told us that he had moved to Churchill many years ago, and he was on his daily trip along the coast trail.  So here we sat, trying hard to hide our trembling. A cosy foursome consisting of Boris, his snarling German shepherd, Beth and myself, all on the truck’s bench seat, heading back to town and to the ‘Ducks Unlimited’ banquet.

Politely and patiently listening to my rantings, Vern was terribly apologetic about his truck and offered it to us for the next day.  We agreed, but secretly we both knew that one outing in Vern’s truck was enough for this trip, and we thanked him for his very generous offer.  We returned to the Iceberg Inn and sat up until two in the morning giggling, laughing, speculating ‘what if’ scenarios;  all the while thanking our lucky stars that we had not actually reached the dump, turned off the key and watched the cute polar bears.  We were told that there had been eight bears sighted at the dump that evening.  Hearing that, I broke out in a cold sweat and thanked the friendly spirits of the north for our safe deliverance.  We both agreed that we could not have survived a visit to the dump.

When I paid Vern a visit at his garage the next day, he said exactly what I expected him to say.  “I don’t know what you did Fred, but I went out after the banquet, got into the truck, turned the key, and started it.”

“Thanks Vern, I really did not need to hear that.”

Next time we go to the dump in Churchill we’ll tell the bears that they lost out on a great feast that night long ago.