Who says it doesn't snow in Vancouver?

December 1st was iconically Canadian here in Vancouver. I woke up to a clichéd winter wonderland. Snowflakes the size of dryer sheets fell from above. The backyard, which was mowed the day prior and still had the faint smell of fresh grass trimmings, was a blanket of thick, white, wet snow.

I was elated!
Winter!

My other local Ontarian import friends were not as amused.

"I didn't sign up for this!" said one.
"This is Vancouver, not the Yukon," said another.
"I guess I'm going to have to by boots now," pouted yet another friend.

Vancouverites like to brag about their "tropical climate". It is, of course, not tropical at all. It is Canada, after all. And although the rainfall is certainly more than in Ontario, Vancouver does and will get its fair share of winter.

Still, the general population is in denial about this. I've stumbled upon a few of their widespread tactics for convincing Ontarian imports, such as myself, that Vancouver is "coldless". I can debunk most of these myths almost immediately:

1. Most apartments, condos, and homes have single-paned windows with no screens.
This feature was nice in the summer to coerce a nice cross-breeze on warm days, but in the winter it is the source of perpetually cold digits. The sub-zero wind sneaks underneath my back door and through the cracks in my bedroom window to ensure that every night is fraught with the unmistakeable feeling of being outdoors. I try to convince myself that this experience will make me agood winter camper.

2. Landlords do not turn on the heat until they see snow.
Although my landlord kindly turned on the heat for a few moments in December, it has been otherwise chilly in my apartment since September, when the temperature dipped below 10 degrees.
"How is the heat in the apartment." my landlord has asked me a number of times in passing.
"well, actually..." I start ... "It's kind of chilly."
"Oh," she says in seeming recognition. And the heat is never turned up.
Lucky for me, the snowfall this week propelled my landlord to rethink her no-heat policy and she gave us a blast during the snow storm.

3. People have palm trees on their front lawns.
Especially the Ricky Richersons. You don't have to do a lot of convincing about tropical climates with three big palms in your garden and a red steel roof reminiscient of Hollywood California homes. Then again, under 10cm of snow, those palms look a bit ridiculous and the joke, really, is on the poor sap who planted them. Looks like they'll need a new crop for next year.


4. Shoe stores are still selling sandals.
Everyone in Vancouver wheres sandals for as long as possible. from March through November. All sandals all the time. I am, admittedly, one of these freaks. It's like, if you're wearing sandals, you *must* be warm. Only this past weekend, when the snow came, did I see one local shoe store remove its sandals from the front wndow and replace them with rubber boots. Another marked them down by 50%. Still, after the snow melted yesterday and the temperature rose again to 12 degrees, the city was laden with open-toes once again. It's quite a phenomenon.

5. People use umbrellas in the rain vs. toques
Saturday's snow blizzard saw me out on the streets running my Saturday 10k in a toque, gloves, and proper layers. Most of the people I passed, however, had less in the way of head gear and more in the way of rain gear. Snowflakes bounced off of umbrellas everywhere. How odd, I thought. As I continued to run. "Are they trying to convince themselves this isn't snow?"
Of course, my own sketicism proved ill-fated when my shoes quickly became the texture of wet paper towels and my toque soaked through. I realized that the snow here is, for all intesive purposes, wet. Like rain. And maybe, just this once, these silly Vancouverites were on to something. Still, umbrellas in the snow is weird. Right?

6. If the sun is shining, the convertibles are out.
It doesn't matter if it's below zero. Vancouverites live the rock star life with their tops down and their fur coats rustling in the breeze. It's abviously silly and a little ill-thought-out, but, hey, if you're trying to convince yourself that you live in the southern hemisphere, coasting around in a convertible on sub-zero days is one way to do it (i suppose). Though I'd highly recommend that these particular nut bars simply move to Bali and save a few minks in the process.

I hope it snows more!

Bootcampin' it in the c-c-c-c-c-cold!

When I went to sleep last night, the wind was whipping around the lawn chairs on my back porch. The rain was pelting against my window. And I had no doubt that when I awoke at 5:00 AM to the din of my alarm clock, it was not going to be an ideal day for outdoor bootcamp.

I got dressed, made a power smoothie, let the dog out, and 45 minutse later suited up in 4 layers to brave an hour of outdoor push-ups, tricep dips, squats, and lunges in some of the worst workout weather yet.

The air was brisk. It was a balmy -5ºC. The stairs to my front door and the pathway to the sidewalk were frozen over with a thin sheath of ice. I balanced poorly as I "whoa whoa whoooooaaaa"ed my way to the car. I hoped in. The windshield was buried under a 1/4 inch of ice. I sat in my car as the defroster chugged away, like an Ontarian idiot who *may* have sold her ice scraper because she thought it never snowed in Vancouver. 15 minutes later, the ice had sufficiently melted and the condensation subsided. And I cautiously nudged my way across the bridge to meet my crazy bootcamp crew.

10 of us showed up this morning. about 50%. Not a bad turnout considering the sub-zero temperatures and our collective desire to stay in bed this morning.

Having arrived feeling good about my ability to forgo more sleep for a painstakingly difficult workout in the arctic tundra (ok. that's an embellishment), I was heftily rewarded by a brilliant view. Our workout locaiton is oceanside, in English Bay by the marina. The ocean, this morning, was so still. It mirrored the early morning lights of land perfectly. So much so that you couldn't tell where land ended and water began. It was delicious.

I felt immediately motivated.

Our coach quickly hoarded up our water bottles in his backpack and decided to make today's bootcamp "mobile!"

"Run to the Casino!" he said and pointed about a kilometre down the seawall trail toward the bright lights of the water front monstrosity. We ran. The cold air clung to my lungs. I felt alive.

At the Casino, we did Leg Ups on the stairs, some agility work between the 30 or so flag poles, Knee Ups, and more.

"Ok. To the stadium!" coach yelled.

And we hustled off the BCE Place, the local sports stadium, where we quickly found ourselves racing up and down four flights of concrete stairs. Our reward for accomplishing this task? Squats, lunges, and more stair running.

The day went on like this.
running and intervals. I didn't stand still once.
7:00 AM rolled around quickly and unexpectedly.

At first, I was glad to see the minute hand reach 12. I was exhausted. My legs were on fire. My energy was spent.
Then I was bummed: todays workout was brilliant.
I had forgotten about the cold (I even stripped off two layers mid-workout) and just fully embraced the day.

It's beautiful here. Even at 6:00 AM on a frosty morning when the moon shines brighter than the sun.

Lessons learned from the rain.

There is a silver lining to ever cloud. That's how the cliché goes, I think. But it's a cliché for a reason. Mostly, because it's true.

It's officially rainy season in Vancouver. And, as I've written many times, it rains... a lot. Days and days without a trace of sun or sky. Just big grey clouds hanging low over Vancouver soaking it with a constant shower of wet drizzle. To the outsider, this can seem – and sound – like a drepressing existence to say the least.

But it's not. Not at all. Here's why:

1. When it is raining in Vancouver, it is snowing in mountains.
This is GREAT news! Especially when you are surrounded by peak after peak after peak of white powdery snow for skiing, snowboarding, snoeshoeing, snow tubing, and more. It's a winter sport paradise.
On one wet and wooly morning in Vancouver, at a balmy 4ºC last week, Paul and I grabbed our winter gear, and headed to
Whistler, an hour and a half up the Sea to Sky highway. After 40 mins, the rain had turned to snow; the tree were dusted with white frosting, and the mountain tops glistened. It was beautiful. In Whistler, snowboarders and skiers were in heaven and populated the slopes with their fancy carving and colourful gear. It was -1ºC at the base; -10ºC at the top. Perfect for some winter fun!

2. When it's raining in Vancouver, the sunsets are to die for!
The great thing about clouds is that they spice up the canvas of every sunset. And, when it's raining, the clouds are constantly moving, so the horizon is always a miraculous concoction of oranges, reds, pinks, greys, and blacks. It's better than any painting in any museum that i have ever seen. (And I've seen a lot of paintings).

Last week, we took these pictures after a rain-soaked (but beautiful) walk through Stanley Park, a 1,000-acre urban park bordering downtown Vancouver. It's the third largest park in North America and home to half a million trees – towering Douglas Firs, ancient Cedars, beautiful maples, and more!
We hiked around the seawall, and took these photos at several places: Prospect Point, the Southern Seawall, and in front of a little fish restaurant nestled in the trees.
Believe me, you totally forget it's raining when you feast your eyes on beauty like this!


In fact, I can't wait until it rains again!
(which should be today, and tomorrow, and the next day!!)

One beautiful day in November

After a week of grey drizzle and sunless days, the big bright ball appeared on Monday through the clouds. I was out for a run at 7 AM by the ocean trail. For the first time in a week I could actually see the tops of the mountains I so desperately love. With the clouds lifted, I could see that even the closest mountains were dusted with snow and that winter was on its way.

The air was crisp. The breeze was fresh. My pace was fast. I was inspired.

I ran home and woke Paul. "We must climb!!!" I said jumping on the bed in excitement.
Weary, he smiled and woke up.

"Come see," I chimed. "It's beautiful outside!!!"

We took Beamer for a small jaunt back down to the ocean so Paul could see the proof himself: Moutains + sun + 10 degree weather. The conditions for a hike were perfect!

We packed the car, donned our gear, and headed up the coast toward Squamish, and one of my favourite ascents. The Chief.

Not a hiker (not by choice but by location) Paul was excited but had trepidation.
As we rounded a mountainous ess curve into Squamish, the Chief loomed high, 610 meters of solid rock face above the road.
"That's beautiful" Paul gasped and took this picture from the car.


"I'm glad you think so," I smiled. "Because we're going to climb it!"
He gulped.
"That???"
"Yep."
"You're a crazy woman," he said and laughed nervously.

I pulled into the base parking lot and we set forth.

Unlike the times this past summer when I ascended this rock, the trail was not littered with other hikers only a few others came out on this miraculous November morn to partake in the Chief's beauty. So, periodically, Paul and I were entirely alone on our hike. Which was sensational.

After an hour of climbing over tree roots, stepping up rocks, scaling ladders, and using chains to summit the final rock, we made it to the top.

We were the only ones there.
The wind was chilling.
The sky was blue.
The snow capped mountains in the distance were something from a fairytale.
We had lunch.
It was awesome.

There is no better place to have a picnic lunch, I guarantee you, than the top of a mountain, all alone, on a sunny day in November. Cheese and crackers never tasted so good!

Running the Okanagan Half Marathon with my dad!

Dad flew in from Ontario last Thursday and we embarked on the 400+ km journey to Kelowna on Friday in preparation for our half-marathon there on Sunday, Oct 7. On Thursday, we went into a local Running Room on West Broadway to grab a few Clif Bars for our long run and mentioned to the cashier that we were on our way to the Okanagan.

"Oh no," she said with dread in her voice. "You're doing the Okanagan Half?"

We nodded.

"It's supposed to thunder storm there all weekend."

Dad and I exchanged grins. "No it's not," we told her with optimism in our voices (though secretly knowing full well that the weather network was callng for 100% chance of rain.) Still, we remained hopeful.

The trip to Kelowna was spectacular. We travelled up and above the mountains on the Coquiholla Highway. The vistas were spectacular. We were so high up that we were driving, in some points, in the snow capped mountains. It was beautiful (and cold!) We felt on top of the world.

When we round one of the mountains in Westbank and began descending into the valley, we came across Okanagan Lake. What a site!!! Simply beautiful, like glass, sitting gently in the valley of towering mountains. Sailboats and motorboats and billboards of the lake's mystical monster, Ogopogo, dotted the landscape as we drove in.

We stayed at a great little time share near Duck Lake called Holiday Park. A nice big one-bedroom unit (bigger than my apartment) with a fire place, dining table, and living room. We went to City Park and the Running Room tent to pick up our race kits, took in the scenery, and made some chicken and potatoes in our condo for dinner, and quickly faded fast. We were excited to find lots of goodies in our race bags: Dad was particularly fond of his free "fuel belt" which he wore with pride on race day!

On saturday, we were expecting to wake up to rain. And, surprisingly, it was beautiful. Not a cloud in the sky. We did a small 5k walk to keep our muscles limber for the race, then trekked into town to drive the 21.1 kilometre route, so we knew what we were in for!

Sunday came quickly. So did the din of Dad's ever annoying alarm at 4:30 AM! We ate breakfast, donned our racing gear, put on our racing numbers (I was 2661; Dad was 217) and drove into town. It was pitch black. Blacker than black. And maybe 5 degrees. We could see our breath. But we couldn't see clouds, so we convinced ourselves that the 100% chance of rain was bogus and that the sky was clear above!

"It's night." I said to Dad.

"I don't think that sun comes up until 10 here," he responded. "It's got a long way to go to get over those mountains."

Here we are, pre-race at 6:00 AM.
It's dark, but we're happy. Although we were cold and tired, we were PUMPED! Finally, Race Day!! Dad was in a field of 100 walkers and was set to start his race at 7:00 AM. While we waited, we eyed the competition. "You can totally beat him," I said snarkily and with bias toward Dad in my voice as I pointed out some lesser-fit opponents.
"Oh yeah," Dad said with bravado. "He's going down."

Here's dad at the start line. Still dark, but happy!


After the gun went off and Dad set forth on what would be his best race ever, I ran back to the car to grab a few more bites of Clif Bar, drop off my camera, get a pep talk from Paul, and then gathered with 3000 other Half- and Full-Marathon runners at the start line. At 8 AM sharp, the gun went off. There were so many people that it took me almost 4 minutes to reach the Start Line!

The sun was starting to rise and the biggest surprise of the day was: no clouds!! It seemed that the rain was going to hold off after all! John Stanton, the owner of the Running Room and the Race Official for the Okanagan International Marathon said over the loud speakers: "Here they go! 3,000 runners. And it's a heckuva day for a personal best!"

He was right. I felt fantastic. I was running fast (or at least fast, for me) and was delighted when, at the 7k mark, I saw Dad looping back (he was at about 13-14k). He was only 8 or 9 back from the leader of the walk!! It was awesome! We smiled, high-fived, and carried forward. I was so pumped after I saw him. "Man!" I thought, "He's my hero! Dad is beating the pants off of 100 other walkers!"

I had a great momentum. My two months of hill training up a nasty hill on 8th Avenue near home seemed to prepare me well for the hills on the this route. I passed a number of people on the way up. It was exhiliarating! (Especially because I am often the one getting passed.)

I was feeling strong adn fast, until I slowed down briefly at the 18 kilometre water station and my knees seized. My quads tightened. I wanted to stop. But I often find that racing long distances is more of a mental game than a physical one. So I told myself: Just 3 more kilometers to go. You can do this.

And I picked up my pace again.

As I came into the final chute, 100 m from the finish line, I saw the clock and was stunned! I had wanted to run the Half in 2 hours and 20 minutes. The clock was at 2:16. And, with my chip time, I knew I was at 2:13. I ran as fast as I could. A great finishing stride. John Stanton called out my name as I came up the shoot. Dad yelled "Great time Kim!" and pumped his fists. A big smile of pride and excitement across his face (My biggest fan! He's the best!) I gave him the thumbs up and ran hard to the finish line. My official time: 2:12:53. A good 17 minutes off my Chili Half Marathon time in Burlington, Ontario in March.

It was amazing.

I was exhausted.

Dad and I high-fived and hugged.
"How'd you do?" I asked.
"Personal best," he said smiling.
His official time: 2:40:07.
Which placed him 10th over ALL of the walkers. He beat out 30 and 40 year olds. It was an incredible feat!

Here we are post-race.


We stayed around, ate cookies and bananas, and sucked back water as we cheered on the remaining half-marathoners finished behind us and the fastest marthon runners who came in at an astounding 2:45. It's amazing to see the winners finish. They run like gazelles. It's inspiring.

Dad was #4 is his age division and narrowly missed receiving a medal! Way to go dad!

We celebrated by going on two wine tours, sipping back free wine, then hitting the local pub for beers and a HUGE plate of nachos. We spent the rest of the evening lying on the couch musing about our speed, the good weather, and the lump of cheese lard from the nachos in our bellies.

Wow, what a race!

Life in the rainy city

So it rains in Vancouver. A lot.
Of course, everyone knows this. But you don't really "know" it, until you live in it.
When naysayers said "you'll hate the rain" and "oh, but it rains so much in Vancouver" as I readied to depart life in Ontario for a West Coast adventure, I poo-pooed their negativity. I mean, it's just rain, right?

Right.
Except it does take some getting used to.

For the last seven days (ish) it has rained consecutively here in Vancouver. The skies have been grey. The mountain tops are clouded over. And the same light drizzle has been keeping the pavement wet and rain-fearers inside for a week.

The good news is this: it's not "that" bad. It just takes some getting used to.

Yesterday, for instance, I was walking outside with Beamer. And although the sun wasn't shining bright, I could see it, breaking through the clouds. And I thought the day was destined to be beautiful. I smiled as I saw some of the mountain peaks across the Bay peaking out above the leftover rain clouds. I thought "Here comes the sun." At that very moment, my head bent backward, my grin to the sky, it started to rain. Right then. With the sun still fighting through the clouds. It began to rain sparkling drops. The best part was that almost instantly, on this busy street, where people were working, shopping, walking, talking, eating on patios, etc. hundreds of colourful umbrellas went up in unison. Like from a carefully choreographed musical. Singing In The Rain, perhaps? People who live here expect the rain. They're always prepared for it. They open their umbrellas, and they carry on. Nothing changes, except the number of accessories required.

Of course, not being considered a "local" yet, but a "back east" import, I was soaked by the time I got home. I am admittedly still a little naive (ok, a lot naive) about the weather here and was convinced the day would be beautiful! Chock it up to Ontario naivete and building character I suppose. I laughed. And learned a lesson.

Two days ago, I was scheduled to run an 18k route as part of my half-marathon training. I woke up to dark skies and rain. I waited. And waited. And waited. It rained. And rained. And rained. The day was nearly half over when I decided to grin and bear it. I geared up, and headed out! It wasn't so bad. My pace was brisk. The rain was cool. I was relatively comfortable. My iPod was hopping. And then I began to get wet. Really wet. And my running pants started to get heavy. And every couple of blocks I would yank them up, in fear of mooning passersby. Then I began to slip on wet leaves. The wetter I got, the longer my pants seemed to get, and the more I slipped on leaves. By the 8k mark, I was a running disaster. I was running not on the concrete below me but on five inches of stretched, wet, leaf-covered pant ends. I was miserable and frustrated. I turned around, hiked up my pants, and trudged home.

Of course, there were several other runners out in the rain this day having marvellous runs. So why was mine so exctuciatingly awful? Because the other runners are "rain smart". They were dressed appropriately for it. Again, that blasted perparedness that locals have! (I hope to inherit it soon). In the meantime, I think I'm going shopping for some new, water-proof, anti-grow-five-inches running pants.

So it's rainy.
It's wet.
But getting by and loving life here is all a matter of preparation.
When you expect them and embrace them, the rainy days here are actually beautiful.
Really beautiful.

So, "no" I say to all the people who thought the rain might coax me home.
I still like it here.
Love it, actually.
Who knew that it rained in paradise?

To Buntzen and back again

Yesterday it was a beautiful autumn day in Vancouver where the wind was light and the sky was cloudless and blue. It was exciting to behold, particularly because the last three days have been riddled with misty rain and cool temperatures. I quickly packed my hiking pack with food, water, and dog treats, threw my hiking shoes into the trunk, coaxed Beamer into the back seat, and we headed to Buntzen Lake near Port Moody. Only 45 mins or so away.

Buntzen Lake is actually a BC Hydro reservoir. But I wasn't there for the Lake; I was there for the surrounding mountains and trails. BC Hydro has turned it into a recreation area of sorts and has established some well marked trails through the surrounding back country, that steeply lead to some stunning vistas with views of the Indian Arm.

The forest is dense and thickly populated with mossy canopies and banana slugs. It's different than Ontario hiking. Mostly because it is very much "rain forest"-like. Lots of dampness. Lots of mossy greens. Lots of beauty.

Beamer who has been relatively sedentary these past few weeks and who has, unfortunately, been left behind because the calibre of some of my latest hikes have been too difficult for her, was giddy with excitement when we arrived at Buntzen and set forth on the trail.

Beamer is, surprisingly, a FANTASTIC hiking dog. She stays on the trail and questions our route when she thinks we should be going the other way. We don't talk (rather, "I" don't talk), just share glances that confirm our navigational agreements and carry forth. On the way up, Beamer leads. At each crest, she stops, looks back at me to make sure I am coming and, if there is a fork in the trail, waits for me so we can decide together which way to go. She is really quite a thoughtful and strategic hiking partner. And I love her to bits for it. We had a wonderful time.

About an hour or so into our hike, after we'd bypassed the tourists and headed solo into more rugged terrain, the ascent became quite steep. At one point, Beamer slid down a steep rocky incline and admitted defeat quickly. She raced down teh mountain. She had had enough. I managed to seduce her back to the steep incline with a few treats and pushed her up. Once she was up above the trick area, she confidently took the lead again!

Another hour or so of a steep ascending and Beamer and I were spent. We hadn't seen a single soul for quite sometime (which we love) but I was concerned that our trek down these wet, mossy rocks would be more difficult for Beamer than the ascent and was secretly hoping to run into someone just to be safe.

Once you reach the top of the rocky climb, the views are incredible! Although the day quickly changed from beautiful to dreary while we were encased in lush forest, the views were still magnificent. The black clouds did not take away from the vast expanse of the Indian Arm and the surrounding mountains. There are 5 viewpoints on a kilometre-stretch of cliff at the top. Beamer and I sat down at viewpoit two to take it all in, catch our breath, and have some lunch.


"WOW" I said.

Just as a crack of thunder roared and the sky turned into a torrential downpour of big wet drops. I exchanged glances with Beamer who was not amused, packed up my sandwich with one bite taken out of it, and decided not to attempt the other viewpoints. We quickly headed down.

On the way down, Beamer lets me lead. She waits back until I have navigated steep ledges and drops. Then I wait for her as she navigates the same. We are never walking at the same time. She watches me; I watch her. We're like Batman and Robin; the Lone Ranger and Tonto; Cheech and Chong.

Our descent was fast and slippery. But the mountain that had taken us well over two hours to climb took us less than an hour to descend. Soon we were back on relatively flat ground and well established trails, counting banana slugs, and laughing at our rotten luck with rain.

When we arrived home, we crashed. It was 6:00 PM. We didn't wake up until 12 hours later, when morning arrived. Ah... gotta love a good hike!

I OWN MY CAR!!!

I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car!
I own my car! I own my car! I own my car!I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car!
I own my car! I own my car! I own my car!I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car! I own my car!

After 5 years, I finally paid off my car.
I feel GREAT!

Hiking Mount Strachan... kind of

Early one Sunday morning, my friend Mike gave me a buzz: "Let's do a hike" he said and I eagerly agreed to be ready in 20 minutes. Although rain was drizzling down and the day was overcast and dull, our spirits were high. We'd been meaning to do this hike for some time and both had the motivation to stick it out today.

Mount Strachan is close to Vancouver. Only a 20 minute drive or so across the Lion's Gate and toward Squamish. It's close. And it's beautiful. My hiking book (bible?) gives a description of the mountain, and the route up. It's accompanied by a trail map and elevation map. We packed some fruit, crackers, cheese, water, and toilet paper and excitedly began our ascent.

The trail begins at the base of a ski hill on Cypress. It's thickly wooded and beautiful. The trees are huge. The ground is mossy. There are little creeks and waterfalls as you walk. It is serene. Particularly with a light misty rain.

Our first mistake was realized when we hit the end of the first trail without happening upon the cut-off trail (Old Strachan Trail) that we were supposed to take. We hiked back to find it. And couldn't. So decided to take a detour up another trail (also highlighted on our map) that would eventually join up with a "pass" to Mount Strachan.

About 20 minutes into our uphill climb, we began to descend with equal grade as we had just ascended. "We're going down." I said to Mike. "I know." he said. "weird."


20 minutes later, we were right back where we started with no summit and no idea as ot how we ended up in the same place. So we set forth back up, laughing the whole way. And evenutall stumbled upon our gross error: we had detoured slightly off the trail, circled a tree, and headed down on the same trail we had started up! Ridiculous! We laughed heartily and carried on our way.

We crossed paths with another nomad and his wolf-like dog who was quick to tell us that we were on our way to hiking Mt. Hollyburn, not Mt. Strachan. Still we pushed forth and an hour later had summitted Mt. Hollyburn (a beautiful hill with a great view of the Indian Arm). We had a picnic and reviewed our map. We were determined to hike and summit Mt. Strachan.


After going down the mountain a bit to find the "pass" to Mt Strachan and then summiting again wondering if the "pass" were at the top, we finally found a beaten trail with a sign that said "Danger. Trail not kept.".


I scoffed and did my best sarcastic "ooooohhhh....Danger.... What are we gonna do?" then laughed and carried forth.

We quickly learned that "trail not kept" was entirely accurate. The trail was not only "not kept"; it was, for the most part, non-existent. And Mike and I spend hours jumpig over fallen trees, sliding down mud slides, crawling through thick brush. After three hours in the thick forest and no signs of a decent trail or of Mount Strachan, we had already discussed politics, religion, dating, marriage, children, gay rights, abortion, family, depression, and more. By the time we took a break at a waterfall in the interior, our legs were scraped, our arms were bruised, our ankles were thick with mud, and we had resorted to knock-knock jokes to keep our sanity.

"Do you think we'll have to sleep here?" I asked Mike, half-joking and half-not as fear began to seep in. "I was just thinking teh same thing" he replied and we shared a in-depth gaze filled with anxiety and terror. Then the moment passed and we trudged on, telling all the jokes we could think of.

Five hours after we saw the infamous "danger" trail head sign, we finally stumbled (quite literally) upon another trail and people (yes! civilization again!) and made our way back to whence we came.
At the car, we shared an underwhleming high-five, a big jug of water, and a snooze.

Note to self: stick to the trails and don't be so cocky. Nature is the stronger beast!

17 days of Ontario

So after four months in BC, a friend's wedding back in Ontario propelled me to take an extended visit "home".
Of all the adventures I've had over the last four months, and really over my entire life, none were as exhausting and surreal as these 17 days.

My itinerary was jam-packed with visits. With hugs and kisses. With catching up. With eating and drinking. One of my hiking buddies emailed me from BC while I was in Ontario: "Let's hike when you get back!" he said. "You may have to roll me up the hill, Erik," I replied. "I've been eating donuts for two weeks straight!"

But aside from the extra pudge around my middle, the visit was perfect. It was tiring and overwhelming, but full of love and laughter. I regret nothing.

Here is how it all unfolded:

I arrived bright and early on a Friday morning (12:30 AM). Paul picked me up from the airport, after a lengthy drive from Montreal. We grabbed a slice of pizza and a cholocate milk (ah, the Ontario-gorging had begun!) and promptly drove to Pickering where we eagerly crashed at Dad's.

The next day, we drove to goderich for a three-day stint with Geoff, Sally, and my uber-cute nephew Mark! These three days included the family golf tourney -- the combination of record rainfall + windstorm + balminess contributed to this year's longest game: 6.5 hours! Dad took home the trophy for the fifth consecutive year, with the closest competition a good 10 strokes off the lead!

With Aunt C, Uncle P, Matt, Mike, Alicia, Geoff, Sally, Mark, Brenda, Dad, Patrick, Paul and I all starving by the game's end, it was only natural that would feast on Willow Glenn's own Fresh Poultry Division chicken. Mmmm... delicious!

Three days after our Goderich vacation, we set forth again to visit some friends in Windfall, then the next day Woodstock.

Next up? Omemee and a lovely visit with my brother, his wife, and their bun-in-the-oven... my new little niece or nephew who'll make a grand appearance in January. We ate like royalty (as we always do chez Jen and Trev), laughed heartily, and finished off the evening with an extraordiniarily thoughtful (and quite delicious) "Welcome Back" cake. (Consequently, it was so good that Paul and I ate it for breakfast too!)

We headed west again to our next destination: Mom's house in Guelph where we set up "home" for three days and enjoyed great food (thank you Greek Restaurant), rousing games of euchre (thank you Dave and your darned "strategy"), and a party with a bunch of my friends from all over Ontario: Jodi, Andrea, Sandi, Kurtis, Matt, Jen, Lisa, Sarah, David, Karen, Jon, etc. So thrilling to have the opportunity to catch up with everyone... I miss them dearly.

After settling in for three days, we packed up again and headed east for a small stop at Uncle Tom and Aunt Phyllis' in Williamstown where we laughed about what a small world this is, and then off to Montreal for three day's of fun: We hit the symphony, Mont Royal, my grandfather's grave at Notre Dame cemetary, the oratory, and downtown Montreal. Just as Paul's cats were getting used to us being home, you guessed it... we packed up for the 37th time and headed east again for a delicious meal at Dad and Brenda's. (We were spoiled rotten. Chicken, stuffing, chocolate-covered strawberries. mmmm... perfect!)

Then we continued our pilgrammage back west with a dinner with the coolest family in the world: the Szimanskis. After stuffing myself with Stephen's gournmet barbequed rosemary chicken with a fruit medley chutney, their young son (my future hubby) Eli beat me at a rousing game of basketball. Of course, he was kind enough to "let me win" one game. "It's nice to let people who are losing win sometimes, Kim." He said. Nice.

Then we eventually made it to our final destination, the place we had made the trip for: Burlington and Matt and Jen's wedding. It wa a beautiful sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. A light breeze. Jen looked sensational. Matt so happy that his smile nearly came off his face. We laughed. We cried. We tore up the dance floor.

Then I keeled over in the plane the next day and began my recovery on the five hour flight home.

Whew.

Now that's an adventure!

Mini Weekend Adventures

I've been busy lately with a lot of different visitors from back East, lots of work, and re-discovering my half-marathon training program. As a result, I've mellowed out my usual crazy adventures, but still my weekends are not without sensationalism.
Lately I've taken two mini-trips: (1) to Hope/Boston Bar in the interior where I checked out Hell's Gate (where the Fraser River narrows to 110 ft wide and, as a result, 2x the amount of water that flows over niagara falls flows through the rapids here every day (incredible!); and (2) to Whistler Mountain for a trip to the peak and a sensational view of snow caps in the distance.

HELL'S GATE:
About 2+ hours in the interior, Hell's Gate is just off the Trans Canada in between Hope and Boston Bar. It's a beautiful area of the province. Gold Rush territory. The trip was nostalgic for me. The last time I saw this stretch of road and these mountainous views, I was driving across the country toward my new home in Vancouver. This time, it felt like I was driving "back". It was a bit unsettling. But beautiful.


The Hell's Gate tram takes you down and over the Fraser River and the amazing swell of class 6 rapids. If my timing had been right (it wasn't), I could have seen the sockeye salmon run which is, apparently, a breathtaking stunt of nature. But the run was just beginning. And only three or four fish jumped through the rapids while I was there.

The tram takes you to the other side of the river to a pocket of touristy *stuff*. A restaurant, a fudge factory, a bar. I, of course, stopped for a slab of fudge and attempted to walk off the sugar kick by traversing the suspension bridge (very cool) back over the river and hiking 600ft up to the Trans Canada rather than taking the tram. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The water was cool. A train rounded the edge of the mountain. Picturesque to say the least! This mini-hike was lovely.

WHISTLER:
Although the day was slightly overcast, it would really take an earthquake or other natural disaster to quell my excitement for Whistler. The mountains here are larger than life. Snow-capped in the summer, too. They are beautiful. I bought a "seek the peak" ticket and boarded the gondola to the top of Whistler Mountain. The gondola takes you about 2/3 of the way up. It was 3 degrees at this point. Cold. Windy. But so fresh. There was snow and a killer view! To get to the very peak (8,000 ft), you have to board an open chairlift. It was a brisk ride up, but captivating.

At the top, the view is simply breathtaking. There is a panaoramic of snow caps. 360 degrees of paradise. A smorgasbord of natural beauty for hy heart and my eyes. I was literally jumping for joy as you can see here! I jumped! I skipped! I threw snowballs! I laughed! I smiled! The air was crisp. The wind was cool. It was b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-l! It was the stuff that I live for. It was, quite simply, invigorating!


There are a bunch of trails at the top of Whistler Mountain-- 5ks and 8ks that you can traverse up and down and around the peak. About 3k out on one of the trails I stumbled upon a grave marking -- a cross with bronzed canoe paddle and golf club that lay to rest a man named Maurice who passed in 1991 and "loved this mountain". Very touching. Man, what a view he has 24-7.

NEXT?
I'm off this weekend to Hope Falls (hopefully) for a 5 hour hike that is sure to have some sensational views.
Can't wait to tell you all about it!

Happy trails!

Taking the Plunge, take II

It was the morning of my 29th birthday. The sun was shining. There wasn't a single cloud in the sky. It was like the sky had been painted with one big paint stroke of royal blue paint. The phone rang: "Perfect day for skydiving, wouldn't you agree, McMullen?" my friend Mike asked.

"Damn straight, Mikers!" I answered gleefully.

"I'll be there in ten."

In those ten minutes before he arrived at my front door, I sweat profusely, I smiled uncontrollably, and I had nervous pee.

I hopped in his car, we picked up our other friend Numa, and headed to Abbotsford where, one hour later, we would eagerly toss ourselves out of an airplane at 11,500 ft.

The closer we came to Abbotsford, the more nervous I became.
My tongue was tingly; I had to pee; I was yawning uncontrollably. All the silly signs that my body emits when it fears something. It was like a big "danger danger!" warning. But I ignored it.

We walked into the "office" and were immediately given a waiver to sign. Nervously laughing at our stupidity, we signed our lives away, agreeing not to sue should the parachute "fail to open". Ah!

We walked over to the hangar and got geared up: I had a sassy black jumper with green stripes on the side, a leather helmet, and some yellow goggles. Very chic. We met our tandem jumpers. Mine was named Ky, a seriously hip and cool dude who was nearing his 1,000th jump. Incredible! Ky suited me up with my harness, checked things over, and gave Mike, Numa, and me a quick five minute lesson on how to skydive:
1. Get in the plane.
2. Get strapped on to your tandem jumper
3. Put your legs outside of the plane one at a time.
4. Cross your hands over your chest.
5. Jump!!!!
6. Extend your arms out like a bird.
7. Scream bloody murder!!!

Our plane was a single engine, propeller plane painted in brown camoflauge. It had no seats. So we sat on the floor.
The propeller started; I crossed my fingers and highfived my friends; and we took off along the runway (a field) and began to fly. Derrick, the skydiver whom I paid to video my jump was across from me and kept showing me his altitude gage. At 4,000 feet, Derrick, Ky, Mike, Numa, and the rest of the crew broke out into the best version of Happy Birthday EVER!

"A 4,000-foot brithday Kim," said Derrick. "What do you think?"

"Love love LOVE it!" I said, clapping, and smiling a smile that was bigger than my face!

Then, suddenly, we were 11,500ft up and Derrick opened the door and stepped outside of the plane. The video camera was on and I was the first jumper!
Ky yelled loudly over the force of the wind coming in the side of the plane (which, by the way, does NOT suck you out. I guess that only happens in the movies. It's just really loud and enormously frightening): "Ready?"

I nodded. But I was not ready. It was a lie. But there was no turning back now!

I put one leg out side of the plane. Took a breath. Then the other.
Ky counted down from three. And we LEAPT!! Then we FELL! (and fell, and fell some more!)

It was intensely frightening and overwhelming exhilirating!

Although we were, essentially, plummeting toward the earth, the force of the wind at that altitude makes you feel like you are soaring. The wind rushed up my nose not unlike water in a pool during a poorly executed dive. We fell for 35 seconds, then, at 5,000 ft, Ky pulled the parachute, and we floated like balloons in a gentle breeze back toward the earth.

The view from 11,500 ft is indescribable. We could see the peak of Mt. Rainer in Washington in the distance. The snow caps of the rockies. The green banks of the Fraser River. We could see the tiny homes in Abbotsford and the rows of vineyards in the valley. It took my breath away (or maybe the sheer terror did that, I'm not sure!)

Although I was afraid in the plane and before the jump and during the jump and during the parachute ride, the spectacular scenery and the sensational exhiliration of actually FLYING in the sky for just a moment was so very much worth the feelings of fear that preceded this crazy adventure.

As we floated downward, I thought: Holy Crap! I am flying. I am flying!!!

And I was.
For a split second, I was a bird in the sky.

It was one of the single most incredible experiences of my entire life!

As we descended and our landing target became clear, Ky prepared me for landing: "Put your feet up!" I did. But my legs are longer than Ky's, so my feet still hit before his, and we had a bit of a crash landing (it was soft though, so no new bruises to take pictures of!

We untangled from the parachute, laughed, and my videographer Derrick said: "How was that?"

I was breathing heavily, like I had just run a marathon. "Holy shit." I said.

"What do you have to say to the people at home?" he asked laughing, video camera in my face.

"Holy shit!" I repeated. "That was amazing. Just holy shit."

I was sure that i had left my heart and my brain in the plane after I jumped. I couldn't form sentences. My thought processes were hindered. I was on a skydiving high. Thinking to myself "What the heck just happened?"

Mike came in to land a few moments later, we hugged and high-fived. Numa came in third, a smile beaming on his face!

We took an "after" picture, all of our smiles too big for our faces.
And went out for a pint at a local pub, looked at each other, and asked: "Did we just do that?"
Then "Hey, when do you want to do it again?"

Happy birthday to me!

Taking the plunge

Today I went bungee jumping.

It was exhilirating! Frightening! Thrilling! Terrifying! Adrenalin-rushing!

The most fantastic time.
I'm still not exactly sure what happened. I threw myself off of a bridge against every human instinct that was telling me not to jump and hurled toward the bottom of a canyon at a record speed. Three seconds later, I was bouncing on the end of a bungee cord, laughing, swearing, screaming WOOHOO.

The time of my life.

Here is how the events unfolded:

My best pal from high school, Jo, is here on holidays. We were looking for something exciting to do. She's a great sport and a thrill seeker. And we always have incredible times together. She's a fantastic and unwavering friend. So we mulled over a few options and had our hearts set on skydiving (don't tell her parents!). We were all set to go this morning, and then the rain began. And it kept raining. Solid. All day. No reprieve. The skydiving place said that it was pretty unlikely that we would get up today. We sat around, called every hour for weather reports, and by 1 PM realized that, on this last day of Jo's visit, we had two choices: (1) Wait and see (2) Do something.

We chose 2.

So we hopped in the car, drove to Whistler, and went Bungee Jumping.

It was raining. The day was miserable. We sang Pearl Jam tunes all the way there. We reminisced. It was grand.

As we neared the bridge, fear ensued.
Still, amid trepidation, we soldiered on.
We hiked up the bridge (some 160 feet above the turbulent rapids of the Cheakamus River).
There were maybe 10 people on the bridge. We thought they were jumpers at first. And were relieved to see a line up of other adventure crazies.

We found out soon after that they were adventure wannabes (far smarter than us) who were waiting for two poor suckers (like us) to show up and jump so they could take pictures. We had an audience. There was no way we could turn back.

We began to read the waivers. "Note: the bungee cord may break. The equipment may be faulty. You absolve Whistler Bungee of any responsibility in the event of injury or death."

Gulp.

One of the staffers asked: "what made you come bungee jumping on a day like this?"

"We were just driving around, looking for something to do." I replied coyly.

"Wow. Cool." he said.
"That's cool."

It was, of course, a lie. But it made us seem like tough and cool chicks, and for a moment we were able to fool them that we had no fear.

I signed the waiver.
Smiled.
And got suited up.

Our original plan was to Paper, Rock, Scissors to see who would jump first. But I was hurriedly rushed into my harness, clipped to the cord, and within five minutes was on the ledge. They moved really fast. Perhaps because if given the chance to rethink this decision, many people might realize the sheer insanity of throwing themselves off a bridge toward a tumultuous river canyon and chicken out.

(Here I am all geared up!)


"Stand on the edge and jump," were my instructions. "Can we talk about this?" I asked.
They urged me forward. Not addressing my fears. Jo looked on. Camera in hand. Fear for me in her eyes.

I moved to the edge gingerly and with nervous pee.

"Hang your heels off the end and we'll count you down."

Gulp.

Then the fastest 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 countdown came and went, with a crowd of eager onlookers screaming the numbers louder as they neared one.

I trusted my gut. Quelled my fear. And launched off that bridge with conviction!

The first second felt like floating. Peaceful. Nice.
Then the next three felt like my heart had been pushed into my throat as I plummeted to the river below. My heart pounded. When is this cord going to kick in?? I thought. I couldn't scream. My mouth was opwn but nothing came out!

Then the cord bounced back.

And I laughed.
And laughed.
And laughed.

I woohooed.

I swore.

I giggled.

(Here I am at the bottom)


It was INCREDIBLE.
It's a feeling, actually, that I can't really describe.
Terror and glee rolled into one.
Happiness and fear intermixed.

When it was over, maybe only 10 seconds after my jump, I thought "what the heck just happened!"

They lowered another cord down to me as I swang laughing hysterically below, I clipped it to my harness, and they hauled me back up to the bridge.

"Holy shit," I said to Jo. "That was..." I couldn't find the words. My legs tremored. "Just holy shit!"
My smile was bigger than my face. My heart was pounding outside my chest. It was unreal.

Ever the sport, Jo followed the same 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 count down and launched herself off the bridge only a few moments after I had returned. Her form was graceful. Her screams were hysterical. She did AWESOME!

We hugged. We high-fived. We put on our Whistler Bungee trophy tees. And we quickly drove to a bar and cheersed ourselves and our bravery with some killer martinis.

Wow. What a wild time.


(Check out our cool souvenir tees!)

Summitting "The Chief"

Yesterday, I embarked on a challenging hike that I've been itching to do since I moved here. It's a series of three rock faces/peaks in Stawamus Chief Provincial Park, better known here as "the Chief".

I'm not sure how to describe the journey and the feeling of summiting better than I did in this entry (to follow) in my journal that I wrote while atop the Centre Peak (Peak 2) around 3:00 PM on Saturday, June 30.

--

I am on top of the world.
I am in my own personal Eden.
I am in paradise.
I am at a loss for words.

I wonder if I can describe this feeling, this view, this sensation, this beauty. I will try.

Early this morning I packed my backpack with food, water, camera, TP, first aid equipment, and my map and headed Northwest, along the Sea to Sky highway toward Squamish, BC. This road hugs the ocean on one side, and the mountain on the other. I found it difficult to stay focused on the road, because the scenery was breathtaking. The funny thing is, I've driven this road a few times before. But still, this bit of nature never gets old.

An hour and a half later, I came upon Stawanus Chief, a sheer rock face jutting out of the mountain side. Its flat, looming face is a mecca for expert rock climbers. Its backside hike up is a draw for hikers like me.

The hike is beautiful. The terrain is rocky, of course. Some of the "steps" up are so high that I had to hold the roots (Yes! roots!) of the tree above me (yes above!) and hoist myself up. My quads have never worked so hard. But they have been good to me today. They are tired but they are strong.

About an hour into this hike I came upon a clearing, a sheer rock face, like a mini-peak, that looked out on mountains upon mountains upon mountains. Had this been the actual peak that I was hunting for, I would not have been disappointed. I sat back, enjoyed the view, and refueled on a granola bar.

An hour later, I was on top of the First Peak, the most visited peak. The climb up was far more difficult than I had expected; but the view was far more spectacular than expected.
You can see the first peak here (I took this picture from the second peak looking down). It's a flat rock face. No vegetation. Just a big rock in the sky. The view is extraordinary. Like nothing you can fathom and like nothing that these pictures can realistically portray. I gasped at first sight.

"Holy shit" I muttered as another hiker smiled at me.
"This is beautiful."

A half hour later, I set forth down from this peak and onwards to the second peak.

The trail to the second peak, where I am now, was strategically difficult. My hike morphed from a "hike" to a climbing expedition and I found myself encountering a number of new experiences. I was lucky enough to stumble across Rusty and Marcel, a couple who were also attempting to summit the second peak this afternoon. "We should hike together," said Rusty when she realized that I was alone. "This is really dangerous. You shouldn't be alone."

So I joined Rusty and Marcel and together we accomplished the most extraordinary and difficult of tasks: We shimmied between sky-high rockfaces in little crevasses so thin that had I weighed another 5 pounds I may have gotten stuck. This would be a bad time to have a bout with claustrophobia! We climbed hand over hand, fist over fist, step over step, up greasy wet tree roots and mossy rocks, slipping and sliding on our slow ascent up. We grabbed on to the chain bolted in the some of this rock's most treacherous and steep places to hoist ourselves up. In one place, my foot slipped and I dangled from the chains only. Frightening but exhilirating. We ascended up a rusty old ladder, caked with mud and moss. At the top, you have to swing, almost literally from a tree branch to get enough momentum to land on a part of the rock where you can keep your footing.

My heart, during all of this, was beating so fast I was sure I could see it rising and falling through my skin!

Two minutes from the top, we had to go on hands and knees to crest the final edge of the rock, before we could stand up right again.

And then, we arrived.
And I am here.
And there isn't anything more beautiful that I can remember having seen in my lifetime save for my nephew's bright eyes on the day he was born.


My feet are dangling some 3700 feet over Squamish BC. I am lookinng "down" on tree tops and "down" on an airplane. Cool!
I am, as I said, on top of the world.

In the distance are the snow-capped rockies as far as the eye can see. The ocean is a pearly-green. The trees are thick Pollock-inspired gobs of green that dot the horizon. The sun is shining. The breeze is cool. I am maybe 6 inches away from the edge of this cliff on one side and another 6 feet from the other. It is a tiny foundation of security. And it is beautiful.
Someone has made a rock cairn, and I sit next to it.

Am I in heaven?

--

After this entry and a few phone calls to the people i love from this little piece of paradise, I descended with Marcel and Rusty. I left them at the Peak 2 trail head and headed solo again to Peak 3. The peak three trail is unmarked and, as such, a little more frightening. My knees were starting to wobble from the stress of going steeply downhill and I was beginning to feel a little unsure. The terrain became increasingly difficult, like on the way to Peak 2, but I felt confident that I could scale this challenge too, if only I believed that I could.

Around this time, I almost quite literally "bumped" into Jason and Rick, two avid hikers who were swinging around one tall, twisty rock as I was pondering how to get by it.

"Are you hiking alone?" they asked.

"yes," I said.

"Well this is a pretty tough hike. Lots of slippery places. And a lot of tough pull-ups. We wouldn't recommend doing it alone. you'll need an extra hand for sure. In fact, we wouldn't ever do it alone. Too dangerous."

I gulped. I was getting tired. And although i really wanted to achieve all three summits, I didn't want to knowingly put my life at risk doing it.

"We come here almost every weekend," said Jason. "Just give us a call. The three of us can use each other to get to the top next time."

I took his number. Thanked them for their honesty. And followed them out.

When I got home, I slept for 12 hours.
Today, my legs feel like jelly, but ... man ... was it worth it.

Wow.

Oops, I did it again

Check out my newest injury.
It hurts. But it's cool!

I survived!

So this week, after 5 weeks of 06:00 AM workouts, I finally finished bootcamp.

What a thrill! What an accomplishment! I feel über-cool!

You see, for the past five weeks, Bootcamp and I have had a love-hate relationship.
Here is how it evolved:

Every morning, Monday through Friday, my alarm rings loudly from across the room at 5:00 AM and I stumble groggily over to turn it off. Most mornings, (after I got into my bootcamp groove), I actually woke up two or three minutes before the alarm and let the early morning rays dance across my face as I slowly embraced the morning. As the alarm chimed (or blared, depending on the morning), I eagerly jumped out of bed anxious for the morning’s challenge. That’s how it started! With child-like anticipation. And then… much to my chagrin, I would often painfully discover as I opened the blinds and took B for a walk that 75% of these morning workouts would be tarnished with rain, rain, and more rain.

In case you were wondering: Doing pushups in the rain is not fun.

I was wet. I was sticky. My hands, legs, arms, everywhere were caked with grass and mud. Little gnatty bugs pestered me during reps. It was downright awful, actually. But I still went. Mostly because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do this. And, quite often, aside from the grassy imprints on my hands and my pants soaked through past the underwear and straight to the skin, I actually felt invigorated.

“You’re hardcore,” my coach said to me and two other devotees one black Wednesday morning when the rain was pelting down more like hail then drops of water.

And I felt vindicated.

Our schedule was rigorous:
MONDAY: Arms Day. This involved sets shoulder presses, chest flys, bicep curls, tricep kickbacks, chest presses, shoulder raises, etc. When we can’t possibly fathom lifting our arms for one more lift, we rest our arms and pump up our hearts with some intense cardio intervals: Football shuffles the length of the field and back, then sprints, then jumps, etc… This is how it persists. Arms then drills, arms then drills, arms then drills. For the last ten minutes (this is the time when your arms are absolutely incapable of even holding up your cereal spoon at breakfast), we go for a 15 minute run. “To cool down,” my coach says. Right.

TUESDAY: Core. This is abs day. All day. Although the cardio component in minimized to just a short warm up run and a few laps in between sets of ab work, this day is one of the hardest. We crunch our abs. We curl them. We reverse curl. We bridge. We plank. We work those little muscles to the point where sitting up in a chair at home becomes torturous. I love it. It’s killer.

WEDNESDAY: Legs Day. Like Arms Day, Legs Day is a series of intervals with weights (squats, plies, lunges, kickbacks, glute raises, etc,) and intense cardio (squat jumps, shuffles, knee jumps, one-legged hops, etc.) I usually have a hard time pressing the gas pedal in the car when I am heading home after this session. That’s how I gage the success of this day: whether or not I would be considered a threat on the road thereafter.

THURSDAY: The Gauntlet. This day IS as bad and as torturous as it sounds. It’s the most intense cardio day. Drills drills and more drills without reprieve. There are five pylons the length of a football field. We start at one end and, for example, run through our first drill like this: Run to the first pylon and back, do 20 pushups. Run to the second and back; 20 pushups. Run to the third and back. 20 pushups. And so it continues until you’ve run the length of the field and back, to each of the five pylons, and completed 100 pushups. Then you move on to doing situps in between each run. Then jumping jacks. Then squat jumps. Then shuffles. It goes on like this for an hour. By the end, I can barely walk but I feel like a million bucks. And my bum has started to jiggle less. Which I can’t say bothers me in the least.

FRIDAY: Total Body Day! This day is a culmination of everything we have done all week at a fierce intensity. It’s arms. It’s abs. It’s legs. It’s gauntlet cardio. It is both brutal and beautiful.

So I got this cool t-shirt as a reward for surviving (5 members of our little group failed to complete the course and dropped out a various stages throughout). I also got a lot of unexpected gifts from this experience (I love surprises!):

- Improved self-confidence (I do kick butt. And that’s cool!)
- A tighter ass (see you later Havarti bum!)
- An inch less around the middle, my thighs, and my calves (cool!)
- A half-inch bigger biceps (Strong arms! Woo!)
- 35 seconds off my per kilometer race time (I’m defying the slow-McMullen genes!)
- New friends (and running buddies)
- A sense of accomplishment (my favourite thing)

So, naturally, I signed up for another five weeks.
I start Monday. Can’t wait!

Pimpin'

People on the West Coast are just as interesting as the scenery.

For example:
In my four weeks here, I have been mercilessly pimped out.
One friend and her friend and her friends' friends have this unnatural fascination with an Ontario girl moving West.
"Fresh meat" they called me. (Oh, why thank you.)
Apparently, being fresh meat is a good thing.

--
Side note:
For those of you who know me and my staunch feminist ways, you'll understand the underlying sarcasm throughout this whole piece.

--
PIMPIN' OUT #1:
"You're SO west coast," one of them said. "I know the perfect guy for you."
(He turned out to be some rock n' roll wannabe guitarist who couldn't hold a conversation and was eager for me to be his groupie. I was dreadfully bored.)

PIMPIN' OUT #2
"Oh, this guy will TOTALLY love you. You're SO cute and naive," said one friend tickled with excitement.
"Do I have to?" I pleaded with a huge sigh and dramatics.
(Apparently, I did.)

He turned out to be having a love affair with money and was fiercely critical of my "work to live" policy and my passionate commitment to earning money to spend on the things that make me happy and fulfill my life. He was more of a "stuff" kind of guy. He liked to show it off. Apparently, owning a nice car makes you a good catch (who knew?).

Still, even after our obvious lack of connection over every single belief we each had, he says:
"Wanna see my Porsche?"
I raised an eyebrow in disgust.
"Girls love it." (oooh! ahhh! Well if "girls" love it...)

"I'd rather not," I said, chugging back my beer in hopes that an alcohol-induced coma would save me from this idiot and his fat wallet. I stumbled home unimpressed but full on a nice cedar plank grilled Salmon fillet.

PIMPIN' OUT #3:
"This guy is SO hot Kim. You'll just die!" shrieked one painfully annoying girl whom I hope never becomes my friend.

Sure, he was nice to look at. But he was, predictably, a Himbo. Dumb as a rock. In love with himself. Zero personality. And I get bored with chiseled features after a while. In fact, I get bored with them after 3 minutes and 54 seconds to be exact.

Lack of personality, heart, and humilty make people ugly in my mind.
He was dreadfully appauling after four minutes. I couldn't stand to look at him.

I made an excuse to leave and did. A record exit that I prided myself on because I was able to call up a friend and hit a few golf balls before the evening was out! Success!

--

And so this has gone on for four weeks. Bachelor after bachelor. All this time that I can't seem to get back. Seems like such a waste. I've been able to thwart off most of these suitors thanks to my general disinterest in the dating scene and in dating for the sake of dating just to say you're dating. Really now... I have much better things to do than sell strangers on why I'm prime dating material. Please. I'd rather grab a beer with someone that already thinks I'm cool and whom I already believe to be fantastic.

Of course, this attitude has dismayed my new friends who were keen to sell my assets all summer long.
"What a bore, you are." They've playfully said.
"You're too picky."

"I'm particular," I said coyly. "I have no interest at all in spending time with people whose qualities I don't admire."

To them, this means that I have instantaneously deteriorated my boy opportunities out here by nearly half. One even ventured to guestimate that I've eliminated 98% of the pool by my attitude alone (gasp!), and apparently that is a dating shame.

Personally, I'm not too worried about the odds.

I have more pressing things to think about, like what mountain I am going to climb tomorrow...

Running in the rain

I woke up this morning to a tiny ray of light making it's way through a crack in the blind and onto my face.
Sunshine! I thought with anticipation of all the day's adventures that would ensue from this small realization.
It has rained steadily for two days, with no reprieve, and I've been itching to get outside.

So I tardily got up, stretched, and opened the door to the backyard to let my anxious pooch out for a pee. Upon opening the door, we realized that this little ray of light had taunted us. It was cold and overcast. Still, I saw the sun trying to poke through and I knew, given some time, that it would be victorious.

So I puttered around a little. I got the paper. I made breakfast. I cleaned the apartment. I brushed Beamer. I went to the laundromat. I called some friends. I chatted with family. I procrastinated on the Internet.

Then, a bigger ray of light danced on the kitchen table. I said to a friend: I am going for a run today! The sun is shining! I can't wait!

I actually haven't been running as often as I'd like. Most in part to the after-effects of bootcamp every morning, which leaves me void of energy and working muscles for a good 24 hours before I do it again. So I savour the weekends when I can go for a jaunt, breathe in the fresh ocean air, do some sight-seeing along a new route, and think things through. Running has always been therapeutic for me.

So I put on my gear. Gleefully talking to myself and my dog (Yay! I'm going for a run!)
I felt strong!

By the time I finally made it outside it was a little after noon.
The sun was doing its best effort to push through the clouds. It was breezy. But nice.
I set forth, Lenny Kravitz on my iPod asking me: "Girl, where are you running to?"
I had a good pace. I felt strong and full of energy.
THIS is going to be a great run.

I took 6th Avenue to Alma so I could see some different scenery, then ran down to Point Grey where all the ritzy rich live to admire their homes and scoff at their gas-guzzling, enviro-killing hummers, locked gates, and manicured gardens. About 3 or 4k into this jaunt, I felt a drop of rain.

Then two drops.

Then, within three seconds, it was a full on downpour. My friend, the sun, had lost his battle. The dark clouds moved in full throttle with their onslaught.

The rain was hard but cool. So I decided to continue. After all, being a West Coaster now, I am going to have to learn to love the rain. And, as much as I'd like to believe that I'm made of sugar, sadly, I am not. And I won't melt.

So I carried forth with conviction!
Within a few minutes, however, I was so wet that my pants were starting to feel heavy, and I was tripping over my pant legs, which had grown a few inches with the onslaught of rain! Although I'm really not one to pay too much attention to what people think, I worried that the heavier my pants got, the more likely I would be to accidentally half-moon passersby! Every few paces, I pulled up my pants. It was hysterical, to the point where I just stopped running, laughed at myself and this silly situation, and walked home in the rain, sloshing through puddles and dragging my pants legs behind me.


Here I am post run.
Wet.
But happy.
(Those aren't beads of sweat. They are beads of rain clouds!)

Oh, Vancouver. How I love thee.

My life is brilliant

I'm feeling a bit pensive after a wonderful hike, so if you're not up to my philosophical malarky, feel free to skim the following! Otherwise, enjoy the rambling, indirect ride through my brain and my life!

--

So, right on schedule, I did my Friday afternoon hike up Grouse Mountain today. It was a sunny but chilly day, which actually made for nice conditions in the forest during the hike.

For those of you that don't know Grouse Mountain and, particularly, the "hike" that I do called the Grouse Grind, it is, by far, the most strenuous hiking I have done save for one summit over Glissade Pass in the Tombstone Mountain range in the Yukon with a 60lb pack. Otherwise, it's definitely the hardest.

The incline is tremendous. It's a very physically, and mentally, exhausting trek up.
That's why I love it. It is so difficult sometimes.
And every time I get to the top, the thrill is no less than the last time.
There's a sense of empowerment that comes with acheiving difficult tasks.
Plus, the view is stellar too.
I could live up there.

Three minutes in, as usual, I was huffing and puffing and planning my pace. The moment you step foot on the trail it is UP and it continues, steeper and steeper upward for three kilometers. I was hoping to beat a sour time I had done last week: 1 hour, 7 minutes. At the trailhead, right before I began, as I adjusted my bladder pack, stretched, and tested my double knots, a far superior athlete (I could tell by his build and his super-cool gear) started off. Anxious to beat my time from last week and come in under an hour, which would qualify me as being better than just so-so on this hike, I quickly started the steep ascent behind this guy.

Of course, his pace was way faster than mine. And although I proudly stayed with him for a good twenty minutes, I quickly faded by the half way point and ended up throwing up by a lovely cedar. (Mom, don't worry. That's just a sign that I pushed myself! And pushing yourself is a good thing! I swear! But then I learned my lesson and stopped pushing myself that hard. So you can rest assured that I still have my wits about me and that the mountain air isn't getting to me... too much!)

Anyhow, not feeling too fantastic post-throw-up, I lightened my pace and the über-athlete hiked up and into the distance.
At first, I was disappointed. Then I realized that (1) this is not a race and (2) I was here for the experience and the work out and the love of nature. It's not about an ordinate of time.

Still, I kept a pace I was proud of.

I had my iPod, which I find essential on this hike. Because it is so strenuous, everyone is huffing and puffing so loud that you're convinced that everyone's lungs will pop out of their chests at any minute! I don't like to hear myself breathe hard. It reminds me that I am tired. So, today, I blocked out the auditory exhaustion with Michael Jackson's Bad, Madonna's Material girl, Beyoncé's Independent Woman, and other powerfully-lyriced, fist-pumping good tunes. Pearl Jam helped me get past the three-quarter mark. Some Aimee Mann calmed me through some tricky acents. Depeche Mode gave my stride some groove. I even had a little Rush in there for good measure. (actually, I put on my iPod just last night to see what all a friend's fuss was about). It helped me keep it real.

Thank goodness for music. I came home and danced in the living room to Sunshine State, Ben Harper, and INXS. A nice after-hike stretch!

But back to the hike...
As I crested the final few rocks to the summit, which are covered in about an inch or two of flowing water from the melting snow cap, James Blunt's song "You're beautiful" came on my iPod. (To be more fitting, it should have been: "You're sweaty and disgusting" but "beautiful" works...)

I caught my breath and let the cool air reduce the redness in my freckly face. I made a snow angel in the snow.
"My life is brilliant" is the first line of that song.
And it was very fitting that he sang it out at the very moment I made it to the top.

Why?
Because my life *IS* brilliant.
And this moment atop a mountain in BC, with nothing but my own perserverence, my personal thoughts, and my ambitions in my company, is just one of the many reasons why things are so swell. Why life is a pretty great thing for me.

I smiled and mosied over to take in the fantastic view of Vancouver, the ocean, and the wild abyss beyond. It's really quite a lovely view. The world is a much more beautiful place than you realize sometimes. Moments like this make me feel like a little speck in a much bigger universe.

I started thinking:
I just hiked up the face of a mountain. I can do that. Life is swell. This mountain (and many others) are twenty minutes from my house. I can explore whenever I want. That's a gift.

But now I'm getting all philosophical, and that wasn't really the point.

The point is: James Blunt echoed what I've been thinking lately: Life is brilliant.

I've surely had a few ups and downs, most noteably the wrenching pangs of homesickness. I miss seeing my nephew grow up. I miss hugging my dad. I miss long talks with mom. I miss my brothers making fun of me (oh wait... they still do. I don't miss that at all!) I miss weekend visits at the farm. I miss seeing Trevor's garden grow. I miss my friends. I miss Friday nights at the Queens Head. I miss dinners at the Szimanskis. I miss Lake Ontario (it's true! Crazy, I know!). I miss the Starbucks guy with the British accent who always knew that I wanted a Tall non-fat extra-hot caramel macchiato and always prepared with a smile and a "cheers".

As much as I yearn for these things, I realize that life is so much bigger. And that I know I will have these things again. And I know that my family and friends are behind me 100%. they always have been. I'm a lucky girl.

So where am I going with all this? (I'm a tangent-taker, you all know this by now!)

Here's the thing: My grams, who is an athletic inspiration and who teaches water aerobics and walks and cycles at age 80, always believed and has told me many times that if you've got legs, you might as well use them. The idea, of course, is that one day they might not work so well... might as well take advantage now!

Of course, learning to take this advice to heart has taken me some time as I fought through years of chubbiness and anguish and believing myself incapable of things just because someone said that I couldn't do it.

And now? Why I hike mountains in the afternoon. I kick butt at bootcamp as the sun rises in the morning. I run along the ocean with the cool breeze in my face. I'm learning to kayak. I cycle 80k with ease (well, *relative* ease). I compete in races. I have my own company. I love my work and I do good work. I have a dog whose adoration I try every day to be worthy of. I have GREAT friends. I have a fantastic family. I've got oodles of support from everyone. And I have so many more things left to conquer. Shaving some time off summiting Grouse is just one small notch in my belt (by the way, I made it in 58:04. Woohoo!)

Big or small, an afternoon hike up Grouse Mountain or a Patagonian summit, I can't wait for what life has in store for me next!

Life is brilliant, isn't it?
Big time.

Save Algonquin Park!

One of my most favourite places on the planet – Algonquin Park – is due to be logged. 78% of it, as a matter of fact.
I've made a lot of memories in Algonquin Park:
- I took my mom on a four-day canoe portage on the coldest May long weekend to hit Ontario in years. We had frost on the tents in the morning. We froze at night. And we built a lot of character.
- I fell ass-up into a bog with a fifty-pound pack on my back after my friend Lisa tripped on a hornet's mud nest, Consequently, I was stung some 15 times in the butt before Lisa dared to pull me from the smelly muck. And of course eagerly showed off my war wounds on my keister for the camera (ah... memories!)
- I made great memories with Matt, Jen, and Lisa in 2006 on the never-ending portage.
- I tried my best to cross paths with my brother and his wife, who portage with their friends in the park every year
- I paddled to exhaustion in the middle of a windstorm
- I made a great fire!
- I slept under the stars

Although it is, unfortunately, impossible to stop all logging in Algonquin Park, it is NOT impossible to lessen the percentage which is logged. This petition will strive to reduce the logged land from 78% to 46%, protecting and preserving 54% (rather than 22%) of the park for good.

Go to: www.savealgonquin.ca to submit your petition to stop/reduce the logging in this rare and wonderful provincial park.
The letter on the website goes directly to your local MPP and pressures them to act to save the park from logging.

Queens Park will be holding an open debate on June 15th. By making some noise now, we can pressure our MPPs to take note and to do something worthwhile for the park, the environment, and the eco-system of birds, animals, plant life, lakes, and rivers all rare to Algonquin.

Logging in Algonquin has vastly altered the composition of the natural ecosystem. A report by the Ontario Parks Board recently released by the government recommends that more land can be protected within the park while maintaining jobs in the logging industry.

A poll conducted by McAllister Research in March of this year shows that 79% of Ontarians are opposed to logging in the park. Furthermore, 90% agree that Ontario should protect more forests as a shield against global warming.

Algonquin is near and dear to my heart.
If it is to yours, too, please click to save it.

www.savealgonquin.ca

A one-man tent, a dog, and trouble waiting to happen

Beamer and I set off to Vancouver Island this weekend to camp and then hike part of the Juan de Fuca trail.

BC FERRIES
Our journey of ensuing hilarity began at the ferry.
Being a naive West Coaster, I assumed (wrongly, in hindsight), that we could just drive to the Ferry, pay, and get on the next one. Although rushed, we managed to make it to the Tsawwassan ferry port (about 25 mins outside of Vancouver) with 15 minutes to spare before the 2:00 Ferry departed. At the window, I asked: "Am I on time for the 2:00?"

"Honey," the women replied condescendingly, but in a high school cafeteria kind of way that was also a bit sympathetic, "you're not even gonna make the 3:00. You'll be lucky if you make the 5:00."

You see, on weekends, there is usually a wait for the Ferry. (Who knew? Not I) And, this weekend in particular, I found out that there was some sort of provincial championship something on the Island and everyone wanted to be there, not just me. So the wait time was ridiculous.

So B and I parked in the pecking order, and waited three hours until the 5:00 Ferry departed.

"Why don't they just run more ferries when it's busy?" I asked a guy reading beside us on the grass where we lounged outside of the car for three hours. "That would be too easy," he said with a scoff.

As the cars were welcomed aboard, the parking guy stopped the line up TWO cars before ours!
If I missed the 5:00, I would be out of luck: the next ferry didn't sail until 7. It's a 1.5 hour sail. And another 1.5 hours to the campground. I would surely be setting up in the dark! Surely, having arrived at 1:45, I would be able to make the 5:00!!!

Luckily, the ferry parking gurus squeezed the cars in and were able to take the guy in front of me and me! woohoo! So we made the five o'clock. And things were starting to look up again!

PARTY IN VICTORIA
Before we went to Juan de Fuca Provincial Park, we had a party to stop by in Victoria. My web service provider invited us to a house warming party and we decided to pop in for a few hours to say hello. Of course this "few hours" was planned prior to our 3-hour wait at the Ferry. So it morphed into a "Hi. How are you? Congrats on the new house. Here's some wine. Hi I'm Kim. This is Beamer. We have to go."

So we high-tailed it out of there around 8:30, with advice from the party-goers that Sooke (the town closest to the park we were camping at) was 45 mins away max.

NEUROTIC GREYHOUND + ONE-MAN TENT = BAD SLEEP
They were right. It was only 45 mins away... assuming I didn't get lost first. But I did. And headed the wrong direction on HWY 14 until the highway turned to a one lane bendy backroad. I started to question my direction. Luckily for me and my poor navigational skills, fate interveened and three deer sidled up onto the highway and blocked me from going any further. While they grazed in front of my car and Beamer stared intently, I took the opportunity to review my map. Which confirmed that I was indeed going the wrong way. By the time I was back on track, the sun was setting, it was 9:15, and I was a long way from the camp site.

At 10:30 we rolled into the campground. Luckily, I had prebooked a site. Of course, I didn't know which site and the guard gate was closed. I got out of the car to look at the campground map and saw a note taped to the map: Kim McMullen go to site 68.

Ah... west coasters are so nice.

We pulled in. I set up the tent. Nearly strangled Beamer as I forced her into it. And spent the ensuing evening tossing and turning while my greyhound sat on me, whined, stood up and panted, and, eventually, climaxed her poor camping behaviour by barfing in the tent around 1:00.

This is a picture of Beamer pre-barf, hating the tent.

This strategy worked and I quickly booted her out of the tent, put on my headlamp, and got to work santizing our sleeping space. 20 minutes later, she was back in the tent humming and hawing about her rough luck. Lucky for me, she was unable to repeat the barfing incident and I had on-and-off sleep for a few hours.

JUAN DE FUCA
All of this toil and trouble, up to this point, turned out to be very much worthwhile.
We packed up camp at the crack of dawn and headed to the trail head. After a two-kilometre hike through dense jungle-like forest, big mud puddles (all of which Beamer tredded through with a "take that!" attitude), and a suspension bridge that gave Beamer anxiety and took her a good 2 minutes to cross as she gripped one paw and then the other and the other and the other over the steel grate-like planks, we arrived at our first destination: Mystic Beach. When you come out of the forest and see this beach, it is, for a lack of a better word, magical.

We saw only two other people who had camped on the beach and were heading to another part of the trail. The sand was smooth. The forest from which we had descended created big rock bluffs and cavernous creations at sea level. Waterfalls cascaded from the cliffs.


Beamer ran in circles. I snapped pictures. We napped on the beach briefly.

This beach should have been called "Mist Beach", as there was this eerie yet refresshingly beautiful mist that hung over the trees and gave everything an irridescent glow. It looked like something out of the Lord of the Rings. From a magical time.

We carried on to Bear Beach after another 4 or 5k in the forest. An equally beautiful beaech. The epitome of serenity, really. Not a soul in site.

By the time we got back to the car, our hike had been five hours. We were tired but happy. Beamer's tongue wagged loosely out of her mouth. She had forgiven me for the tent episode (I think).

HINDSIGHT IS 20/20
As we boarded the ferry home I thought:
(1) I wish I had left on Friday, rather than Saturday, and had more time to hike more of the Jaun de Fuca trail
(2) I wish I had purchased a Therma-Rest for my diva dog before forced her to camp with me
(3) I wish I had reserved a spot on the two o'clock ferry.

Regardless of these few blips, though. It was a wonderful trip and a fantastic weekend.