Mount Lynky (The last great hike of the season?)

Thrilled by a beautiful yet foggy and damp day in September, Paul and I were quick to agree that it was a fine day for hookey from work and for a mini-adventure in the interior.

We packed our bags,a lunch, and the camera, hopped in the Hyundai and headed Northeast. Destination: unknown. Though we knew our end goal was to inevitably stumble upon a great hike.

2 hours into our ride, we blinked our way along the Trans Canada through Hope with our eyes on the tiny little village of Boston Bar. Then, on the outskirts of Hope, we stumbled upon Mount Lincoln. It's a small (in mountain-standards) mountain with a great view of the fraser river, the Fraser Valley, and with (we assumed from the bottom of it) a not-too-shabby view of this Moutnain Range from the top.

We parked on the side of the road next to a vacant semi with running shoes in the window, hopped across the Trans Canada, found the trailhead, and began our ascent.

The bottom was fairly scree-heavy. Lots of loose rocks and green mossy. It was equal parts beautiful and dangerous. We eked our way along.

"I hear something" Paul said as we pressed forth.

"It's probably me. I'm breathing like I'm having a heart attack" I mused. The ascent was steep. And our breath was short.

Then I heard a pile of rocks fall. We feared the worst -- a bear! But were gladly mistaken. It was a zealous hiker on his way down, nearly running (and sliding) down the scree with two hiking poles, a t-shirt soaked through, and a grin wider than his cheeks.

He came to a halting stop, nearly losing his balance.

"This is a killer hike, dudes," he said in his laid-back, west-coast lingo. "Killer."

"cool!" we said. We were stunned by his enthusiasm and energy. It was like he had just downed three Red Bulls. He was ADD. He was shivering with hiking elation!

"Gotta get back on the road. Delivery to make," he said.

"Is that your truck?" we asked, alluding the to the big semi.

"Yep. Last thing the world needs is another fat and lazy trucker, right bro?" he said, slapping Paul on the side.

He was hysterical.

We wished him well and he slid down the rest of the mountain side so fast we weren't even sure if he was actually there or just a figment of our imaginations. Luckily, since we both saw him and recalled the encounter, we figured it was real. That, or we were both losing our marbles as the air thinned with elevation.


45 minutes of fairly strenuous hiking *and sliding) later, we came across our first rope. It was tied to a tree about 100 meters about us, and was very useful in helping us ascend over a very tricky, and steep, portion of the trail. Later, we would soon learn, that the value of this rope and four other that we came upon, would be in helping us get down this mountain with out falling off the edge!

The air was crisp.
The moss was electric green.
It felt like we had stumbled upon something so new and untouched.
Then again, we did see that crazy over-enthusiastic trucker-hiker. So this being "untouched" was obviously just perception.

The closer we got to the top, the more the trail essed up. It was steep. The trees opened up and we received temporary teasing views of the vista we would soon see in clarity.


The top of the mountain was just a mesh of bare trees and big rocks, but Mount Lynky did not disappoint, To the east was a hazy blue pattern of big boisterous mountains, cascading as far as we could see,

We parked ourselves on a rock jutting over the edge, ate turkey sandwiches, watched chipmunks dart beneath the rocks, listened to grasshoppers sing for their mates, followed hawks as they soared through the sky, and truly felt alive.

"If rainy season starts tomorrow," I said, "this would be a great way to end the summer."

"here here!" Paul seconded with a bite of turkey sandwich in his cheeks and a smile on his face.

We "cheersed" with our sandwiches, watched the mountains fade into nothingness, and half an hour later scooted down teh mountain, through the moss, around the trees, down the scree, and back to solid ground.

Hookey never felt so good.

Sunset Kayaking off Bowen Island

As a rule, kayaking is therapy. To me, any way. I've always found it to be equal parts adventure and solace. Part exciting and part soul-nourishing. But, at the end of September, when I took the little girl I am mentoring on a Full Moon Kayak Tour and we watched the moon rise from behind the mountains as ocean waves lapped up against our kayak and seals poked their heads out of the water nearby, it became evident that, for me, kayaking is bliss.

It is everything I love. And then some.

We took the ferry over to Bowen Island, a tiny dot on the Sunshine Coast, 15 minutes by ferry from Horsehoe Bay. Their wasn't a cloud in the sky.

At 6:30 PM, we suited up for our adventure with two other women from Vancouver and a perky guide from New Zealand. It was the first time, for both my and my pal, to get into a kayak in deep water, from the dock. A harrowing and unnerving task.

"I can't" squealed my little frightened ten-year-old pal.

"Sure you can," I said with confidence (though secretly wondering if I would dunk us both!)

We edged in from the dock, steadied in our cockpits, and took a seat. Much easier than it looked from the outset.

We paddled out into open water. Darkness was coming quickly, and the sun glowed pink in the sky. Three seals popped up, only three or four feet from our kayak. Two herons perched on the rocks close by,

"This is the best time to see wildlife" our guide cooed.

We were in awe.

The paddle was peaceful. We edged along the shoreline on our way out into open ocean by 8:00 the sun had dipped below the horizon, the stars began to shine like a Lite Brite, so brazen. So beautiful. I haven't seen stars so big and bright since my hiking stint in the Yukon. And still, these were different.


"Keep an eye out over there," our guide said pointing to a mountain. "The moon rises fast. It'll just pop up!"

And sure enough, a big round ball of white light appeared in a heart beat, illuminating the mountain from behind, creating a black mountainous silhouette.

"WOW!" we said in unison, and "parked" our kayaks, moving only slightly with the calm waves of the ocean, and we watched the full moon rise. So stunning I could have cried. Though that wouldn't be cool to a ten-year-old, so I kept it together, if only to maintain my dignity.

"That is amazing" whispered my co-pilot. We were all whispering now, as if our voices would shatter the gracefulness of teh moon's ascent.

Within two minutes, the full moon was high in the sky, the ocean was black and sparkling with moonlit diamonds. It was the stuff that National Geographic photo contest winners were made of.

When the moon finally hung still in the sky, making it's place for the night, we turned our kayaks and headed back to Bowen Island. Though the moon surprisingly gave off an incredble amount of natural light, we wore headlamps and bike lights to let the other boats know we were there, and cautiously paddled inland.

On shore again. we were mesmerized by it all. The moon was a ball of white fire. The Big Dipper was so big and so bright that we felt we could reach out and touch it. And, since we missed the 9:00 ferry home and had to stick around for the 10:00, we headed down to the very end of the docks, where there was no light, and where we could barely see our feet in front of us.

A full moon. A dark dock. A brilliantly calm ocean. It was the perfect conditions for bioluminescence. I had never seen them in person, only read of them in adventure mags and seen them on a Natur TV documentary once. When you see them, you believe in magic. Instantly.

Scientifically, bioluminescence is a marine phenomenon. It is light produced by a chemical reaction with a single-cell organism. They are mechanically excited to produce light through movement.

To us, it was simply magic.

We took off our shoes and socks and kicked our feel in the cool black water. In return, the water sparkled back, like it was full of blue, green, and silver glitter.

The evenings second chorus of "WOWs" ensured.

We splashed our hands and cupped the water, and watched as it sparkled in our hands.
It seemed more miraculous than scientific.

I have never seen anything like it before.

An hour later, with wrinkled, wet, and cold feet and hands, bellies pained from laughter and excitement, we clambered to our feet at the sound of the ferry horn, rushed to the depot, and made the last sail home with smiles on our faces and certainty in our hearts.

For a local sea-kayaking adventure, check out Bowen Island Kayaking.

Meet the Wormsters

Hypocrisy stinks. It's ugly. And Paul and I found ourselves smack dab in the middle of it one afternoon as we scoffing at some passersby for carrying their groceries in plastic bags while we tied up yet another bag of garbage (biodegradable bag, mind you), primarily food waste.

Good thing: the irony was not lost on us.

We asked our landlord to put a composting bin in our outdoor garden: denied.
We asked our neighbours to use their bin: denied.
We researched apartment-friendly compost alternatives and discovered that the City of Vancouver had a subsidized worm composting program. We called them up: accepted!

We went for a composting "class". A 101 on how to compost with worms. How to embrace worms into your family. How to maximize their ability to break down food waste. And how to use them to reduce landfill waste and create nutrient-rich soils.
An hour later, we left with our bin, our "bedding" for our worms (straw and shredded paper), a book called "Worms Eat My Garbage" with a hilariously tuxedo-ed worm on the front, and 250 garbage-eating worms in a canvas bag.

We were excited.
And scared.

"Worms are susceptible to weather conditions, different types of acidity levels in food waste, etc." our Worm 101 composting guide warned. "Killing the worms is bad."

After a few weeks, the Wormsters (as we affectionately call them), Paul, and I found our groove. We would cut up our food waste in easy-to-digest diced pieces for our little friends and feed them like clockwork every Saturday, and they, in turn, would odorlessly and efficiently turn our scraps into soil. A brilliant partnership.

We did, however, hit a bump in the road one cool October evening. The temperatures dipped to below zero and the wormsters woke up to a frosty compost bin. When I looked out the window, I cried "The Wormsters!!!!".

"No!" followed Paul with equal disdain.

In our PJs we rushed outside to check on our beloved worms. They were huddled up in an avocado shell. (So cute ... for worms). They weren't very wriggly. And they were giving off an air of disappointment with us.

"We are terrible worm parents" I said to Paul, as we said goodbye to three of the Wormsters who failed to make it into the avocado shell for warmth that night. Their lifeless scaly bodies a sobering reminder of our responsibility to the worms. They had been working so hard for us and for the environment. And we let them down.

Weighed down by equal part guilt and environmental duty, we quickly made a place for the Wormsters inside. Their "winter home". Equivalent to the 80+ crowd's Florida. Nestled inbetween the back door and the kitty litter (we believe stinky things should stick together), the Wormsters have since forgiven us for our follies and are back to working day and night digesting our orange peels, onion skins, and the occasional avocado.

For information about worm composting in Vancouver, visit City Farmer