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

Climbing into a new perspective

I was desperate to find deeper meaning in my life. To participate in something bigger than me. To experience something life-changing. To feel like I've made a difference. Like the world is just a little better for me having been here.

So I joined up with an incredible organization called Kidstart. It's a mentoring program for disadvantaged youths.

I signed up.
I was interviewed three times.
I had a police background check.
I did CPR training.

And then, after three months in preparation. I got my "kid".

She is a 10 year old who is full of life and love and ambition. Her family may be "poor" but she is very rich in character. And she is loved. I do not feel sorry for her. She is bright and happy and chipper and smart. And she desires to see the world. She is a mini-me.

"So," I said during our first meet-and-greet. "What do you like to do?"

She shyly listed off a few mundane activities. And I realized that she really didn't know what she likes to do because her lifestyle hadn't afforded her the opportunity to test the waters.

"Let's go hiking!" I said. And her eyes were aglow.

I mentioned that the Chief in Squamish was one of my favourite hikes but that it was very steep, very long, and very tough. But VERY worth it, if she was game.

She jumped at it! "Yes! I want to do that!".

The day we chose to go was pretty much perfect weather-wise.
There was not a single cloud in the sky. It was blue to oblivion.
It was 25 degrees. A cool breeze came in from the West from over the ocean.
And it was bliss.

"There it is!" I said and pointed to the huge jutting rockface that is the Chief as we rounded a bend in the Sea-to-Sky highway into Squamish.

She gulped. "That's it?!?"

"Yep!"

"We're going to climb that?!?" She was hesitant. And scared. And I realized that she thought at that moment that she was in over her head.

"We'll take it slow," I proffered to calm her fears. "You can do this!"

"Yes, I can" she said matter of factly.

As we ascended the first 200 meters of stairs at the trail head, she was instantly fatigued and asked for a break. She ate an apple, drank some water, took a deep breath, and said "Let's go!"

Ten minutes later, she was sweating madly (as was I) and working hard to keep it up.

"Are we almost there?" she asked like a kid on a car trip.

"Nope. We have about an hour to go! Let's just take our time. There is no rush."

She made it to the half-way point, a beautiful rock ledge where we sat in the shadow of a boulder, cooled off, ate some granola bars and talked about hot it was. she was quiet. And I could tell that she was fighting with herself. She was on the fence. She kind of wanted to go back and abandon our attempt to summit.

"If it's too much, we can go back," I said. "But you are doing SO well. you're the only kid on this trail. And I know you can do it."

"Okay, I believe you" she said.

So we pressed forth.
We breaked when we were tired.
We munched on more food when our tummies growled.
We doused our heads in water.

And then we hit the first ladder up a rock face.

"Only about ten minutes from here" i said.

"really?" She smiled wildly. "Let's see if we can do it in 8!"

Ah! my kind of girl!

So she picked up the pace, pushed forth, climbed ladders, shimmied through rock crevasses, and pulled herself up using chains.

And then, suddenly, we were there.
On top.
And the view was stunning.

She turned to me, and said "I am the proudest of myself than I have ever been in my whole life!!"

And she was so genuine.
And so proud.
And so tired.
And she had pushed forth even though she wanted to quit.
And she made it.
The only person under 25 on the summit that day.

And I was so proud of her.

And then I realized, right there, that this relationship was so much bigger than me and my desire to do something good.
She was giving me a gift far greater than the gift I was giving her.
Maybe we were mutually lucky.
And mutually in need of this opportunity to get to know each other.

We spent 2 hours on the top. Lounging in the sun. Eating our lunch. Talking about life. Highfiving for our victory.

"It is so beautiful here." she said "Don't you wish you could live up here forever?"

I nodded.
It was like our brains were linked. That was exactly what I was thinking!

45 minutes later, we were at the car. Our faces and hands were caked with dirt and salty rivers of sweat. We were laughing hysterically after a mad dash to the car (she won, but I still say she had a head start!) We scooted over to the 7-Eleven in Squamish, got two super-big slurpees, and sang Miley Cyrus songs all the way home.

My heart was aglow.

Dam Mountain and a piece of heaven

It was a cool September morning. I had been keeping my eye on Grouse from my home in Kits all morning. Although the sun was shining and the sky was blue, there was a big fat cloud sitting on top of my favourite mountain. The view, I knew, would be nil.
But my plan had to been to climb it today, then to climb its adjacent peak, Dam Mountain, thereafter.

I was set on it.

Today was the day that I would finally go out and spread Beamer's ashes in one of the places she loved most: nature.

By 2 o'clock, the cloud had decided to stay and, with a huff of disappointment at this less-than-ideal circumstance, I set forth.

With Beams in my backpack (a difficult reality to get my head around still), I trudged up the Grouse Grind, my weekly 2.9km workout up the side of Grouse.

At the top, just as I suspected: the view was a big white abyss. No city. No ocean. No anything below. Just white at every direction.
It was eerie and almost fitting, I think. For what this journey was all about. It was like I was already in heaven.

The trek from the top of Grouse to the top of Dam is maybe another 2 km up up up. The trail is not too steep, it winds nicely to and fro, following a little creek of winter run-off.

This trail, actually, is exactly the kind that Beamer loved: thin and windy, so she could forge ahead and see what was around the bend, then return back to me, wagging her tail, and letting me know that it's all okay. The sidelines were littered with flowers, grasses, puddles of water, and berries. All the things that she loves to sniff, pee on, and rub in! There were 6 or 7 places on the hike where the trail forked, and I was reminded of how Beamer always, without fail, stopped at a fork in the road on our hikes, and waited for me to lead her in the right (and sometimes the wrong direction.) She always had a sense, and usually hers proved better than mine.

The top of Dam Mountain is literally a pointy rock. It's small yet iconic. I climbed up, sat on top, took off my backpack, and cried. I know the view from here is brilliant, but all I saw were the tree tops closest to me and the white white clouds.

I decided it was time to get B.

There is something so heart-wrenching and so final about seeing those you love as a pile of tiny stones and ashes in ziploc bag. In fact, it's down right cruel.

I poured Beams into my hands, stood up, and let her go.

The ashes carried off in the gentle breeze. The stones fell to the ground, dotting the landscape with white pebbles of love.

I sat back down defeated.
I wanted it to be more monumental. I wanted it to be less painful and more therapeutic.
I wanted there to be sunshine and love and light and beauty.
I wanted to feel like she was there and that I was not alone.

But there I was. All alone on a mountain top, one of my most favourite places to be, and I was miserable. And I felt alone.
And I missed Beamer with a terrible ache.

I would give anything to have my best friend back. Anything to pet her furry head atop that mountain, share a cookie and a drink of water like we always did, then say "Ok! let's go!" and watch her excitedly lead the way back down.

I got up to leave.
I said goodbye and I'll see you soon.
And with teary eyes, I sulkily climbed down the rock.

And then, with my very first step, like out of a carefully choreographed movie plot, the clouds parted, just a little bit. And a small ray of sun shone down on the rock where I had just been sitting.

I stopped.
"You've got to be kidding me!" I said aloud and laughed.
And I stood there staring, as I watched the clouds part more and the sun shine brighter, and this mountain top come alive.
In the very moment, I knew that, for me, Dam Mountain was heaven on Earth.
And that although Beams is no longer by my side, she, in fact, very much by my side, giving me light and love when I need it most. That's what she always did... and that's what she still does.

As I descended the trail, back to the top of Grouse, the cloud continued to move away, so fast that I could actually see it move in front of me. By the time I was half way, the sky was entirely blue and I could see as far as I could imagine. I was 1,000 feet higher than I had ever climbed before, and the view from up there was nothing short of majestic.

I can't think of a better place for my very best pal to rest.

Terrific Tofino

Although there are a million places in the world I have yet to see, I am pretty confident in saying that the most beautiful place on the planet, or darn well near it, is Tofino, BC.

It was this city that four years ago I visited on a whim. I surfed. I kayaked. I hiked in old growth rainforest. The adventure was surreal. The memories were etched in my mind as some of the best in my entire life. So much so, that when I returned to Ontario, I longed for Tofino. I dreamt about it. I researched it on the Internet when I was supposed to be working. I hung pictures in my room, on the fridge, by the TV.

In fact, I can probably attribute that visit to BC as the reason why I live in the province today.
I couldn't possibly hold down a career in the tiny town of Tofino on Vancouver Island, but I can take a ferry and a short car ride there on the weekend and live in my dream whenever I want.

So when the August long weekend came around and I was itching for some time away and with nature, it was only natural that I chose to go to Tofino.

I caught the afternoon ferry from Horseshoe Bay to Nanaimo. Was on the road on the island by 3. And in Tofino before dark. The road to Tofino is one of the windiest, skinniest mountain roads I have ever driven. It's a wild ride, especially when you meet a semi on a corner and he is taking it wide doing 50! It's enough to make you feel alive!

It's also one of the most beautiful stretches of road I've ever driven. Trees hug the roadside so closely that sometimes you think you'll drive right into them. And, on this particular journey, I was even greeted by a black bear cub munching berries on the side of the road. Bliss!

My five-day Tofino agenda was, of course, packed with hiking hiking and more hiking.

In my hostel room I was lucky enough to meet a newlywed couple from Calgary who were lucky enough to meet some Tofino locals who had bestowed upon them (and in turn they bestowed upon me) a secretly fantastic hike that led to a blissful view.
"It's muddy. It's steep. "it's dense." they warned. "But you will not regret it."

Soon my first full day, with my friend Lisa in tow, we headed toward Radar Hill, a popular tourist route, then took our bunkmates' advice and found an obscure little trail. Though unkept, mossy, muddy, and winding, the trail's most unpleasing aspects were also the reasons for its beauty. It felt, two steps in, like we were lost in a jungle or a mythic forest. We climbed up tree roots, over fallen trees, under mossy canopies, and through mini-streams. Branches skinned our faces, thighs, and shins. It was stunning. And then, 45 minutes after we began, we climbed up a final stretch of sandy pathway towards a shining light and THERE. IT. WAS.

Paradise.


I use that word a lot on this blog "paradise". But this time I really mean it.

What we had stumbled upon was the Pacific ocean on the West Coast of Vancouver Island. A huge stretch of untouched sandy beach. Not a single soul. Not a single footstep in the sand (save for me own). The waves crashing and the birds singing were the only sounds to echo. There were no voices, no people, no one. It was our own personal paradise. The rocks that framed this brilliant beach were covered in orange and purple sea stars. The air was salty and sweet.

I've never been anywhere more perfect.

The next day was yet another adventure. One of the local guides urged us to cross the mudflats on the eastern side of the penninsula on which Tofino sits. When the tide is out, you can walk across what is otherwise a deep ocean inlet, across these mudflats rich with shrimp, crabs, birds, frogs, etc. "It's one of the densest, richest eco-systems" the guide said.

"Will we sink?" I asked

"Definitely," he said smiling. "The trick is to just keep moving. And leave your shoes on the sidelines!"

So we headed down to the shore, ditched our shoes, and began "walking" across the mudflats to Racoon Island. Sea urchins underneath the surface sprayed water on us as we passed. Sometimes I sunk as deep as my mid-shin, laughing all the way. Other times I walked straight across. At Racoon Island, we decided to walk around the entire island. On the opposite side, we realized how lucky we were to have this experience. A large crab sidled up beside my toes for a a gander, while a bald eagle flew overhead and landed directly in the tree to our right. A heron flew and landed in the distance. And the otters played in the shallows off the island as we sat above their den on Raccoon Island taking it all in.


Like the day before, there were no boats, no people, no sounds expect for a symphony of nature. A musical masterpiece that is, hands down, my very favourite tune.

The next day we caught a water taxi to Meares Island, where some of the biggest trees on all of Vancouver Island exist. The island has a rich environmental history. It was due to be logged in the 80s. To save it, the Chief of a local native band was on the island when the logging crew arrived and he made a land claim. After 20 years in courts, the island is now a public sanctuary and will never be logged. It is some of the only original rainforest left in this stretch of land. Most of the rest is second-generation.

There is a quick hike on this Island called the Big Tress hike, which takes you along a winding boardwalk to, of course, a BIG TREE. So thick around that it might take 100 people or more holding hands to hug it. It is a thing of beauty.
Right past the tree, the "end" of the hike, is a sign that says "trail closed". We quickly ducked under it, and began one of teh most sensational hikes through one of the densest, mossiest, greenest, most fantastic forests I have ever been in.
Up and down. Over and under. And even through, we plodded along. The ground was littered with 6-inch banana slugs, enjoying the dampness of the rain the night before. Small rays of sunlight broke through the thick canopy dotting our journey with sunshine. Some trees, maybe thousands of years old, were falling over and nursing "new" trees, from sapplings to the huge, overbearing trunks of trees that had outlived our ancestors. And I realized that there was so much life before me and will be so much life after me. It was surreal to drink it all in. I felt like I was in Back to the Future. And the car had stopped in a time a billion years ago when the forests were untouched and the life they created was clear.

This is just a snippet of my journey back to Tofino.



It is my most favourite place.
And every time I leave, a little part of my heart stays behind.

Partying in Pemberton, BC

It was the eve of my 30th birthday. Paul and I were struggling to stay awake. We had both put in long hours at work so that we could blissfully enjoy the next four days work-free (and worry-free).

"Do you think we're to old for this?" I asked as we tried in vain to get some Zzzzs before or early wake-up call.

"I sure hope not!" Paul replied, laughing and pointing to some greys in his receding black locks. Subtly pointing out that if I was too old, then he was definitely too old.

"And since when did I start saying 'do you think we're too old!?!'"

When the sun pierced through our blinds the next morning, my 30th birthday, we were not at all well-rested, though we were ready for what lay ahead: the Pemberton Music Festival.

Now I realize that I am writing this as if the music festival were a death sentence or a Star Trek convention or anything else that would equivalently put us at unease. But really, there was nothing to fear. Well, nothing but 40,000 teenagers and twenty-somethings in a crowded field with a ratio of 20:1 people to port-a-potties.

We grimaced, high-fived, and set forth.

Pemberton is a beautiful little pocket of a town just northwest of Whistler. It is nestled in a little valley in between huge mountains. Mount Currie, at 8500 feet loomed over our campsite. It was still snow-capped in this very warm month of July and was a breath of fresh air in a tent-city of thick dust.

We parked our car at the Pemberton Airport, a grassy strip about 10 kilometers from the festival site, hopped on a school bus packed to the brim with festival-goers - in the seats, in the aisles, standing, sitting, screaming, everything. Everyone was hot, sweaty, and slightly smelly. Paul and I included.

When we arrived at the festival grounds, we realized that we had to carry everything in on our backs and in hand. So our tents, food, clothes, camera, drinks, chairs, etc etc. I managed to squeeze by security with some Coronas secretly stashed inside my sleeping bag and felt instantly sly and victorious. Paul and our friend Mike, however, did not survive security unscathed. When we had discussed "hiding" our beers to smuggle them in, I took half and slyly positioned them in various points throughout my bags. Paul and Mike, however, had the brilliant idea of hiding the beer in the cooler. "So it will be cold," Paul said.

It was cold.
It was also confiscated by security when they opened the cooler and saw two rows of the delightful Mexican ale.

Boys.

So we trudged toward our camp spot, a literal patch of grass among other patches of grass among 40,000 other tents. Our friends, who had arrived a day before, had saved a little space for us. With packs on our backs and cooler in hand, the trek seemed long. So we paid a girl in a golf card $50 to take us the rest of the way. I bet she made a killing that day!

We found our friends, set up tent, cracked open a beer, and this is how the weekend unfolded:

DAY 1:


We didn't arrive until 6 PM or so. We walked around. We made note of life necessities -- port-a-potty locations (particularly where the jumbo, super-clean, deluxe wheelchair port-o-potties were located); funnel cake vendor; hot dog vendor; medical tent; girls with golf carts willing to take money in exchange for a ride; and market for fresh fruits and veggies.

We got to know our neighbours. Figuring that making friends was better than making foes, and that this initial effort would prove fruitful in the evenings while we were trying to sleep and the young'uns were still partying.

We left camp at 8 o'clock to go to the Nine Inch Nails show. This rock band has always been a little too hard and loud to win over my affection. That being said, I was anxious to see them play. I had heard that they put o na brilliant live show. An hour later, when they took the stage, I realized that was true. The show was a riveting combination of lyrics, beats, and laser lights.
We were in awe. We were banging our heads, letting loose, jumping wildly, flailing our arms, and generally kciking off our Pemberton experience with a bang!!

When the crowd dispersed after a crowd-thumping encore, we had our first taste of what would be the weekend's only real foible: the dust. As we herded out of the concert area like cattle, the dust kicked up and into all orifices. People coughed, gagged, and held handkerchiefs to their noses. We couldn't see three steps in front or any behind. It was a wild time.

Back at camp, we high fived and riled in the post-concert high. Nine Inch Nails had set the stage, and we all felt the excitement brewing. This was just the beginning.

Being the "old" people that we are, we were in the tent and fast asleep before midnight, while thousands of other campers partied on. Thank goodness for ear plugs!

DAY 2:

We woke up to a brilliant sun rise that rivalled anything I had ever seen before. the clouds were sparse and the sky was blue. The snow on Mount Currie glistened. It was like out of a fairy tale. Except for the stench of the port-o-potties, which after a day of use by 40,000 concertgoers had become appetizing enough to convince me to hold it until we arrived home three days later. It was a lofty goal, and one that, sadly, I could not meet.

In the afternoon, one of my favourite bands, Sam Roberts, was playing on the mainstage. Paul, Mike, and I arrived early to get a great spot. We were, maybe, 20 rows from the stage, and when Sam came on, he felt close enough to touch. And I felt he was singing to me. He rocked a great concert and we had a great sing-a-long. I belted out tunes from the top of my lungs. I smiled. I laughed. I felt like a kid. I had music in my heart and it was magic.

And then a 200-lb crowdsurfer, whose friend's had launched him into the air from a few rows back, landed square on my back. I bent forward and he slid down my back, taking my pants -- and my underwear -- with him. Bent over and bare-assed, I was quick to get Paul to step in.

"Are you ok?" he said, trying to help me up as the failed crowd-surfer struggled by my feet, caught up in a tangle of his own drunken stuper and my pants and underwear.

"My pants!!!!!" I screamed in horror. "My pants!!!"

But Sam Roberts was belting out another good tune and subsequently drowning out my cries for pants!

Paul tried to help me up.

"My pants!!!!"

"Your what?"

"Pants!!!!!" I pointed to my bare ass, white like a lighthouse beacon on a star-less night.
He looked.
He laughed.
And he yanked my pants up so hard and so fast, they nearly reached my shoulders.

As I looked around, the other concertgoers near by smiled, sneered, and winked at me.
"You know, I think about 30 people took pictures of your butt," said my friend Mike.
I nodded.
Knowing full well that back at the camp later that evening I would, quite literally, be the "butt" of everyone's jokes.

Still, Sam Roberts put on a heckuva show, so what if I lost my pants. Could have been worse.

We herded back to camp for some lunch (chips, chips, and more chips plus beer, beer and more beer) and to rest up before a triple-header line-up of three of our favourite bands: Tragically Hip, Flaming Lips, and Tom Petty.

A few clouds showed up mid-afternoon and threatened to ruin the day; when raindrops fell around 5 pm, the tents were wet but our spirits were not dampened. We played cards with sleeping bags over our heads. We drank beers as big drops fell. And just as we headed off to the concerts for the evening, the clouds parted, the sun shone brightly, and the gloriousness of our surroundings was again so apparent.


Three hours later, after a rousing set of crowd-pleasing favourites by insane showman Gord Downie and the Tragically Hip, an hour of musical theatrics by the Flaming Lips, and a big ol' sing-a-long with the legendary Tom Petty, we edged our way out of the main stage area and toward the Bacardi B-Live Tent, where some of North America's best DJs would be jamming until the wee hours.

Although we butted in line (gasp!) to ensure a spot in the tent and an opportunity to keep our adrenalin high going, the line came to a halt, and the bouncers ushered the thousands of people waiting back into the open field. the tent had reached it's capacity and no one else would be going in tonight. As we left dejected, Ryan, Mike and I looked at each other and shared a "bummer!", then Paul, having been ushered out behind us came excitedly out into the open field: "Are we in???" he said with child-like excitement and abandon. He looked around eyes wild wondering where the party was. "Are we in???!"

I was knee-slapping funny. Ryan howled. Mike guffawed. And I nearly peed my pants.

"No, baby, we're not in. We're still in the field."

it was one of the best moments of the entire weekend.

It was at this same time, as Ryan was bending over and slapping his knees that we got our first glance of what would prove the weekend's only casualty: Paul's leg.

"Dude, what happened to your legs?"

We looked down in unison. His legs were bright purple, like the skin of a plum and his feet had swollen in size so much that his sandals were pressing in and making sausage links out of his toes.

"It doesn't hurt" Paul said and shrugged.

So we ignored his medical emergency like good party-goers and tried to sneak into the tent. But after failing to bribe a security guard, scale a fence, and jump into a pick up... we headed back to camp.

"My legs are kind hot," Paul said.

We doused them in water.
Reluctantly used the port-o-potties.
and went to bed.

DAY 3:

It rained all night and we didn't care. We woke up still on a high from the Tom Petty concert and humming "Free Fallin'" in our heads. I dreamed that I was "an American girl" and Tom Petty was singing to me.

We also woke up with a plan.
The last band, Coldplay (yes!) was playing from 9:30-11:30 in the evening. Most people, we figured, would be too drunk or high or tired to attempt to drive home afterward. To avoid traffic, we figured we'd hope in the car post-Coldplay and jet home.
So we got up, waited for the sun to dry off the tents, packed them up, and headed for the shuttle stop so we could pack the car, then come back to enjoy the concert after.

In theory, this was brilliant. In reality, everyone else thought of the same brilliant idea. Well, not everyone, but a good third of festival goers spent the morning packing up and hauling stuff back to their cars.

We waited for an hour to catch a shuttle.
And walked through the airport for another hour trying to find our car in a sea of identical blue cars, it seemed.
Then we waited another hour to take the shuttle back.
Then 45 mins in line to get through festival security again.
Then, we were in!

Whew.

When we arrived back at camp, our friends were in their chairs, having beers, and their tents were long gone too!

"Where are your tents?" I asked.

"We took them back to the car."

I was dumbfounded. We had left before they had even woken up.

"But... how'd you get back here so fast?"

"We drove the car."

Still confused I said: "but... they aren't letting cars in."

"They are if you pay them 100 bucks," said my friend Chad with a wry smile.

So they all laughed at us, but at least we still had our hundred bucks.

We had made it back in time to watch a fabulous up-and-coming band: Death Cab for Cutie. It was a mellow performance with a lot of soul. Mike and I felt the groove. Paul felt like sleeping.

But before we headed back to camp in between sets, we decided to stop at the medical tent to see what the heck was going on with Paul's legs. They were ever more purple and his feet evermore sausage-like. The trisage nurse gave him some forms to fill out, looked at his legs, and said "What is that?" with a bit of unprofessional disgust. (In her defence, it was downright nasty.)

"I don't know," laughed Paul. "That's why I am here."

they moved him to another set of chairs with other ailing conertgoers. A young guy with an arm rash sat beside him.
"What the hell is that?" he asked, creeped out and curling his lip in disgust.
Paul shrugged.
"What the hell is that?" he said in return, looking at the guying bumpy arm rash.

A happy, young doctor in scrubs popped by and said "who's next?" like in a coffee shop.
the guy beside Paul, who was clearly next adn had been waiting longest, said like a martyr: "Take him. He should go first." and pointed to Paul.

"What's that?" asked the doctor.

Paul shrugged.
The doc poked and prodded.
And then he said: "Listen, you're not going to die today. I can't do anything. Do us both a favour and put on some pants, enjoy the rest of the show, then wash your legs when you get home. Your'e likely allergic to the dust."

He patted Paul on the back, wished him good luck, and set him free.

So we promptly headed back to camp, washed Paul's legs at the community watering hole (a bunch of taps in the middle of a sea of tents), elevated those puppies, and rested easy until Jay-Z's set.

"Who is this 'Jay-Z'?" Paul asked in one of his "older" moments and we all shared a laugh at his expense wondering how he had not heard of Hip Hop's biggest mogul and Beyoncé's hubby.

Although he was half an hour late and the crowd was restless, Jay-Z took the stage as the sunset wore off and a sprinkle of rain settled in again. With only a handful of Americans in the crowd, this Canadian contingent shouted "Jay-Zed, Jay-Zed!" And Jay-Z ate it up. He had the crowd in the palm of his hand from the first big bad beat, and with two drummers, a full horn section, and two guitarists, the party was quickly started! The crowd chanted, girls took off their shirts for a chance at getting on the big screen, and even Paul, who three hours before had wondered who the heck this Jay-Z guy was anyway, started groovin' to "99 Problems". It was a sight to behold.

And then, Coldplay arrived. Led by curly-topped Chris Martin (my future husband -- sorry Paul) and his band of merry men, this UK band took to the stage with heart and soul, belted out their best tunes, let the crowd sing the crowd-pleasing Yellow ("look at the stars / see how they shine for you!") while the clouds parted and the stars dropped dots of light onto the crowd. It was majestic. It was surreal. It was a concert of epic proportions. I didn't want to leave.

And then, just like that, with the last song and a final bow, Coldplay was gone, the concert was over, the festival was complete, and we had survived relatively unscathed save for a 45-second pant-loss, some purple legs, and some sausage toes.

Keen to avoid the line ups for the shuttle buses, we took advantage of the warm july evening, and walked the 10 km to our car, leaving shuttle buses of other eager concert-leavers to sit in amassed traffic for hours.

We arrived home at 5 a.m.
Showered (first time in three days)
and crashed into bed.

30 years old, 3 days, 40,000 people, 10 great bands, 1 very big beautiful mountain, two stunning sun sets, and 7 great friends.

It was the very best time.
And, no, I am not too old for this stuff.
not yet, anyway.