A Weekender (Kootenay's Georgia Straight) story - they sent me on another assignment when I also came up w/ this one...on the road, alone!
(this one's for you, Cat!)
So appreciative, was I, to be sent “on assignment”, miles from my Mommy-mundane and straight into the heart of Kootenay living. It seemed time stood still this Saturday as I ventured down the mountain, through the valley, at the mountain’s edge and back again. (Or at least still in comparison to the guys - with full heads of hair under helmet - speeding by on motorcycles; the guys - with less hair – speeding by in sportscars.) I forgot how fast my own vehicle could corner; or maybe that was the special effect of open windows and fresh air. Since the car-seats where added, first one and then another, I’ve forgotten what it was like to drive with windows down.
Like the effect of a wind machine at a photo-shoot, my life felt glamorous as I drove the mountain’s edge, from Red Mountain to New Denver. Isolated thoughts crept in as to where my family was: my husband, chaperoning our preschooler and toddler, solo at a birthday pool party. But with wind tousling my hair, thoughts of domesticity seemed farther away with every passing mile.
Besides, on the road I was not Mom but adventurer and travel writer extraordinaire, locating treasures like: the healing center (The Bike Hospital), the ritualistic eating spot (Panini’s), or that rare art (Peter Corbett’s exhibit at the Cedar Creek Café, across from the “Sleep is for Sissies” coffee house).
I embarked from my quiet house in Rossland; quiet only because the family was still - bless their hearts - sleeping. I tiptoed my way around, navigating around the bathroom without lights lest I wake one of the sleeping giants. And sleeping all of Rossland seemed to be doing, for mine was the only vehicle on the road.
My first stop, (excluding the – not so glamorous – cold beverage at the local gas station) was Endless Adventures where, in Crescent Valley at 8-something on a Saturday morning, adventure enthusiasts were already gathered for some type of no-doubt extreme activity. It all looked good; meanwhile, I was there to drop off some promotional material.
My adventure was inspired by Barbara Wilson who, when I pulled into her Winlaw artist loftspace, was offering strong coffee and ultra-sticky sticky buns to a group of painters about to embark on a good old-fashioned barn painting. While I had imagined some large-scale mural project, I soon discovered that they were painting portraits of the barns for historical significance. Ahh, I’m glad I didn’t just run-along ahead and get an eager start on that one!
Like the effect of a wind machine at a photo-shoot, my life felt glamorous as I drove the mountain’s edge, from Red Mountain to New Denver. Isolated thoughts crept in as to where my family was: my husband, chaperoning our preschooler and toddler, solo at a birthday pool party. But with wind tousling my hair, thoughts of domesticity seemed farther away with every passing mile.
Besides, on the road I was not Mom but adventurer and travel writer extraordinaire, locating treasures like: the healing center (The Bike Hospital), the ritualistic eating spot (Panini’s), or that rare art (Peter Corbett’s exhibit at the Cedar Creek Café, across from the “Sleep is for Sissies” coffee house).
I embarked from my quiet house in Rossland; quiet only because the family was still - bless their hearts - sleeping. I tiptoed my way around, navigating around the bathroom without lights lest I wake one of the sleeping giants. And sleeping all of Rossland seemed to be doing, for mine was the only vehicle on the road.
My first stop, (excluding the – not so glamorous – cold beverage at the local gas station) was Endless Adventures where, in Crescent Valley at 8-something on a Saturday morning, adventure enthusiasts were already gathered for some type of no-doubt extreme activity. It all looked good; meanwhile, I was there to drop off some promotional material.
My adventure was inspired by Barbara Wilson who, when I pulled into her Winlaw artist loftspace, was offering strong coffee and ultra-sticky sticky buns to a group of painters about to embark on a good old-fashioned barn painting. While I had imagined some large-scale mural project, I soon discovered that they were painting portraits of the barns for historical significance. Ahh, I’m glad I didn’t just run-along ahead and get an eager start on that one!
After some time hanging out on picturesque Slocan Valley farms with Wilson, who proved to have a warmth and charm as magnetic as those sticky-buns, I hopped back in the truck, hugged the lakeside road until I happened upon another kind soul. Signs advertising Peter Roulston’s, Bike Hospital drew me to his highway property located on the out-skirts of New Denver. Although my mode of transportation was not a bike, but a truck; and I needed not a healer but a GPS, Peter – who offers superior customer service doctoring broken bicycles on his shaded front porch – was more than accommodating and steered me in the right direction, which happened to be in the direction I had just travelled.
So that’s New Denver. Beautiful!
Whilst partaking in the panini ritual (my choice: a delicious shrimp and pesto) in downtown New Denver, I found myself seated between some of those motorcycle enthusiasts and sportscar-driving types. I looked fondly over one shoulder, to the youth and freedom and then over the other, to the experience and the freedom. Sadly, my freedom was as long as the afternoon was short.
And my freeway to freedom was beckoning. (My father was a truck driver, so I come by it honestly).
Yet how ironic, that my plight for freedom might follow the same path as the interned were transported over in cattle trucks. After studying about the historical injustice of Japanese-Canadians during WWII, my arrival in New Denver and discussion with a formerly interned Canadian was awe-inspiring.
Sakaye Hashimoto was born in the camps at New Denver and has chosen to remain in that gorgeous spot, serve as the President of the Memorial Centre, and make education his life’s work. His mere presence, in that historical spot, gives me an education.
As I leave the Nikkei Internment Memorial Centre, I feel sheepish. Maybe crumb-filled car seats, ear-splitting birthday parties, driving with the windows up, and using the road as a freeway to freedom aren’t so bad! Especially when I can experience Winlaw bakery, Fomi’s, handmade hazelnut truffles on the journey home (and some more of those ultra-sticky sticky buns for a peace offering to my husband).
Except how do I explain the sticky steering wheel?
And although I am not “Mom” on this roadtrip, I am thrilled to return to her as I open my front door, especially because the kids are - once again - asleep!
So that’s New Denver. Beautiful!
Whilst partaking in the panini ritual (my choice: a delicious shrimp and pesto) in downtown New Denver, I found myself seated between some of those motorcycle enthusiasts and sportscar-driving types. I looked fondly over one shoulder, to the youth and freedom and then over the other, to the experience and the freedom. Sadly, my freedom was as long as the afternoon was short.
And my freeway to freedom was beckoning. (My father was a truck driver, so I come by it honestly).
Yet how ironic, that my plight for freedom might follow the same path as the interned were transported over in cattle trucks. After studying about the historical injustice of Japanese-Canadians during WWII, my arrival in New Denver and discussion with a formerly interned Canadian was awe-inspiring.
Sakaye Hashimoto was born in the camps at New Denver and has chosen to remain in that gorgeous spot, serve as the President of the Memorial Centre, and make education his life’s work. His mere presence, in that historical spot, gives me an education.
As I leave the Nikkei Internment Memorial Centre, I feel sheepish. Maybe crumb-filled car seats, ear-splitting birthday parties, driving with the windows up, and using the road as a freeway to freedom aren’t so bad! Especially when I can experience Winlaw bakery, Fomi’s, handmade hazelnut truffles on the journey home (and some more of those ultra-sticky sticky buns for a peace offering to my husband).
Except how do I explain the sticky steering wheel?
And although I am not “Mom” on this roadtrip, I am thrilled to return to her as I open my front door, especially because the kids are - once again - asleep!
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