Nighttime. The camp fire has almost burnt out. We made burgers here, atop Jake’s fire. Jake took a slug of our Canadian pilsner, gave it a good review, then jumped over the fire. Loon calls, and then Jake, “Mom! you should take a look at this sunset. There’s some good lines—“ he points to the water.
“And you should write about the Milky Way, Cutie,” added Michael, “It spreads from one side of the horizon to the other, as big as the St. Louis Arch. ”
After driving out of last night’s lousy parking lot and discovering we were 10 minutes shy of two lovely (and free) provincial parks, today was by far the prettiest we’ve seen since I said goodbye to the birches of Mary Allen lane. We finally felt the warmth of the sun about Queznel, a sleeply little town that time seems to have forgotten since the 50’s, 700 km north of Vancouver. We pulled over and rode our bikes for an hour, through town and along the Queznel river. Affirming that it’s a river worth respecting, Michael pointed out that salmon must swim it, and it feeds into the ocean. We did some yoga and Jake fried up a quesadilla. Then Michael went for a run. Didn’t it feel good? “No, it feels terrible,” he cried. “Its been too long!”
Sixty degrees. Its all I ask. So amazing to feel the warmth of the sun as I salute it. And to see sweet little settlements, log barns, whole fences made of old wagon wheels. Kids playing frisbee in hayfields. Its Canadian Thanksgiving Day, and families stroll the riverfront. As her father walks the dog, a small girl carries her gerbil in its plastic cage. Big golden leaves swirl down the sidewalks. After days, months, of cold and the shoddy, barren settlements of Glenallen and Tok of Whitehorse and Sasquatch--double-wide trailer homes by dusty parking lots and Atco hotels, I feel like I’m waking up from a dream. We have come here by way of a road through the Peace Valley (simply called “Peace” on the radio) as the sunset and by a mist-covered lake called MacLeod, and down to the fertile lowlands full of grazing cows. “It smells like Northern California already,” says Michael. “Can you believe it? We’re back in the land of the sun.”
“And you should write about the Milky Way, Cutie,” added Michael, “It spreads from one side of the horizon to the other, as big as the St. Louis Arch. ”
After driving out of last night’s lousy parking lot and discovering we were 10 minutes shy of two lovely (and free) provincial parks, today was by far the prettiest we’ve seen since I said goodbye to the birches of Mary Allen lane. We finally felt the warmth of the sun about Queznel, a sleeply little town that time seems to have forgotten since the 50’s, 700 km north of Vancouver. We pulled over and rode our bikes for an hour, through town and along the Queznel river. Affirming that it’s a river worth respecting, Michael pointed out that salmon must swim it, and it feeds into the ocean. We did some yoga and Jake fried up a quesadilla. Then Michael went for a run. Didn’t it feel good? “No, it feels terrible,” he cried. “Its been too long!”
Sixty degrees. Its all I ask. So amazing to feel the warmth of the sun as I salute it. And to see sweet little settlements, log barns, whole fences made of old wagon wheels. Kids playing frisbee in hayfields. Its Canadian Thanksgiving Day, and families stroll the riverfront. As her father walks the dog, a small girl carries her gerbil in its plastic cage. Big golden leaves swirl down the sidewalks. After days, months, of cold and the shoddy, barren settlements of Glenallen and Tok of Whitehorse and Sasquatch--double-wide trailer homes by dusty parking lots and Atco hotels, I feel like I’m waking up from a dream. We have come here by way of a road through the Peace Valley (simply called “Peace” on the radio) as the sunset and by a mist-covered lake called MacLeod, and down to the fertile lowlands full of grazing cows. “It smells like Northern California already,” says Michael. “Can you believe it? We’re back in the land of the sun.”
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