bobfoulkesadventures

In 990 AD, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Sigeric, walked to Rome; invited by Pope John XV to be elevated to the position of Cardinal. We know this because his return trip was chronicled by a member of his party – 79 daily stages in all.

He wasn’t the first, the path had been used for years but for some unfathomable reason known only to the deeply devout, Sigeric’s journey inspired others to walk to Rome. It became a pilgrimage. There is now a stone at Canterbury Cathedral that marks the official start point of the Via Francigena, this pilgrimage to Rome.

Inestimable numbers of pilgrims have made the journey across Europe, they ebb and flow; yet through invasions, wars, the plague, predation from two and four-legged animals, scorching summer weather, freezing Alpine passes and other threats, pilgrims have endured.

With only 2500 or so pilgrims annually, it’s a lonely walk; the Camino de Santiago sees one hundred times that each year. Lack of consistent and reliable signage, a paucity of services, poor accommodation and the shear magnitude of the challenge; it’s not for the faint of heart.

Pilgrims walk the 1900 kilometers to seek enlightenment, the forgiveness of past sins, healing – the variety and breadth of motivations is as varied as the human condition. For a thousand years, we have sought some mystical prize that is delivered only with our arrival of the pilgrim in Rome.

I am here only for a test drive. The challenge is too daunting to contemplate as a single three month walk; but maybe if I take it in chunks, I can overcome the overwhelming magnitude of the challenge. One-day-at-a-time is an axiom that applies to many facets of my life. A two week walk from Canterbury to Reims is all I choose to achieve.

Canterbury is a fitting start. Immortalized by Chaucer for a smaller pilgrimage, the Cathedral has occupied center stage for people of faith since St. Augustine established the first church on the site in the 500’s.  A Sunday prayer celebration seems a fitting way to start such an audacious journey.

After the Canterbury service, I am off; my first meeting with the signs that will show me the way and my future guide (I haven’t named him yet) is a good omen, at least I can find the path out of town.

England requires two days of walking; in hot weather, I am challenged by jet lag, dehydration and the British ramblers desire to avoid a road at all costs even if it means adding miles of brambly, obscure paths that RAMBLE. Geez get over it already.

After I’ve climbed a stile or two I’m not amused – in retrospect that may have been the jet lag talking. Yet, when my guidebook tells me to walk diagonally across a farmer’s field – unless the BULL is out to pasture – in which case I should walk around the field, I do lose some of my composure. I cross at Dover on a ferry filled with tourists and school groups.

France is saner; my guidebook seems to favor small, farm roads through villages that are hundreds of meters long and one house deep. I’ve been warned; villages do not have services. There are no places for water, food, snacks, no pleasant villagers in berets with anecdotes and easily comprehensible directions (I would not have understood them anyway). Finding accommodation is tough; the logistics of it all present a complicated daily puzzle to be solved – my day depends on making a series of choices. Fortunately, I like puzzles.

I’ve found my walking legs, the pack is light, I have a guidebook, the sun is shining and the land is pastoral, reminiscent of 19th century paintings from the Louvre. Fields of golden wheat, endless rows of corn and sugar beets (I’m from Taber, the sugar beet capital of Canada and the home of the last remaining Canadian sugar beet factory – I know sugar beets, I’m strangely comforted by their familiarity).

The routine is comforting in its own indescribable way. I rise, eat a bit, top up my caffeine level, and walk. The challenge of staying on path, the scenery, a few random thoughts interspersed with hours of mindful vacancy are a tonic for daily life. I forage for lunch, manage my water supply, self examine for sore spots and walk – anywhere between six and eight hours – I just walk. It feels good.

At arrival I’ve achieved my simple goal. I dump my pack, wash myself and my clothes, sort out dinner and lie flat for a while. I eat simple French rural food at it’s best. Who knew French butter could taste so rich and creamy. I sleep well. 

After six days, I arrive in Arras, the halfway point. Kristen joins me here for the walk to Reims. This adds a new dimension to my usual solo journeys, a companion!

After a day of R&R in Arras, we set out. Auspiciously, the signage is clear, consistent and ample. We make good time; we walk, we talk, the kilometers seem to drift past us quickly.

We’re rewarded with a serendipitous surprise – the circus has come to town in Bapaume, our destination for the day. We arrive in time for the parade! We drop our packs at the hotel, find some gooey French carny pastry and pull up a piece of curb to watch – doubly entertaining because its unexpected. We saw camels!

Kristen is in her element; she loves puzzles. Our guidebook is outdated, sometimes incomprehensible and untrustworthy. The inconsistency and inadequacy of the guidepost signage is problematic – every wrong turn lengthens our day, tires us and leaves us frustrated – the guidebook becomes the F*#^ing book. She rises to the challenge, finding web-based resources I never knew existed – my six months of research is surpassed in a post dinner web-search.

We have a google-map-app! No more wasted walking, no more staring at a motley, overgrown path wondering if this really is the way forward – really? That path? Well, that’s what Google says. We (well, okay, she) get better; we manage to triangulate information from the F*#^ing book, Google and the app to devise the most efficient way forward, avoiding busy roads and unnecessary detours. There is no one Via Francigena path; progress and freeways obscured much, but we do find a way forward.

There is much to appreciate on our long walks; The rolling hills, the wheat fields golden, heavy and ready for harvest, a donkey that freezes us with his ungodly bray, the occasional Commonwealth gravesite, an inevitable result of a field hospital situated there 100 years ago, villages hollowed out by farm consolidation, efficiency and the inevitable migration to cities, only the elderly and the stubborn left behind, a rich tapestry of rural French life if you walk and observe. There are even a few paths that feel ancient, like we are walking on the stones laid by Roman slaves.

We reach Laon, a middling town with a brilliantly beautiful cathedral, perfect Gothic architecture of creamy, ivory colored granite that seems to soften our mood with its warm glow, beautiful stained glass windows – all helped by a bit of mood music – my favorites – Gregorian chants.

Finally we find grapes, we reach the edge of Champagne – the region, the wine famous everywhere. Over the hill and off in the distance is the Cathedral of Reims, our destination. We arrive in time for a late lunch in the shadow of the cathedral and my checkin – I have pilgrim credential which is signed at spots along the way – validation of my walk and a valued keepsake all in one.

The stats say that we covered about 350 kilometers, one-sixth of the Via Francigena in about a half million steps; Kristen did more than half of that in her week.

What the stats don’t count is the sheer joy of walking, the blessing of companionship, the connection with weather, land, the ground beneath our feet. The simple joy of ravenously consuming a ham and cheese baguette, surviving a drenching summer rain with our sense of humour intact, the celebratory glass of champagne for my guide and companion, the pride of accomplishment in achieving something that can only be gained by one measure – footsteps.

Maybe the other 1700 or so kilometers won’t be so bad after all….

Recently, I was asked by Outward Bound to write a short note explaining why I supported Outward Bound. The original note can be found in Outward Bound’s Fresh Tracks newsletter.  http://hosted-p0.vresp.com/122508/4d2dc37fc9/ARCHIVE

I believe in adventures; stepping out of my comfort zone, challenging myself, learning and growing have now become a vital part of my life. Even now, in my late 60s, I am charging ahead, not recklessly but with purpose.

It wasn’t always so. In the course of documenting my adventures over the past decades, I have managed to trace my thirst for adventure back to the well-spring, the headwaters if you will allow me, of my river of joyful adventures.

It was my son, Blair, who started the transformation. Only 15, he completed a 17 day Outward Bound hike in the Coastal Mountains out of Outward Bound’s base at Pemberton, BC. He went away a boy and came back completely transformed into a confident young man.

I wanted what he gained; so the next year I took my first Outward Bound adventure. At the age of 46, without a taut muscle in my body and weighing in at over 230 pounds, I bumbled and stumbled my way into my first great adventure. It wasn’t elegant, it wasn’t fun, but it sure was transformative.

It started me on a life of adventures: running, marathons, triathlons, travel, cooking school, sea kayaking – all can be traced back to the well-spring of Outward Bound. It is a gift that keeps on giving.

I summited Kilimanjaro with my Outward Bound team; last year, I temporarily contained a deep irrational fear of water to join Outward Bound’s canoe trip down the Nahanni.

Neither was conceivable without Outward Bound. Trust in their leadership, faith in their skill and dependence on their experience allowed me to transform my fear into faith and opened the door to these unbelievable adventures.

I am giving back to this wonderful organization. My small contributions over the past decade have grown to include bigger contributions through their special expeditions and the attendant fundraising commitment.

Last year I made the big leap; I made a sizeable – for me – five-year commitment to Outward Bound. Outward Bound is now the primary focus of my donation dollars.

Why?

It is simple.

I want to share this remarkable capacity for personal transformation that Outward Bound programs offer with as many people as possible.

I want to support the valuable programs that support Veterans, Women of Courage, Youth at Risk and Aboriginal Youth. Sometimes those who need Outward Bound the most are the least able to pay the cost.

I want more people to find balance, serenity, purpose and self confidence through affirmative programs like Outward Bound.

I want to show my gratitude to the people of Outward Bound for transforming my life. I want to share the valuable life-changing and life-affirming experience that I was so generously given by Outward Bound.

My contribution to Outward Bound allows me to accomplish this. If you have any inclination, Outward Bound staff make it easy and understandable to contribute.

Go ahead, get off the couch, take a course, have an adventure and write a cheque.

If you are interested in learning more about Outward Bound in Canada go to: http://outwardbound.ca

If you would like to consider contributing to their many programs to help support Women of Courage, Veterans or At-Risk Youth go to:http://outwardbound.ca/getText.asp?type=Pages&ID=43

Many years ago, I read the definitive history of Australia, The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes. It was a long, difficult, compelling and, ultimately, rewarding read. Hughes chronicles the early days, the shipment of some 160,000 convicts, orphans and indigents to colonize Australia, a six month voyage in intolerable conditions to a land of formidable challenges halfway round the world. I learned.

On my flight over to Australia a few weeks back, I chose Bill Bryson’s In a Sunburned Country, a lighter, more humorous and much more popular read. Bryson is s charmingly banal; his off-beat stories create a whimsical but deeply misleading image of Australia.

I learned little from Bryson’s cliche-ridden, cartoonish Crocodile-Dundee trope. Perhaps I’m being too harsh, perhaps I’ve missed the essence of Aussie-land; but Bryson’s Australia is not what I experienced.

I chose not to travel to the center of the continent to see Uluru (Ayers Rock) or the other isolated outposts celebrated by Bryson.

Instead, I chose to visit Melbourne and Sydney supplemented by a few sides trips outside the urban areas and a train ride between the two. Australia is a cosmopolitan country by any measure.

The Aussie – Canuck parallels are somewhat uncanny.

Much like Canada, it is huge, almost beyond rational comprehension; the only country which occupies it’s own continent, it is larger than the continental United States. It is sparsely populated, fewer than 25 million people (10 million or so less than Canada). Like Canada, most of its population is concentrated in cities (Melbourne and Sydney account for 50% of the population) and near the coastal areas where cultivation is possible and climate allows for an easier life. Like Canada’s north, there are vast tracts of land in the outback that are uninhabited and uninhabitable.

We intruded upon our diverse indigenous cultures, treated them shamelessly and still struggle to find a way to compensate for our actions and create a space that offers respectful and generous equilibrium with them. The dark stain has never really been erased, atonement does not seem possible.

We are all immigrants. English convicts, orphans, indigents and underclasses mixed with Irish peasants pushed off their lands by religious, class and economic persecution were all conveniently shipped to the oblivion of far-off Australia. Many showed up in Sydney at the Hyde Park Barracks to serve their sentence with forced labor; they had no say in the matter.

In Canada, we were French peasants with no future and little or no hope in our own country, shipped to a new land with some – albeit dubious – hope. We were Scottish workingmen labouring for British syndicates seeking profit – back breaking servitude to claim timber, fur, fish and land for King and Country and the Hudson’s Bay Company.

Colonies both – if not identical, at least we rhymed.

We all arrived on a one way ticket and all sought to make the best of it in a harsh unrelenting land – fighting weather, unfamiliar terrain, wild beasts and indigenous peoples who came to fear us and resisted our incursion.

The Aussies were a bit more irreverent, republican and feisty. We were a bit more presbyterian, rules-oriented and organized – our rallying cry was peace, order and good government – not much inspiration there.

We were all cast-offs who created a new life, carved from a harsh wilderness.

We both came of age in the first World War – Vimy Ridge and Galipoli catalyzed our staggering and stupefying loss of men and innocence at the hands of that quintessential oxymoron – British military leadership – we moved from colony to quasi-independence. One of the saddest songs ever is a protest version of Waltzing Mathilda https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cZqN1glz4JY

Canadians and Aussies are like long lost cousins, they’re looser, funnier, more laid back but eerily similar. We make great traveling companions; whenever I join a travel tour with Aussies, I know I’m going to have a fun trip.

Today, Melbourne and Sydney are modern cities, on a par with Toronto, Vancouver and Montreal, better than most south of the border. Melbourne has one of the largest tram systems in the world, an unrivalled coffee-culture that scorns inferior Starbucks and an arts, museum and theatrical community that is worthy of envy.

Australians play at sports with passion. Footy, represented by Stuart’s team the Melbourne Tigers, plays to crowds of 70,000. The Rod Laver stadium hosts the Australian open and there are huge venues for Rugby, Soccer and other sports. *Unchecked factoid alert* – I’m told Australia wins more Olympic medals per capita than any other country – summer games only of course; it is tough for Australia to field a winter team.

Canadians could gain considerably be emulating the Australian fixation on sports and it’s unintended consequence of robust health.

Sydney is more famous than Melbourne, if only because of its icons – The Sydney Opera House and the famous Sydney Harbour Bridge. Deservedly so, the sight of them does take my breath away.

I’ve seen much of Shakespeare’s canon – not many can outdo an inspired Richard III starring Kate Mulvany – yes, a woman – who nailed her performance as Richard. It rivalled anything  I’ve seen staged at Stratford and was much more audacious.

Australia does have far off hinterlands of deserts filled with snakes and spiders, of swamps filled with snakes, spiders and alligators, of lagoons filled with sharks and poisonous jellyfish, of forests filled with snakes, spiders and vicious boxing  Kangaroos. There is this outback but, like Canada’s north, vastness is a illusory challenge – there is lots of there there but, with the exception of Uluru, not much to focus one’s attention. Some day, I may come back; I may buy a bush hat, try on my Crocodile Dundee imitation and explore this harsh outback. I doubt it. I think I’ll stick to catching sight of Koalas in parkland trees after a good Melbourne brunch and a strong long-black.

My Australia is not Bryson’s; it is wineries, fine cuisine, a vibrant economy, modern transportation and infrastructure, a lively arts community, magnificent urban parks, museums, galleries and libraries, a respectful knowledge of its past – warts and all, a remarkably diverse citizenry and a sophisticated cultural worldly awareness. It is a parliamentary democracy that still works, a grounded set of values that is worthy of emulation. Australia is European borne but Asian focused; a timely mix of perspectives and outlooks that seems poised for a bright future.

We have heard lately that the world needs more Canada; it is hard as a Canadian to disagree. I think the world also needs more Australia.

Jose Saramago, the Nobel prize-winning Portuguese writer, described the Portuguese as “people who possess little and feel much.”

It wasn’t always so.

The Portuguese were the world’s great adventurers; for a glorious century, the Portuguese expanded the known world beyond the imagination and created a Portuguese empire. Prince Henrique (Henry) the Navigator of Portugal sponsored an impressive succession of voyages by Portuguese caravels with a series of bold, courageous, even fool-hardy adventures.

The Portuguese debunked and discarded the self-limiting hysteria that “The world is flat and there be dragons out there”.

Portuguese sailors, in 1415, crossed the Mediterranean and conquered, Ceuta, a Moorish port in what is now Morocco. From there, encouraged and funded by Henry, Portuguese sailors explored further and further down the coast of Africa whilst discovering Madeira and the Azores. Dias rounded the Cape of Good Hope in 1488, proving a sea passage to the East was possible; Vasco da Gama in 1498 crossed to Goa on the coast of India, The Portuguese didn’t stop; they slipped south to Cochin and around India into the East Indies and finally made landings and established contact with Japan in 1542.

They went west and were fishing off the coast of Newfoundland before 1500; they were established in Brazil long before the Pope divided the new world into Portuguese and Spanish empires in 1494.

They were active traders for spices, slaves, fish and other valuables. They established trade routes, built long term trading relations with the indigenous peoples they happened upon and became indescribably wealthy in the process. They found spices, gold, precious metals and gems and created a trade system that reaped riches beyond imagination for this tiny nation perched on the edge of Europe.

The history of Portugal in those two centuries of the early Age of Discovery are fascinating. The Maritime Museum in Belem, a suburb of Lisbon, is enthralling and thrilling, creating a thirst to read more and know more of this truly adventurous people.

I stand in awe of the courage of the Portuguese explorers. Their curiosity seems boundless, their inestimable drive to risk all to seek out new lands is unfathomable. Their willingness to subject themselves to the privations of voyages into the unknown that lasted for months, often years, is unparalleled.

The Spanish were scared little schoolboys compared to the Portuguese. The French, English and Dutch came much later, were little more than followers and opportunists.

The Portuguese were a small nation; their discoveries manifold for their size as a nation. Yet, in the end, they were spread too thin and were unable to control their ‘possessions’. The larger nations usurped them and they lost most of their colonies and, with that, most of their wealth.

Their temporary wealth was strewn across the country; churches, castles – monuments to a bloated, entitled, indulgent and very expensive narcissistic nobility – none of which could be sustained. The nobility expelled the Knights Templar and the Jesuits to confiscate their wealth in a vain attempt to pay their bills; they fell into ruin anyway. All that is left is monuments to their excess that we, as tourists, come to use as background for our selfies.

Portuguese history is fascinating for the glory, the hubris and the slide into insignificance and penury. Saramago may be right, the Portuguese may now possess little and feel much. While they may lack contemporary wealth and political stature, they are rich in history; the Portuguese explorer’s footprint is everywhere, never to be erased. The Portuguese do deserve to feel much.

Sometimes an adventure is most memorable for unexpected reasons; we go to somewhere to see castles, instead we become infatuated with the local pottery; on our wine tour we discover tapas, the wine is forgettable, the food is forever implanted in our epicurious memory. Sometimes we stumble onto something that was there all the time, something that was hiding in plain sight. Something that was so obvious that it did not merit consideration simply because it was so obvious.

The Portuguese explored, they discovered a new world, brought it to the attention of the world and ultimately were pushed aside by greater powers who colonized that world. It is a story that seems more likely to be fiction not fact.

It is a story that has been told for centuries, but it is a discovery – new to me.

I have some catching up to do.

As long as I feel the fresh breeze in my hair                                                                              And see the sun shining strong on the leaves,                                                                               I will not ask for more.                                                                                                              What better thing could destiny grant me?                                                                           Other than the sensual passing of life in moments                                                                    Of ignorance such as this one?                                                                                                           – Ricardo Reis

Two years ago, I spent almost a month walking in Portugal. Starting in Lisbon, I walked some 600 kilometers on an ancient pilgrimage route north to Santiago. It was a delight.

The weather was forgiving; light sweaters were all I required. I had only one day of rain. My walking terrain was pastoral; I walked through picturesque villages where the countryside was waking and bursting with the energy of spring.

People were warm, open and engaging – even with my few words of Portuguese, I was welcomed.

I was smitten. As the poet said, “the fresh breeze in my hair, the sun shining on the leaves”. It was enthralling, more than enough for a walker like me: “the sensual passing of life in moments of ignorance” describes it perfectly.

Two years later I returned for a month. Curious, I wanted to see Portugal through a different lens; from my narrow focus on pilgrimage, I wanted to experience a more robust, complex, complete Portugal. It was a chance for a personal reappraisal, a chance to affirm or revise memories, a chance to see Portugal through the eyes of friends. Truthfully, it was also an opportunity to escape from a dreary month of clouds, rain and (shudder) snow to Lisbon, which has more sunlight hours and more sunny days than any other in Europe. I know – I was surprised too!

This trip was markedly different; I was amazed at the contrast. This time I returned with four friends, my aloneness had fled in alarm. Our group, sophisticated, worldly travelers of a certain age made sure I experienced a vastly different mode of travel. My basic needs are paleozoic; not now, with my group I am forced to be cosmopolitan – we chose a modern, well-appointed apartment in the Baixa-Chaido district of old Lisbon, luxurious by my  standard.

Whereas before I had explored little off my pilgrim trail, choosing to save my energy and my feet for tomorrow’s trek; this time we rode the trolleys, explored the castles, marveled at churches, walked the cobblestoned back streets, poked into alleyways and searched out oddities.

We cheered on Benfica, our newly adopted Football team.

It was a cacophonous forced march of the sights and sites of Portugal, challenging my inner hermit.

My last trip required fuel, amply supplied by ham/cheese on a tasty Portuguese buns (highly addictive, be careful) and tortillas (think potato and chorizo frittatas); this time, after extensive discussion that thankfully did not deteriorate into fistfights, we dined and dined and dined. We tested local foods, sought out carefully curated culinary experiences and sampled anything that looked off-beat and epicurious.

We mastered the Portuguese train system, chugged our way to Porto for walking tours of their churches, monuments and history. We journeyed to the beautiful enclave of the Duoro Valley for wine and Port tastings. We whizzed in and out of the famous university at Coimbra, summited the Moorish ruins, whimsical castles and national palaces at Sintra, shopped our way through the carefully manicured castle at Obidos, the mournful, soulful Fado.

Since I was a tourist now, I had no excuse, no choice but to keep up. With five independent minds churning to explore EVERYTHING and with five different opinions on what was vital, it was a busy time.

Every night, exhausted, I fell into bed, as worn out as if I had walked a full day on the Camino. It was an assault on the senses and a challenge of epic proportions.

Fernando Pessoa was a beloved turn of the century Portuguese poet and eccentric who died in 1935, leaving a wild untended garden of writings under other pseudonyms (heteronyms he called them – fully fleshed out personas that allowed him to take on distinct personalities). One of these was the above-noteed Ricardo Reis.

The best way to travel is to feel.                                                                                               To feel everything in every way.                                                                                                   To feel everything excessively.                                                                                              Because all things are, in truth, excessive.                                                                                And all reality is an excess, a violence.                                                                                         An extraordinarily vivid hallucination.                                                                                           – Fernando Pessoa

Reis and Pessoa offer cogent bookends for my two Portugals; that they are, in truth, the same person – Pessoa – is both instructive and serendipitous.

I’m grateful for my four intrepid guides/friends for introducing me to the abundant pleasures of this more complex, deeply textured Portugal.

I am, as always, deeply respectful of the generosity of spirit and kindness of strangers in a strange land. Their many tender mercies provide the most lasting memories. Jumbled and scrambled though they are, we’ve met and surpassed Pessoa’s admonition to “feel everything excessively”.

Portugal is abundantly excessive.

It’s been a busy week for energy advocacy.

On Tuesday, billionaire Murray Edwards and Brian Ferguson, Cenovus CEO, penned an oped for the Globe entitled Our country – and our companies – are ready for a new pipeline dialogue. Here’s the link in case you missed it. http://www.theglobeandmail.com/report-on-business/rob-commentary/our-country-and-our-companies-are-ready-for-a-new-pipeline-dialogue/article28653224/

Jim Prentice, former Harper Cabinet Minister and briefly Alberta Premier offered his views yesterday in a piece in the Globe titled; Our energy economy should be celebrated, not shunned. Again, here’s the link; http://www.theglobeandmail.com/opinion/our-energy-economy-should-be-celebrated-not-shunned/article28659059/

Today, Premier Brad Wall waded in to the discussion suggesting that the Government of Canada should spend more than $150 million cleaning up so-called orphan wells in Saskatchewan that the energy industry had abandoned, left derelict and possibly dangerous in contravention of provincial and federal regulations. Again, here is the news story; http://leaderpost.com/news/saskatchewan/wall-asks-feds-for-money-to-get-saskatchewan-oil-workers-back-on-the-job-cleaning-abandoned-wells

My goodness, this is a veritable assault on my senses. Since the issues raised are so crucial, I want to contribute; most of us in the 99% do not get admitted to the hallowed halls of the oped page of the Globe, so my blog will have to do.

Let’s start with the Edwards/Ferguson so-called new pipeline dialogue. Mr Edwards and Mr. Ferguson have transformed themselves from $110/barrel Libertarians to $30/barrel Communist central planners. Their former employees are now being shamelessly used as pawns in a PR assault to fast track the Transmountain pipeline. If they had cut dividends, executive salaries, bonuses and their private jets as quickly as they had cut staff, one might give them the benefit of the doubt.

If they had touted the benefits of Alberta’s commitment to climate change ten years ago, as they do now without actually acknowledging Premier Notley’s initiative; well, again, they might be given the benefit of the doubt.

If they really believed that building a pipeline would create jobs for today’s unemployed, they wouldn’t feed us a 20 year job creation projection as their rationale for government abrogating due process – even for the unfortunates these seven companies put out of work over the last six months.

If they really believe that the $47 billion estimate in additional government revenue to be gained from this pipeline were reason enough to exempt hearings and regulatory oversight, they would disclose the windfall accruing to Transmountain and to the energy shippers as a way to see who really wins. Canadians might get beyond the “trust us, we know what we are doing” assertions of the industry, if they engaged in real dialogue.

In his piece, Mr Prentice observes that Canada has been playing checkers while the US has been playing chess over energy, a vivid but simplistic metaphor. In the category of ‘We have seen the enemy and he is us.”, Mr Prentice is criticizing himself, and his Harper government colleagues for ten years of playing checkers. He may be too hard on himself but that is for others to judge.

Clearly, he would like the Trudeau government and the Notley government to make up for a decade of checker playing and approve some pipelines – now! The drop in energy prices seems to have turned Mr. Prentice into a radical government interventionist; he virtually demands government get into the energy business, mostly by shutting up opposition and pushing due process out of the way. The presumption of course is that we cannot afford the niceties of wide discussion in the public square because we need to move – now!

Prentice makes much of the value of the oil sands – he neglects to mention that bitumen from the oil sands has very high production costs – we will never compete with much of the world’s oil, every time there is a price drop, Canada suffers the quickest and the most.

While Mr. Prentice would have Canadians believe that energy production is a sacred trust, to be sanctioned and supported by government – so much so that when necessary, Canada should sweep away a carefully constructed legal, regulatory and administrative framework that has served us well.

Which brings us to Mr. Wall. In suggesting that the federal government, the people of Canada, should step in and spend $150 million to cleanup orphan wells that have been abandoned by the energy industry in contravention of federal and provincial regulation is stunning. To pitch it as an employment program for workers who have been thrown out of work by the same industry defies logic; the arithmetic doesn’t work very well either, $150 million for 1200 jobs to clean up 1000 wells abandoned by the industry isn’t very efficient. I know it works for the industry; a new wrinkle on the “too big to fail” has become the “make your money and leave your mess for someone else to clean up”.

Clearly Mr. Wall has decided that energy industry activity in Saskatchewan must be encouraged at all costs; damn the law, damn the regulations, damn the people of Saskatchewan; damn his responsiblity as Premier and head of government for all the people of Saskatchewan. By the way, those are my tax dollars he’s suggesting be used to clean up the industry mess! They are your tax dollars!

It also speaks volumes of the commitment to environmental stewardship of the energy industry. If all these rules and regulations can be blithely abandoned without penalty, why would we put any faith in the rule of law and the regulatory process?

So, friends, what do we learn from all this.

My only observation is get informed! Ask questions! What is really at stake in this aggressive advocacy for these pipelines? Who wins? Who loses? What is at risk?

If we are committed to evidence based decisions, and willing to engage in a new pipeline dialogue, the energy industry should open the door to real meaningful dialogue on safety, risk, environmental issues, Canada benefits, immediate job creation, climate change impacts, remediation, taxation and royalties.

If these projects are in the national interest, all the people in the public square deserve to be heard.

I travel a lot.

When I travel, one of the first questions I’m asked by fellow travelers is: “Where are you from?”

It is all about establishing your home. This idea of home has been on my mind lately. I do have a home; it is in Vancouver.

I love my home; leaving on an adventure is just slightly more satisfying than coming home after that adventure.

My apartment is my base, it is familiar and it gives me comfort to know it is there for me wherever I go. There is nothing more exquisitely comforting and homey than an afternoon nap on my man-cave sofa.

Vancouver is truly beautiful; I have never, in all my travels, found a place more comfortable. I am blessed with fascinating friends who care for me; I miss them when I’m gone and much of my delight in coming home springs from reconnecting with them.

But…

I am finding new ways to define home that go beyond the physical definition of my Vancouver apartment – it is a place, a special place but still, a place.

As I travel further afield, as I extend my travels to months rather than weeks and as I experience alone travel more often, I am expanding my definition of home.

Much of my travel, as in my life, is in pursuit of something; usually ill-defined but the quest is necessary, the need to explore is palpable and irresistible for me.

Travel is adventure, new challenges, new experiences, new vistas, new ways of looking at the world.

I search for ‘sweet spots’; those brief magical moment when pixie dust is sprinkled – the right people, the right combination of sights, smells, sounds, all create an indelible moment that will live with me forever. It is deeper than a good, even a great, memory. The sweet spot is written on my memory in indelible ink.

‘Sweet spots’ don’t come easy. They do not land in my lap as I sit in my man cave drinking my morning coffee. They have to be pursued; usually at some physical discomfort and with some need for patience and mindfulness. When they arrive they are brilliant; doubly worth every mundane effort in the search for them.

I am also finding that I have a way of looking at travel, not through the examination of my Visa bill after the trip, or a run through my photo file, or a reread of my blogs to myself but in a simpler, purer test.

At some point, usually daily when I travel, I ask myself; “Is there any place I would rather be than where I am right here, right now?” The answer is almost always NO. The experience matters and is meaningful to the point where I can think of nothing I would rather do. By this simple test, what I am doing makes sense. The question – and the answer – never fails to lift me up out of some minor inconvenience, some fleeting mood, some brief shadow to allow me to find perspective.

I am also finding a new definition of Home. It is not just a physical location to me; it has become more complex, more robust, more nuanced. Home is now more about who I am with, what I am sharing, what I am experiencing, how I am interacting with a whole host of physical, emotional and intellectual stimuli; I am home when it “feels like like home.”

There are times when travel doesn’t make sense; some combination of running away from loneliness and boredom, some ill defined need for excitement, some restlessness. The notion that these vague uncertainties can be resolved by going home is too confining.

Travel does not necessarily mean leaving home. I can carry home with me. Technology helps; my smartphone keeps me connected with friends wherever I am, I can plug into news and stay in touch with my city/province/country/interests, I carry my financial and health services with me neatly compacted into a few plastic cards. My passport and credit cards offer flexibility and a safety hatch.

It is not what I am leaving that is exciting; it is what I am looking forward to. I have found home whenever I am with my children, their supreme gift is sharing time and experiences with me. What better definition do I need of home?

A road trip in Iceland, Christmas dinner in Basel on December 1 and again in Bergun on December 28, all with my children – that’s home. I get the same sense of home when I travel with or visit close friends.

I have felt at home in Normandy with friends, in Paris because I am secretly a snobby Parisian, and in rural eastern Ontario because I have friends who adopted me into their family.

Searching for unicorns and ‘sweet spots’ is rewarding in itself, finding those moments and sharing them with those we love is priceless, knowing I have a home in Vancouver is comforting; all are facilitated by relaxing my idea of home.

Home is whenever and wherever I am with friends,

Home is wherever, whenever I can be with my children.

Home is experiencing one of those rare sweet spots.

Home is when I think ‘this is where I want to be, there is no place I would rather be’.

All these now define home. But when a stranger asks me; ‘where’s home?’ I still say; ‘Vancouver.’

Over the years, I have often reminded myself that I have been blessed with good friends. I continue to enjoy those blessings.

Blair and Jean have been a profound force in my life since they arrived in Taber on a hot sunny Alberta afternoon in 1968. Tumbleweeds weren’t rolling down this desolate prairie ghost town’s main street but it was pretty close.

Back home for the summer from first year university, I was working the rigs to scrape up enough money to pay for second year. They rolled into town in a canary yellow VW beetle with Quebec license plates, electrifying the place. They were exotic, creatures from another galaxy would have been less noticeable.

They had returned to work for Bud Olson, the local MP who changed parties to become a LIberal under it’s new leader, PierreTrudeau. Liberals were rare in Alberta, still are; Trudeau was even rarer. It did not look good for Bud even with Trudeaumania sweeping the country. Both Blair and Jean grew up in Taber, knew the risks and took on the challenge anyway, driving home from Ottawa with two small children to work for Bud.

Within days I was campaigning for Bud. We all motored down to Medicine Hat to see Pierre Trudeau speak. It was electrifying.

I worked with Blair and Jean over that summer and, in late June 1968, against all odds, Bud Olson won – by just over 200 votes. He joined Mr Trudeau’s cabinet and Blair and Jean went back to Ottawa. Blair became the Executive Assistant to the new Minister of Agriculture, Bud Olson.

My university career as an engineer was not going well at the time so, infected by the bug, I became a political junkie. I changed courses at university, saving myself and the engineering profession much embarrassment. I went to Carleton University for Grad school, I had to experience Ottawa.

Four years later, I worked on another campaign with Blair and Jean – this time in Edmonton. I met Michael Robinson that fall; he had been equally charmed, enticed and transformed by the magic elixir of politics and Blair and Jean. His life changed forever, he too was drawn to Ottawa, where he met his wife ML.

This summer, some 45 years later, we all gathered in France to enjoy each others company for a bit longer than the usual dinner squeezed into busy schedules.

We spent a week together in Normandy with Michael and ML, blessed with warm memories, good food, great weather and much laughter. We watched the Tour de France, drove around Normandy, picnicked on the beach, visited village markets and walked the country lanes. We stayed up late and slept in late; we ate well and talked endlessly.

A few days in Paris allowed us to revisit that city and, joined by my daughter and her husband, share more stories and reminiscences.

Forty years or so has brought a few changes in our lives. We have grown children now, and there are more than a few grandchildren. We have had ups and downs in work but have all been blessed with enough good fortune to be comfortable as we approach retirement.

We’ve been through heartbreaking events in our lives – losses that would seem unendurable without the compassion and support of these friendships. In those dark times friends give us whatever we need to go on. We are not without our wounds, our scars and our losses but somehow we emerge on the other side with a depth and a strength that surprises us.

Throughout it all, the enduring constant has been these bedrock friendships, individually and as couples. We celebrate each others milestones; this time it was a 54th anniversary marked with Champagne and a full-bodied San Pellegrino.

Our children join in the extended family; they have lived their lives in the embracing halo of our friendships, enjoying richer experiences as a result.

We reminisce, dusting off old tales of derring-do, retelling them, exaggerating them a bit here and there as they age. We sit by campfires as we have in the past. We sit silently sometimes, conversation is often unnecessary.

We plan for the future; these meetings are not an end but a way station in our richly evolving lives. There will be more adventures, more shared experiences, more pain and loss, more of life happening while we are planning something else.

I am blessed with friends. They are role models; I have considered my life by the exemplary way they have lived theirs. They support, coach, offer advice, judge and withhold judgement.

They show me possibilities, challenge me to strive, offer me exemplars on how I might face my challenges. Their spirit travels me even when I haven’t seen them for months. They offer a compass bearing, a perspective and a point of view that informs every fibre of my life.

Just by knowing them so well, I am guided by their wisdom; I know what they would do in a situation and try to govern myself accordingly. They have caught me when I’ve fallen, picked me up, dusted me off and sent me back into the game. They’ve endured my idiosyncrasies and my faults and they love me anyway.

It is a blinding flash of the obvious, a cliche, a truism bordering on maudlin sentimentality, my friends have been the family I have chosen for myself.

Sometimes the best adventures are the adventures of friendship.

I am getting ready to go out the door for my next adventure. This one will be the Camino Portugues, a 600+ kilometer pilgrimage walk from Lisbon to Santiago starting on March 1.

Last year, I completed the Camino Frances, and, before you ask, no – I am not becoming a full time Pilgrim of the Catholic or any other religious persuasion. I have not shaved my head, chosen a wardrobe of itchy brown wool or started speaking in tongues. This still leaves ample room for cultivating my various eccentricities, one of which seems to be a growing inclination for long solitary walks.

You may ask, as many of my friends already have, the simple question – Why? I give an obvious, but trite answer. I like to walk.

When pushed for a more substantive explanation, I push back – with my own question. If you can explain golf junkets, traveling for months in a motorhome, ocean cruises to nowhere or all inclusive resorts, I will try to explain pilgrimage walks.

The question has, however, caused me to reflect a bit more deeply, if only to answer the question to myself. Why do I like these long walks?

My good friend, Dana, recently gave me a book by Paul Theroux called The Tao of Travel. In my view, Theroux is the Shakespeare of travel writing; he thinks and writes deeply and honestly about travel; I skim the surface.

The Camino Portugues violates my first principle of adventures; as Theroux noted; “in travel, as in many other experiences in life, once is usually enough.” I am willing to violate that rule because that first experience has grown on me. I recall it wistfully, with affection and warmth. I want to recreate that aura if I can.

Setting off on a long walk down an unfamiliar path with the barest of essentials seems to involve three principles.

Walking is SLOW. I can manage about 25-30 kilometers a day, about a half hour drive if I travel by car. As one writer put it; “I came to realize that I traveled best when I traveled no faster than a dog could trot”.

When I walk, my senses have time to absorb my surroundings; the promise that dawn brings, the joy of roosters crowing, cow bells near mingle with church bells afar.

I witness the countryside waking up, I stop for lunch when and where the locals stop, I eat their food at their pace. I slow down as they retreat for siesta and revive myself as the shadows grow in the afternoon.

Even now, I recall the smell of morning dew, the farmyard manure, the fresh hay and the anise smell of wild fennel seeds rubbed between my palms. I capture the scent of the baker’s fresh bread before I reach the edge of the village, sniff it out like a hunting dog to its back street.

Slow travel enriches my trip – my senses load up. Slow travel introduces me to the ancient village lady selling crepes from her front door – my loose change is likely her pension supplement. Slow allows me the adrenaline rush of encounters with the snarling mongrel protecting his farmyard – my heart rate quadruples with the surprise and leaves me vibrating. It’s cheap entertainment.

Slow allows me to see the happy face on the sunflower in the nearby field; slow allows me a vision of morning dew on a spider web that accentuates its delicacy; slow gives me permission to stop and take a picture of them. Slow allows me to marvel at the whimsy of a Coke machine in the middle of a field and wonder at it’s portentous incongruity. Slow.

These walks are SIMPLE. I carry all I need and nothing more. I have my boots, my pack, my poles and my cap. Technology is heavy and poisons the purity of the experience. I carry a cheap pay-as-you-go cell phone and a local charger for emergencies. I carry a change of walking clothes, some dollar store plastic clogs, and one decent set of civvies for meals in restaurants and public spaces. I have a down blanket for chilly nights, a tooth brush/paste, and the essentials for healthy feet – vaseline is my friend on the camino. A jacket for rain, a hat and my meds – vitamin I (ibuprofen), a muscle relaxant and immodium. I fill up on water constantly and carry some between sites.

I have the conceit of a diarist, I carry a journal and a camera; I am doing something important and memorable that must be recorded. everything else is redundant.

My job every day is simple – walk to the next destination, secure food and water along the way. At day’s end, I find a place to sleep. wash myself and my clothes and recuperate/rehydrate for the next day. I try to be a tourist for a while, I hope for company at dinner and, if I do this conscientiously, after 25 days I reach my destination. Walk, eat, wash, write, sleep and drink. Simple.

My life during the day is deliberately SOLITARY. The solitude may be THE compelling reason for this reprise. On my first, I walked alone. In the evenings, I was able to share meals with other travelers, at night I was surrounded by humanity – packed in hostels where minimalism is a luxury.

The days were mine and I reveled in them. How else to avoid the distractions of life, the intrusions of others and the imposition of ‘world affairs’. Is it possible to stop and stare at the early morning sky trying to find the big dipper or the North Star in the company of others? Not for me, I feel ludicrous or ingenuous.

When I’m on my own I can be totally selfish. If I want to eat frittata at cheap local places five days in a row, I can. If I want to walk all day without stopping, I can. If I decide to rent a real hotel room to avoid the snoring, snorting, farting and grunting of others in the albergue, I can.

There is a ‘lucidity of aloneness’ as Theroux calls it. Solitude allows walking meditations. Without distractions, with abundant time to meander, my mind wanders further afield, seeks out darker recesses, rediscovers oft-forgotten memories. Left to its own devices, my mind does find more to amuse itself, to contemplate and dream. I can even talk to myself out loud if I want. I don’t, at least not very often, but I can.

I have deeper, more meaningful conversations with strangers (we know we’ll never see each other again so we can be more honest, more revealing and more thoughtfully opinionated). When I’m in a strange country, stripped bare of distractions, and walking monotonously, I can have deeper, more meaningful conversations with myself.

I learned long ago the difference between alone and lonely; it’s huge. Pilgrimage walks seem to offer a rare opportunity to be alone without being lonely. I have miles of open road to amble along at a pace that facilitates introspection, abundant physical and spiritual emptiness to fill as I see fit and, at the end of the day, I usually have a complete stranger to share my meal and some musings.

I hope it works for a second time.