Horses in Northern SpainTuesday, January 30, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
SkiFreak Alone
(if you know what book title I am making a veiled reference to, then you are a) a PhD in English Lit, b) a down and out screenwriter looking for something with which to make a name for yourself, or c) just as odd as I am)
Today I oversleep and wake to one of those perfect winter mornings where sun glittered snowflakes sigh lazily to earth, the chick-a-dee-dee-dees flock about in the cedars t’ch ing busily to each other, and the ski trail beckons. After breakfast, I load the car with my short pair of Nordic skis and drive out to the Arboretum with my rucksack and a handful of black sunflower seeds.
I take the blue trail, which meanders its way along the periphery of the Arbo, changing directions at impossible angles. The snow in the cut is fresh, schussing under my skis as I pick my way around the bends, gingerly. Stark blues and greys bar the glowing white shadowed birch woods, vibrating in the light wind. I creak the snow, pole planting steadily to the top of the rise overlooking the road from a copse of silver maple, the backs of my hands prickly with sunlight.
I am steaming; the shadow of my vapour trail dances in the trees beside me, sauntering to my boots and away again, lightly taunting. There is no one here. I pause and turn my salty face to the winter’s late morning warmth, serene. I follow the trail back into the trees. I take the fork on the right, away from the Kamikaze gully with its deep narrow bottom of treacherous planks. The middle finger of my thinly gloved right hand is warm now; I need no longer fret. The woods close over me, a basket wickered to fit these ribs of hills, tricksy to the tips of my skis. The hill carries me on its back through stands of beech and poplar and around the bend to the bloom corner. I cross the field ski-slapping up the rise and schussing down to the main path, through the gap and into the cedars. In the cedarwood it is dimly fragrant. Little dribs of snow dripple down, disturbed by the blackcaps flitting amongst the branches.
Tcheh tch! I call them down to my up-cupped hand: black lustre for the taking. Shy, they alight one by one and away up again with their prize. Soon my hand is well trafficked. The nuthatch has not come. I marvel, always.
We are no longer alone, my birds and I. The dogs circle their panting hellos, tails blowsing wind. Tch tch comes from far away.
I return my hand to the chilly glove and let the trail lead me the rest of the way through the cedars, my head bent to the patting needles. Hand aufgelegt: a blessing. It is past midday, the trail switchbacks in on itself near the wolf enclosure. They do not come close to the galvanized wire fence. I fetch them there, yellow moons in grey-tipped faces. Ski-slap run up the last rise and I am back in the parking lot, next to the big fir tree at the top of the sliding hill.
Every breath counts.
Today I oversleep and wake to one of those perfect winter mornings where sun glittered snowflakes sigh lazily to earth, the chick-a-dee-dee-dees flock about in the cedars t’ch ing busily to each other, and the ski trail beckons. After breakfast, I load the car with my short pair of Nordic skis and drive out to the Arboretum with my rucksack and a handful of black sunflower seeds.
I take the blue trail, which meanders its way along the periphery of the Arbo, changing directions at impossible angles. The snow in the cut is fresh, schussing under my skis as I pick my way around the bends, gingerly. Stark blues and greys bar the glowing white shadowed birch woods, vibrating in the light wind. I creak the snow, pole planting steadily to the top of the rise overlooking the road from a copse of silver maple, the backs of my hands prickly with sunlight.
I am steaming; the shadow of my vapour trail dances in the trees beside me, sauntering to my boots and away again, lightly taunting. There is no one here. I pause and turn my salty face to the winter’s late morning warmth, serene. I follow the trail back into the trees. I take the fork on the right, away from the Kamikaze gully with its deep narrow bottom of treacherous planks. The middle finger of my thinly gloved right hand is warm now; I need no longer fret. The woods close over me, a basket wickered to fit these ribs of hills, tricksy to the tips of my skis. The hill carries me on its back through stands of beech and poplar and around the bend to the bloom corner. I cross the field ski-slapping up the rise and schussing down to the main path, through the gap and into the cedars. In the cedarwood it is dimly fragrant. Little dribs of snow dripple down, disturbed by the blackcaps flitting amongst the branches.
Tcheh tch! I call them down to my up-cupped hand: black lustre for the taking. Shy, they alight one by one and away up again with their prize. Soon my hand is well trafficked. The nuthatch has not come. I marvel, always.
We are no longer alone, my birds and I. The dogs circle their panting hellos, tails blowsing wind. Tch tch comes from far away.
I return my hand to the chilly glove and let the trail lead me the rest of the way through the cedars, my head bent to the patting needles. Hand aufgelegt: a blessing. It is past midday, the trail switchbacks in on itself near the wolf enclosure. They do not come close to the galvanized wire fence. I fetch them there, yellow moons in grey-tipped faces. Ski-slap run up the last rise and I am back in the parking lot, next to the big fir tree at the top of the sliding hill.
Every breath counts.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
SkiFreaks – Up to the Challenge
I promised Alpine. Here’s to Alpine! After being dumped by everybody else who said they would come (you peeps know who you are), the gutsy Rhenee and I, after some initial waffling, hemming, and I guessing, went out to Mont Rigaud for the afternoon. The weather was a balmy –10°C and the single quad chairlift was running up the side of Mount Crumpet with its load…to dump it (‘K, no more Dr. Seuss, promise). The deadly T-bar was also in operation, but I am unwilling to risk life and limb on one of those fandangled contraptions unless absolutely necessary (basically only if it’s what’s standing between me and Uncle Herbert’s Goulash). Christine and Robbie, who have skied with me in Austria, know whereof I speak, and why I’m terrified of T-bars.
Suckers! WIMPS! Ye of little faith! Rhenee and I had a BLAST! We zipped gleefully up and down for a solid three hours, as the shots on Rhenee’s cell phone camera will prove (ha! thought I didn’t have proof, eh?). On the chairlift we were grinning to each other in self-congratulatory smugness at how clever we were in picking such a perfect day for getting our ski legs back. Smarmy, I know. The lineup was almost non-existent and the lift operated mostly smoothly – kids kept falling off it for some reason – I have no idea why. I only had to carry the one dropped pole up with me after all. Trails were well endowed with nicely groomed packed granular, with nary an ice patch to be seen (thankfully, since I never did get around to sharpening my edges last week). I don’t suppose that Rigaud is high enough for ice anyway.
Only once did we have to warm up our toesies.
Only once did I wipe out.
Um.
At the bottom of wee little Mont Rigaud.
In the parking lot (well practically).
Get used to it. I always wipe out once, weirdly, unpredictably, when I least expect it. Surprise! No one expects the Spanish Inquisition!
So there.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Coitus Next Door
I am fortunate in my neighbours. They are kind, friendly, neighbourly people.
My house is a semi-detached single family dwelling. This means that I share a wall with my kind, friendly, neighbourly neighbour Mark. Mark is a lawyer. I don’t know what kind of lawyer, but despite that fact, a nice man. A nice, single, man. A healthy adult male with access to secretaries and clerical temps. I see you’re getting the picture.
My house (and Mark’s next door), was built according to a loosey goosey 1924 building specification. This means that the wall separating our two dwellings has the sound blocking characteristics of tissue paper despite being a good twelve inches thick. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would have guessed that the builder of my house had aspirations towards the construction of concert halls.
Yes. That’s right. You guessed it: I am treated to performances of operatic proportions on a distressingly regular basis. At odd hours. Really. Odd. Hours. All the time. Indeed. There have been sopranos, altos, and coloraturas, though the tenor never varies. The sincerity of some of the vocal performances is somewhat lacking and may provide an explanation for the extraordinary variety of female voices I have been, regrettably, treated to.
Yes, I listen. I do. I don’t have a choice in the matter: the acoustic oddity built into our houses means that his alarm clock wakes me up and I can listen in on people leaving messages on his answering machine. Indeed, Mark and I are blessed with another acoustic peculiarity: no matter what room I’m in in my house, I can clearly hear everything going on in his bedroom. It’s true. I swear. Thankfully, this has never occurred when I was having a party, or – the Mortification - when my parents were over.
Also perplexing is the fact that this acoustic effect is entirely one way. I cannot imagine that Mark is unable to hear my clock radio playing Hell’s Bell’s by ACDC with the volume cranked up to the Spinal Tap-esque level of 11.
No, I don’t do this during the operatic performances.
Frankly, I’m not entirely certain it would be of any use.
I do it when he’s talking on the ‘phone at 2:30am and I have to get up at 5:30am.
Even more creepy and annoying is that fact that my cat, like many animals, is endowed with superior hearing and a sixth sense about the imminence of earthquakes and other phenomena of nature.
He alerts me prior to every performance, regardless of whether I’m sleeping or not (Yes. Cat. I’m awake now-ow) and then stares intently at the offending wall making grumpy chuffing noises until the other noises cease. Unsettling: if I have to squirm in sudden auditory discomfort, I’d much rather do it without your dirty looks, Cat.
The Earth never moves.
My house is a semi-detached single family dwelling. This means that I share a wall with my kind, friendly, neighbourly neighbour Mark. Mark is a lawyer. I don’t know what kind of lawyer, but despite that fact, a nice man. A nice, single, man. A healthy adult male with access to secretaries and clerical temps. I see you’re getting the picture.
My house (and Mark’s next door), was built according to a loosey goosey 1924 building specification. This means that the wall separating our two dwellings has the sound blocking characteristics of tissue paper despite being a good twelve inches thick. In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would have guessed that the builder of my house had aspirations towards the construction of concert halls.
Yes. That’s right. You guessed it: I am treated to performances of operatic proportions on a distressingly regular basis. At odd hours. Really. Odd. Hours. All the time. Indeed. There have been sopranos, altos, and coloraturas, though the tenor never varies. The sincerity of some of the vocal performances is somewhat lacking and may provide an explanation for the extraordinary variety of female voices I have been, regrettably, treated to.
Yes, I listen. I do. I don’t have a choice in the matter: the acoustic oddity built into our houses means that his alarm clock wakes me up and I can listen in on people leaving messages on his answering machine. Indeed, Mark and I are blessed with another acoustic peculiarity: no matter what room I’m in in my house, I can clearly hear everything going on in his bedroom. It’s true. I swear. Thankfully, this has never occurred when I was having a party, or – the Mortification - when my parents were over.
Also perplexing is the fact that this acoustic effect is entirely one way. I cannot imagine that Mark is unable to hear my clock radio playing Hell’s Bell’s by ACDC with the volume cranked up to the Spinal Tap-esque level of 11.
No, I don’t do this during the operatic performances.
Frankly, I’m not entirely certain it would be of any use.
I do it when he’s talking on the ‘phone at 2:30am and I have to get up at 5:30am.
Even more creepy and annoying is that fact that my cat, like many animals, is endowed with superior hearing and a sixth sense about the imminence of earthquakes and other phenomena of nature.
He alerts me prior to every performance, regardless of whether I’m sleeping or not (Yes. Cat. I’m awake now-ow) and then stares intently at the offending wall making grumpy chuffing noises until the other noises cease. Unsettling: if I have to squirm in sudden auditory discomfort, I’d much rather do it without your dirty looks, Cat.
The Earth never moves.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Well, at least they're not Obscene Mutterings...(well, not yet)
Okay, so you've all gotten sick of checking my blog only to find nothing but the original post. AND you've ALL mentioned it at one time or another. Fine. Okay. I'll keep it better updated, sheesh.
It's not like there's nothing swirling around in my gourd. There is. It just has a little difficulty emerging from the security of my dome. Particularly in a somewhat permanent form. The permanence of blogging is ultimately doubtful, considering how fast technology changes. Chances are that my paper journal may be read long after my death (yeah, right - getting a little full of yourself here), but this blog will have vanished into cyberspace (or whatever they'll call it in 50 years or so) during my lifetime. The difference, however is just that: people are reading this while I am alive (with my incitement), and so some circumspection is required (not my strong suit, I admit).
I am not a prolific journal keeper. In the 20 years I've had my journal I've filled precisely 28 pages, one of which is a calligraphy exercise using the cormorant feather (carefully trimmed - Society for Creative Anachronism, here I come) I picked up on the beach in the Magdalen Islands almost or more than 2 years ago. The gaps between the entries span years if not decades, and the content is, well let's just say rather juvenile. Why would anyone keep such a complete collection of random mental sputum? Well, as a handwriting analysis exercise, it's kinda handy. After all, you get the state of mind along with the handwriting. You know: like a Rosetta stone, just not so historically significant.
I am also not a prolific poet. I am also not a particularly good poet. However, I occasionally do write poems (or as pronounced on Sesame Street: Po-Em) for my own amusement which are not so terrible that I cannot share them with you. Beware: this blog is not a poetry free zone. You can expect to encounter flurries of verse, sometimes even in iambic pentameter. You do not of course have to read everything I post. You can skip any and all poetry, as you like.
So that being said, here are two relatively recent ones (Winter 1997) for your enjoyment or vilification, whichever turns your crank.
Reflection
Paddle dips.
Bow slices.
Water curls beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.
Shadow runs.
Rock sits.
Sand shifts beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.
Wind flows.
Tree bends.
Leaf sinks beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.
Paddle dips.
Bow slices.
Light fades around me,
as I slip into the mirror of time.
Vortex
Staccato rush of an unfit window
Invites a sudden silence of snow.
Velvet lidded night
mimes turbulence with feather strokes.
Dancing air without
drifts, opening the depths of cold.
Eddy of ice fire
engulfs in speechless wonder.
It's not like there's nothing swirling around in my gourd. There is. It just has a little difficulty emerging from the security of my dome. Particularly in a somewhat permanent form. The permanence of blogging is ultimately doubtful, considering how fast technology changes. Chances are that my paper journal may be read long after my death (yeah, right - getting a little full of yourself here), but this blog will have vanished into cyberspace (or whatever they'll call it in 50 years or so) during my lifetime. The difference, however is just that: people are reading this while I am alive (with my incitement), and so some circumspection is required (not my strong suit, I admit).
I am not a prolific journal keeper. In the 20 years I've had my journal I've filled precisely 28 pages, one of which is a calligraphy exercise using the cormorant feather (carefully trimmed - Society for Creative Anachronism, here I come) I picked up on the beach in the Magdalen Islands almost or more than 2 years ago. The gaps between the entries span years if not decades, and the content is, well let's just say rather juvenile. Why would anyone keep such a complete collection of random mental sputum? Well, as a handwriting analysis exercise, it's kinda handy. After all, you get the state of mind along with the handwriting. You know: like a Rosetta stone, just not so historically significant.
I am also not a prolific poet. I am also not a particularly good poet. However, I occasionally do write poems (or as pronounced on Sesame Street: Po-Em) for my own amusement which are not so terrible that I cannot share them with you. Beware: this blog is not a poetry free zone. You can expect to encounter flurries of verse, sometimes even in iambic pentameter. You do not of course have to read everything I post. You can skip any and all poetry, as you like.
So that being said, here are two relatively recent ones (Winter 1997) for your enjoyment or vilification, whichever turns your crank.
Reflection
Paddle dips.
Bow slices.
Water curls beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.
Shadow runs.
Rock sits.
Sand shifts beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.
Wind flows.
Tree bends.
Leaf sinks beneath me,
as I slip over the mirror of time.
Paddle dips.
Bow slices.
Light fades around me,
as I slip into the mirror of time.
Vortex
Staccato rush of an unfit window
Invites a sudden silence of snow.
Velvet lidded night
mimes turbulence with feather strokes.
Dancing air without
drifts, opening the depths of cold.
Eddy of ice fire
engulfs in speechless wonder.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
The SkiFreaks at Cap Saint Jacques
The second attempt to get a group of 2plankers out and about succeeded while the first attempt failed. That's 1 outta 2 so far. No such a great average, we'll have to work on that. Originally, the intention was to go carve some S on the slopes of Owl's Head (so far never skied by yours truly), but with the mercury looking to hover around -16°C with the windchill making exposed flesh feel like -25°C (not to mention those-o-so prone to freezing toes), the plan was revised to a X-Country outing to Cap St-Jacques (the day was also revised to Sunday from Saturday).
Well! What a nice 10 or so km was had by all! Personally, my lack of cardiovascular conditioning conspired to keep me nice and steamy hot, which resulted, as usual, in my toque being covered with a frost of congealed sweat...Yum! No salt required with any meal, all I need to do......um, never mind. Say! Let's look at some pictures
Well! What a nice 10 or so km was had by all! Personally, my lack of cardiovascular conditioning conspired to keep me nice and steamy hot, which resulted, as usual, in my toque being covered with a frost of congealed sweat...Yum! No salt required with any meal, all I need to do......um, never mind. Say! Let's look at some pictures
Say, that's a nice one: in order of appearance, Arnaud, Johanne, and myself with Robbie, as ever, behind the lens. The trail conditions were fair: any sections exposed to the winds has an slight tendency to be a little bare, making the folks with the lovingly restored $10 at a garage sale almost irreplaceable wooden skis cringe only a little. Those of us who forgot their ski boots and had to rent even though they remembered their skis were laughing (well once they'd skied over those sections anyway). Elsewhere the trails were quite nice, particularly in the more wooded sections; an extra 10 to 20 cm would not be amiss, however.
Ski de fond at CSJ is getting a wee bit expensive: parking is now $7 and the equipment rental was $20 with an additional $20 deposit (they only take cash - much to the dismay of the person who forgot their boots and had to borrow some cash). On the bright side, we started out at about 11:20am and there was almost no one about. Upon our return to the Centre d' Accueil at around 1pm, there were oodles of people both leaving and arriving, with the fortuitous result that I was able to sell my parking stub for $4 to someone just arriving. I parked close to the ticket machine for a reason....
I only crashed once, which is really not bad for a first time out. Really I wouldn't have crashed at all if it weren't for the obstacle I was trying to avoid when I crossed my tips. Okay, so Robbie's scarf isn't really an obstacle, but if I'd run over it I would have gone flying anyway, so avoidance seemed the best policy. Too bad that after falling down I couldn't get up again. That's what happens when you're wearing 30 year old ski knickerbockers whose waist band is so tight that you can barely sit down (they were my Mom's. I'm attached to them, OK?). At least I'm no longer wearing the red cotton windbreaker with the contrasting knitted liner in a 1950's snowflake pattern (Also my Mom's. I had to give up wearing it when I split the back open - eh! 50 year old cotton...whaddaya expect?).
Here's another pic of Johanne showing great form:
And here for your amusement is a picture of my toquesicle:
Stay posted for next week's excursion report (that's if I've actually survived this week's - the hot shower and Ben Gay have not yet fully worn off, so my damage report is incomplete at best). Next week: Alpine! I promise!
Stay posted for next week's excursion report (that's if I've actually survived this week's - the hot shower and Ben Gay have not yet fully worn off, so my damage report is incomplete at best). Next week: Alpine! I promise!
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