I ended up spending a week in Winnipeg, and although it may not be the most exciting place in the world, it seems that most nights I felt too tired to write up the day's events in my journal. Similar things happened while out on the river; when I realize I've gotten behind I usually make a bullet list of significant things over the last few days. But while I was working out my time spent in Winnipeg, I could not for the life of me recall what happened September 31, or even what day of the week that had fallen on! So, I decided when it came up I would just have to go over a typical day in Winnipeg and maybe some things that didn't make it into my other posts.
I believe the hostel had six bunks in the men's dormitory, but they seemed to have a policy against filling them all because there were never more than four guys in there. Although my schedule slipped later and later as I stayed in Winnipeg I was usually the first one up, to stumble around between the snorers and take my shower, get dressed.
Breakfast was often at the HI-Cafe in the hostel, which for real cheap would serve a pile of pancakes, hash browns, and eggs, plenty of fuel to get going in that cold city.
Almost every day I tried to find a pay phone and put in a call to the people I had met in Spruce Woods Provincial Park who thought they might be able to hook me up with a ride to Minneapolis. This never came through.
Out of habit I usually returned to the hostel before sunset, cooked myself a dinner out of a can, and usually ran into interesting people. There was Alex, from Rochester, a high school grad who ran butterfly houses at summer fairs and had won a year's worth of free movies by producing a first place student film. We played chess and watched the presidential debates with Tyler and Calin, a gay couple who subscribed hopefully to the hypothesis that Obama was far more liberal than his words or actions indicated. Monsu, a Pakistani, didn't care too much who won because neither one was likely to stop the unannounced bombing raids in his country's western provinces.
Melanie and I fought over pots and burners for a couple of night's before going out to watch a film at the nearby independent theatre about Hunter S Thompson. Melanie was a German, but she worked on a farm in Ontario which was powered strictly by clean energy: solar in summer, wind in winter.
I was at the hostel long enough to catch the vice presidential debates for a while -- there was an Ausralian couple watching as well, who told me John Howard had banned student unions because students shouldn't be forming organized labor movements.
There were other interesting folks who went through the hostel, but it became more difficult to meet people the longer I was there. My social energy lagged and more and more I was ready to move on.
Day 101 1/2 ended: (HI-WINNIPEG DOWNTOWNER)
Showing posts with label September 2008. Show all posts
Showing posts with label September 2008. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
September 30: St Boniface
"Incomprehensible" is the word. Incapable of being comprehended -- or is that comprehood? No matter, the real question was whether the incompressibility -- I mean incomprehensibility -- incomprehension? -- was just me, or it was the exhibit, or if there was any difference. If a tree falls in a forest, and I'm the only one there, does it sound for anyone but me?
Let me backtrack -- back in a circle, back around the ravens and stars and pirate flags -- we are rewinding the film now, and so I walk backwards out of the Plug-In Institute for Contemporary Art. Pause it now. It is paused. I am in mid-stride, one foot hovering above the sidewalk in the direction of the institute. I am still in Winnipeg. The air would be blowing gently except it is also paused. Molecules quiver with paused kinetic energy.
Okay, let's take a breath. This is not going to be easy. Let's wander like ghosts into the institute and observe what happens. There is nothing there yet because the place is devoid of people. It is waiting for a live observer. Push play now and the physical me will enter.
I enter the institute, a storefront in this old mall. The walls of the first room ripple into shape -- and what shapes? Huge outlines of ravens, crows and cats, filled in with black sit menacingly on the wall. They are just pictures, they have no stories, no identities really, as meaningless as my dreams. I walk into the next room, painted black with colored strands tied between the ceiling and the walls and a television set in the front casts repetitive blurry shadows and also moans. It is like those nightmares where you are awake and cannot move a muscle. I compliment it. Fast forward now. you see me zipping through the few pockets of ironic cleverness in this pit of meaninglessness. Some odd witch costumes made of denim, and why all of the pirate flags? These things are worth at best a grimace and then I move on. I mean the cleverness of people trying to show how clever they are, not that of people in love with the creations of time.
We have zipped through, and now we will let the rest play out at walking speed. You can imagine me panting for breath out on the pavement, as though to recover from the incomprehensibility, but that would be too generous. I only sought meaning, so I walked to St Boniface, the French quarter and the cathedral.
There is a nice footbridge between the forks at Winnipeg and St Boniface, the old French quarter. It is suspension, an art piece where the support tower looms above you and braided cables hold up the bridge. There is a bar on the bridge, but I passed it. I was too busy staring at the Red River, flowing north beneath me, and the chill which crept silently into the air.
On the other side I kept to the river trails, until I saw a cemetery to my left. I crossed the road and walked through the cemetery to the cathedral -- an ancient structure which stood over the graves and me. In the center of its face, where a stained glass rose should have been, there was nothing but an open circle. Through the burnt-out cathedral's eye and roof I watched as clouds drifted across the disc until they were absorbed by the stonework.
Day 101 ended: (HI-WINNIPEG DOWNTOWNER)
Let me backtrack -- back in a circle, back around the ravens and stars and pirate flags -- we are rewinding the film now, and so I walk backwards out of the Plug-In Institute for Contemporary Art. Pause it now. It is paused. I am in mid-stride, one foot hovering above the sidewalk in the direction of the institute. I am still in Winnipeg. The air would be blowing gently except it is also paused. Molecules quiver with paused kinetic energy.
Okay, let's take a breath. This is not going to be easy. Let's wander like ghosts into the institute and observe what happens. There is nothing there yet because the place is devoid of people. It is waiting for a live observer. Push play now and the physical me will enter.
I enter the institute, a storefront in this old mall. The walls of the first room ripple into shape -- and what shapes? Huge outlines of ravens, crows and cats, filled in with black sit menacingly on the wall. They are just pictures, they have no stories, no identities really, as meaningless as my dreams. I walk into the next room, painted black with colored strands tied between the ceiling and the walls and a television set in the front casts repetitive blurry shadows and also moans. It is like those nightmares where you are awake and cannot move a muscle. I compliment it. Fast forward now. you see me zipping through the few pockets of ironic cleverness in this pit of meaninglessness. Some odd witch costumes made of denim, and why all of the pirate flags? These things are worth at best a grimace and then I move on. I mean the cleverness of people trying to show how clever they are, not that of people in love with the creations of time.
We have zipped through, and now we will let the rest play out at walking speed. You can imagine me panting for breath out on the pavement, as though to recover from the incomprehensibility, but that would be too generous. I only sought meaning, so I walked to St Boniface, the French quarter and the cathedral.
There is a nice footbridge between the forks at Winnipeg and St Boniface, the old French quarter. It is suspension, an art piece where the support tower looms above you and braided cables hold up the bridge. There is a bar on the bridge, but I passed it. I was too busy staring at the Red River, flowing north beneath me, and the chill which crept silently into the air.
On the other side I kept to the river trails, until I saw a cemetery to my left. I crossed the road and walked through the cemetery to the cathedral -- an ancient structure which stood over the graves and me. In the center of its face, where a stained glass rose should have been, there was nothing but an open circle. Through the burnt-out cathedral's eye and roof I watched as clouds drifted across the disc until they were absorbed by the stonework.
Day 101 ended: (HI-WINNIPEG DOWNTOWNER)
September 29: Ride and Park
I finally had my bicycle back from the repair shop so it was time to hit the trails of Winnipeg. There are, in places, paved bicycle pathways in the town, but these are mostly restricted to parks where people can drive in and putter about for half an hour. There isn't anything like the developed river pathway system that Calgary has. There are ad hoc dirt trails by the river in certain locations, but it is never clear which have deadends until you try them, and get stuck in boulders, fences, and fallen trees.
Winnipeg's exclusive means for supporting bicycle commuting is labelling certain roads as bicycle routes. This is a common approach which can create some confusion, because even in communities which do this, it remains legal to drive and cycle on all roads. The point I think is simply to suggest that cyclists use certain roads when possible to create a safety in numbers on certain routes. This can create the confusion that bicycles are not allowed elsewhere, but in Winnipeg the road I was taking had signs posted which suggested the opposite confusion was also at play:
CYCLISTS
REMINDER
--------
VEHICLE TRAFFIC HAS
THE RIGHT TO USE
THE STREET
I eventually found my way to Assiniboine Park, and was wandering about in the English Garden when I heard "Cool bike!" shouted from around some bend in the bricked path. I had missed this refrain completely in Portage, and in Winnipeg it was certainly rarer than in Brandon, perhaps because there are other cool bikes, or the city is more anonymous.
The voice belonged to Naomi, who with her friend Mary quickly ascertained that I wasn't hip to her music scene but we shoul have lumch together anyway, somewhere in the Leo Mol sculpture garden in half an hour.
Leo Mol was apparently a Winnipegonian (???) sculptor working in Bronze, and for all I know his life's work has never escaped from the confines of this garden. I walked among the bears, the nymphs, and the heroes, waiting for the appointed time. There was Io, riding a bull, her hair in twin ponytails, perhaps to resemble a cow's horns. There was a man proud to be from Winnipeg, the city which had one so much for him he started its first cultural fund.
The building I thought we were to eat lunch in was locked; I spent a quarter hour trying to find it, but when I couldn't, I just shrugged and walekd away.
Away to the zoo. It had been cloudy all day, and by the time I got to the zoo I was quite chilled, even wearing two jackets. I spent all the time I could in the tropical house, the monkey house, and the little Australian exhibits to warm up.
When it comes to zoos I am quite spoiled, having grown up in the St. Louis area. The St. Louis zoo is still the best I've been to. It has all the well-known large land animals, and collects a number of the small, overlooked ones as well in its reptile house and insectarium, where my sister worked for a couple of years. And although there are always a few dilapidated displays, the St. Louis zoo charges no admission, which is incredible, and sets me up for disappointment when I visit other zoos.
I began to notice that the Winnipeg zoo made some strange decisions about its displays. There was an indoor glass case of "North American birds" which featured a robin, a towhee, a killdeer, and any number of birds I had recently seen quite free, at no cost and not bounded in a small cage with others. Then I began to notice some other curious selections; sure, they are interesting animals, but is a raccoon exhibit really necessary? Who hasn't seen white-tailed deer? I began to wonder if there would be a grey squirrel cage as well.
There was not.
Day 100 ended: (HI-WINNIPEG DOWNTOWNER)
Winnipeg's exclusive means for supporting bicycle commuting is labelling certain roads as bicycle routes. This is a common approach which can create some confusion, because even in communities which do this, it remains legal to drive and cycle on all roads. The point I think is simply to suggest that cyclists use certain roads when possible to create a safety in numbers on certain routes. This can create the confusion that bicycles are not allowed elsewhere, but in Winnipeg the road I was taking had signs posted which suggested the opposite confusion was also at play:
CYCLISTS
REMINDER
--------
VEHICLE TRAFFIC HAS
THE RIGHT TO USE
THE STREET
I eventually found my way to Assiniboine Park, and was wandering about in the English Garden when I heard "Cool bike!" shouted from around some bend in the bricked path. I had missed this refrain completely in Portage, and in Winnipeg it was certainly rarer than in Brandon, perhaps because there are other cool bikes, or the city is more anonymous.
The voice belonged to Naomi, who with her friend Mary quickly ascertained that I wasn't hip to her music scene but we shoul have lumch together anyway, somewhere in the Leo Mol sculpture garden in half an hour.
Leo Mol was apparently a Winnipegonian (???) sculptor working in Bronze, and for all I know his life's work has never escaped from the confines of this garden. I walked among the bears, the nymphs, and the heroes, waiting for the appointed time. There was Io, riding a bull, her hair in twin ponytails, perhaps to resemble a cow's horns. There was a man proud to be from Winnipeg, the city which had one so much for him he started its first cultural fund.
The building I thought we were to eat lunch in was locked; I spent a quarter hour trying to find it, but when I couldn't, I just shrugged and walekd away.
Away to the zoo. It had been cloudy all day, and by the time I got to the zoo I was quite chilled, even wearing two jackets. I spent all the time I could in the tropical house, the monkey house, and the little Australian exhibits to warm up.
When it comes to zoos I am quite spoiled, having grown up in the St. Louis area. The St. Louis zoo is still the best I've been to. It has all the well-known large land animals, and collects a number of the small, overlooked ones as well in its reptile house and insectarium, where my sister worked for a couple of years. And although there are always a few dilapidated displays, the St. Louis zoo charges no admission, which is incredible, and sets me up for disappointment when I visit other zoos.
I began to notice that the Winnipeg zoo made some strange decisions about its displays. There was an indoor glass case of "North American birds" which featured a robin, a towhee, a killdeer, and any number of birds I had recently seen quite free, at no cost and not bounded in a small cage with others. Then I began to notice some other curious selections; sure, they are interesting animals, but is a raccoon exhibit really necessary? Who hasn't seen white-tailed deer? I began to wonder if there would be a grey squirrel cage as well.
There was not.
Day 100 ended: (HI-WINNIPEG DOWNTOWNER)
September 28: My body is a cage
I believe the gate operates as follows. There are a number of steel bars suspended on tracks in the ceiling. A number of these are designed to lock securely in dimples in the floor; the keyholes are located as roughly waist height. The bars are joined by horizontal chains so that the entire passage is blocked. We can see just a few people on the other side of the gate. They walk about calmly, talking to one another.
One wears navy pants and the medium blue buttoned shirt that identifies him as security. His face and hands are black, and his hands hold keys.
All but that lucky few stand this side of the gate. There are dozens: a dark man in dark clothes clasps his hands behind him and leans forward and bak like a pendulum. A woman with a blond ponytail wears a baggy jacket taps her purse with long fingernails, the clasp of the purse so it clacks once a second, exactly. One teenage girl clasps at the chains, expectantly peering through at the clock high on the wall, on the other side. The clock is nearing one and a couple more of us grab at the bars. I and most present hang back to assure ourselves we are not so desperate, but I suspect we are. I try to read them but if I make judgments based on their appearances, it is because that is all I see. There is more to it than that, of course -- like me, they are trapped outside this cage. I can only guess what brings them here, and most of my guesses are also cages.
What brings anyone to a library? I have heard some criticise literature as escapism, or perhaps only certain genres, and maybe they are even right. If these people are escaping from something, what is it? Maybe it is like this: for one book, the man escapes his darkness, the woman from her femininity, the teenager from her awkward years. There are heroes in an unheroic age, those too poor for eccentricities, people born too early or too late for their calling. So it is like this: the man would have been a feudal lord, the woman a Martian colonist, the girl -- hasn't made up her mind yet. The world is trapped outside the library.
A lonely bell rings and the guard meticulously unlocks the gate. He puts the key in each hole one -- at -- a -- time, until the metal lattice of a gate crackles open and the crowd runs inside. I hold back, walking in, to maintain my composure.
Day 99 ended: (HI-WINNIPEG DOWNTOWNER)
One wears navy pants and the medium blue buttoned shirt that identifies him as security. His face and hands are black, and his hands hold keys.
All but that lucky few stand this side of the gate. There are dozens: a dark man in dark clothes clasps his hands behind him and leans forward and bak like a pendulum. A woman with a blond ponytail wears a baggy jacket taps her purse with long fingernails, the clasp of the purse so it clacks once a second, exactly. One teenage girl clasps at the chains, expectantly peering through at the clock high on the wall, on the other side. The clock is nearing one and a couple more of us grab at the bars. I and most present hang back to assure ourselves we are not so desperate, but I suspect we are. I try to read them but if I make judgments based on their appearances, it is because that is all I see. There is more to it than that, of course -- like me, they are trapped outside this cage. I can only guess what brings them here, and most of my guesses are also cages.
What brings anyone to a library? I have heard some criticise literature as escapism, or perhaps only certain genres, and maybe they are even right. If these people are escaping from something, what is it? Maybe it is like this: for one book, the man escapes his darkness, the woman from her femininity, the teenager from her awkward years. There are heroes in an unheroic age, those too poor for eccentricities, people born too early or too late for their calling. So it is like this: the man would have been a feudal lord, the woman a Martian colonist, the girl -- hasn't made up her mind yet. The world is trapped outside the library.
A lonely bell rings and the guard meticulously unlocks the gate. He puts the key in each hole one -- at -- a -- time, until the metal lattice of a gate crackles open and the crowd runs inside. I hold back, walking in, to maintain my composure.
Day 99 ended: (HI-WINNIPEG DOWNTOWNER)
Saturday, February 28, 2009
September 27: Nothing more than feelings
Winnipeg was going to be a cultural haven after the Qu'Appelle and small towns of Manitoba, a sort of New York on the prairie. I was going to get out and experience those high arts, an emotional rush of giddy heights which would leave only the base emotions at the end of the day.
I was up at sunrise, and walked out into the wide world of Winnipeg, wandering its streets and footpaths until I found myself at The Forks of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers. A man jogged with a dog. A bike was abandoned up on the path and following a foot trail down to the river I found a girl, staring out at the sunrise across the river, alone.
The Winnipeg Art Gallery was everything I wanted in an art museum. I walked into a huge exhibit of canvases stretched and warped over the third dimension, gradients of color producing a sensual feel to the minimalist works. This was the early work of Bruce Head, who graduated to explorations of work derived from strips of torn paintings, experiments in ink and color, and fields of lines that defy all description.
By the time I had gotten through the Bruce Head exhibit I was already incapable of taking in the work in the next few galleries, which were full of paintings by other Manitoban geniuses. My hasty notes suggest names like Aba and Charlotte, and I recall in particular an enormous painting of Jonah being tossed to the whale. Here the whale was round and cartoonish, cute except for the blood red eyes and bleeding mouth.
If that wasn't enough, the next gallery had a display meant to showcase all the best work in the WAG's collections. Every worker in the gallery from the cleaning staff to the head curator chose one or two works that particularly struck them. The disparate styles were not jarring but spoke to multiple kinds of genius that go unseen in galleries which emphasize particular historical narratives.
Then it was off to the used bookstores, where I sifted throuh piles of unsorted books, coming out with a couple Steinbecks, Aeschylus, and a couple books recommend by my friends: the Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and Moving Mars.
The sun set and I found my way to the local indie theatre which was showing the film "Red". This is about a man seeking revenge for the killing of his dog. The killer was a son of privilege and his tenacious fight against the powers that be leads to cruel disaster by the end of the film.
I was tired.
I arrived back at the hostel and played two games of chess against Alex. Alex was a high school grad who anchored a local television station, and won a short film competition which gave him a free year's pass to the movies. In his spare time he fixes up bikes, and in summers he runs a butterfly house for state and provincial fairs.
I was pleased to win both games handily.
I was exhausted. I don't think there really are "higher emotions", just complex combinations of the base ones. The loneliness of the bike girl, the sensuality of Head's abstracts, the catharsis of death in the movie theater and the thrill of victory in chess.
I really could feel nothing any more, a kind of emotional emptiness that could only be refreshed by sleep.
Day 98 ended: HI-Downtown Winnipeg
I was up at sunrise, and walked out into the wide world of Winnipeg, wandering its streets and footpaths until I found myself at The Forks of the Assiniboine and Red Rivers. A man jogged with a dog. A bike was abandoned up on the path and following a foot trail down to the river I found a girl, staring out at the sunrise across the river, alone.
The Winnipeg Art Gallery was everything I wanted in an art museum. I walked into a huge exhibit of canvases stretched and warped over the third dimension, gradients of color producing a sensual feel to the minimalist works. This was the early work of Bruce Head, who graduated to explorations of work derived from strips of torn paintings, experiments in ink and color, and fields of lines that defy all description.
By the time I had gotten through the Bruce Head exhibit I was already incapable of taking in the work in the next few galleries, which were full of paintings by other Manitoban geniuses. My hasty notes suggest names like Aba and Charlotte, and I recall in particular an enormous painting of Jonah being tossed to the whale. Here the whale was round and cartoonish, cute except for the blood red eyes and bleeding mouth.
If that wasn't enough, the next gallery had a display meant to showcase all the best work in the WAG's collections. Every worker in the gallery from the cleaning staff to the head curator chose one or two works that particularly struck them. The disparate styles were not jarring but spoke to multiple kinds of genius that go unseen in galleries which emphasize particular historical narratives.
Then it was off to the used bookstores, where I sifted throuh piles of unsorted books, coming out with a couple Steinbecks, Aeschylus, and a couple books recommend by my friends: the Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time and Moving Mars.
The sun set and I found my way to the local indie theatre which was showing the film "Red". This is about a man seeking revenge for the killing of his dog. The killer was a son of privilege and his tenacious fight against the powers that be leads to cruel disaster by the end of the film.
I was tired.
I arrived back at the hostel and played two games of chess against Alex. Alex was a high school grad who anchored a local television station, and won a short film competition which gave him a free year's pass to the movies. In his spare time he fixes up bikes, and in summers he runs a butterfly house for state and provincial fairs.
I was pleased to win both games handily.
I was exhausted. I don't think there really are "higher emotions", just complex combinations of the base ones. The loneliness of the bike girl, the sensuality of Head's abstracts, the catharsis of death in the movie theater and the thrill of victory in chess.
I really could feel nothing any more, a kind of emotional emptiness that could only be refreshed by sleep.
Day 98 ended: HI-Downtown Winnipeg
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
September 26, Part 2: Of people and paddles
"It's leatherman!" the teenage girl said. She was working the counter at the donut shop up from the boat club. She waved her arms in front of her, the left elbow went down while the right was up, and vice-versa. It was a motion that resembled the hypnotic action of a TV show magician. I guess it is also the motion teenage girls use to greet middle-aged men dressed in leather.
"Is it all leather?" she asked him. Yes, it was. I couldn't help but overhear him explain that every article of his clothing was 100% leather.
The woman at the next table leaned over to me. "Are you a kayaker?"
She must have been asking because I had a two-meter long kayak paddle leaned up against the wall next to me. "Ah, no, I'm actually going to try to sell this paddle." She nodded at this strange explanation, in which I failed to explain that I had been canoeing across Canada and for three months had not used this paddle since the first day. It was time for it to go.
The bus stop was right out the door. School must have been out because three kids were trying their skateboard tricks there. It is a mystery to me how skateboards have maintained their coolness factor when I don't believe I've ever seen a successful trick performed on them in real life. You would think so much public failure would drive kids away from the machine.
My bike was in the shop to get cleaned up, so I boarded the bus with the others. At the next stop, a young black couple were arguing. She kicked him and hit him, and the bus was not a moment too soon for the young man. He calmly boarded and paid the fare, and looked back towards us on the bus, desperate, and alone.
One of his eyes was red, red where it should have been white.
MEC had advertised a gear swap. I explained to the head gear swapper that I wasn't sure when I was leaving town, and I was looking for advice on selling this kayak paddle. I would have had to pay something like $10 just to enter it in the swap, and it was unclear whether I would be able to retrieve any money. He suggested I just take it to Salvation Army.
I walked for some time in the direction he pointed, but I must have looked lost carrying a kayak paddle through downtown Winnipeg because a businessman on his lunch break asked where I was going.
"Salvation Army," I said, "but I'm not sure where that is."
He dialed up 411 and I heard this part of the conversation.
"Winnipeg."
"Winnipeg."
"Win. Ni. Peg."
"Salvation Army."
"Salvation Army."
"Sal. Va. Tion. Ar. My."
"Yes, I'm at the corner of xxxx and yyyy and I'm wondering if there's a Salvation Army nearby. Winnipeg. Xxxx and yyyy. Yes, Salvtion Army. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, thank you. Bye!"
He directed me south on the next street and my walk continued.
On the way down I saw a man in one of those hooded jackets with patterns on them, white and puffy with repeated images of skulls and things. It's a fashion I associate with people who have a need to look tough like rappers and high schoolers. He was walking a tiny terrier on a pink lead.
I arrived at the Salvation Army. "Do you take this?" I asked the dishevelled old woman at the counter.
The answer was "Yes." I wouldn't need to just drop my paddle off in an alley after all.
Just before sundown I found the Hostels International downtown Winnipeg location. It was about a block and a half from the Quest Inn where I had started the day. I met some interesting people there I will mention later, and according to my journal:
Day 97 ended: HI-Downtown Winnipeg
"Is it all leather?" she asked him. Yes, it was. I couldn't help but overhear him explain that every article of his clothing was 100% leather.
The woman at the next table leaned over to me. "Are you a kayaker?"
She must have been asking because I had a two-meter long kayak paddle leaned up against the wall next to me. "Ah, no, I'm actually going to try to sell this paddle." She nodded at this strange explanation, in which I failed to explain that I had been canoeing across Canada and for three months had not used this paddle since the first day. It was time for it to go.
The bus stop was right out the door. School must have been out because three kids were trying their skateboard tricks there. It is a mystery to me how skateboards have maintained their coolness factor when I don't believe I've ever seen a successful trick performed on them in real life. You would think so much public failure would drive kids away from the machine.
My bike was in the shop to get cleaned up, so I boarded the bus with the others. At the next stop, a young black couple were arguing. She kicked him and hit him, and the bus was not a moment too soon for the young man. He calmly boarded and paid the fare, and looked back towards us on the bus, desperate, and alone.
One of his eyes was red, red where it should have been white.
MEC had advertised a gear swap. I explained to the head gear swapper that I wasn't sure when I was leaving town, and I was looking for advice on selling this kayak paddle. I would have had to pay something like $10 just to enter it in the swap, and it was unclear whether I would be able to retrieve any money. He suggested I just take it to Salvation Army.
I walked for some time in the direction he pointed, but I must have looked lost carrying a kayak paddle through downtown Winnipeg because a businessman on his lunch break asked where I was going.
"Salvation Army," I said, "but I'm not sure where that is."
He dialed up 411 and I heard this part of the conversation.
"Winnipeg."
"Winnipeg."
"Win. Ni. Peg."
"Salvation Army."
"Salvation Army."
"Sal. Va. Tion. Ar. My."
"Yes, I'm at the corner of xxxx and yyyy and I'm wondering if there's a Salvation Army nearby. Winnipeg. Xxxx and yyyy. Yes, Salvtion Army. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, thank you. Bye!"
He directed me south on the next street and my walk continued.
On the way down I saw a man in one of those hooded jackets with patterns on them, white and puffy with repeated images of skulls and things. It's a fashion I associate with people who have a need to look tough like rappers and high schoolers. He was walking a tiny terrier on a pink lead.
I arrived at the Salvation Army. "Do you take this?" I asked the dishevelled old woman at the counter.
The answer was "Yes." I wouldn't need to just drop my paddle off in an alley after all.
Just before sundown I found the Hostels International downtown Winnipeg location. It was about a block and a half from the Quest Inn where I had started the day. I met some interesting people there I will mention later, and according to my journal:
Watched debates: same stupid talking points from 3 months ago plus news that Russia invaded Georgia!
Day 97 ended: HI-Downtown Winnipeg
Sunday, February 22, 2009
September 26, Part 1: Leaving Amber
In the morning, Amber insisted again that I take a pair of baggy jeans, as if that would make up for threatening me for cash the previous day. "You know I didn't spend that money on anything good," she said.
She also welcomed me to spend another night or two, saying she didn't feel like going anywhere all day. She was too tired to go anywhere except for maybe lunch later.
I said goodbye and she must have known I did not intend to come back. She said she didn't like goodbyes; we might see each other again, if only in the next world.
I wandered the city until I found the Winnipeg Information Center. I asked for a bus map and a good place to grab breakfast. The woman there recommended the "Underground Cafe". Brightly colored murals there depicted jazz musicians and Salvador Dali. The layout and hosting confused me as to whether I was meant to order at the counter or the table, but somehow I got my meal.
I didn't record what I ate, nor do I remember it. It wasn't anything special.
When I left the place, about ten, I headed to Mountain Equipment Coop, where I hoped to find gear that would make the rest of my trip easier.
While waiting for the walk light at Ellis Avenue, a familiar person was walking up the road towards me. It was Amber!
She asked if I wanted to go get drinks.
Day 97 continues.
She also welcomed me to spend another night or two, saying she didn't feel like going anywhere all day. She was too tired to go anywhere except for maybe lunch later.
I said goodbye and she must have known I did not intend to come back. She said she didn't like goodbyes; we might see each other again, if only in the next world.
I wandered the city until I found the Winnipeg Information Center. I asked for a bus map and a good place to grab breakfast. The woman there recommended the "Underground Cafe". Brightly colored murals there depicted jazz musicians and Salvador Dali. The layout and hosting confused me as to whether I was meant to order at the counter or the table, but somehow I got my meal.
I didn't record what I ate, nor do I remember it. It wasn't anything special.
When I left the place, about ten, I headed to Mountain Equipment Coop, where I hoped to find gear that would make the rest of my trip easier.
While waiting for the walk light at Ellis Avenue, a familiar person was walking up the road towards me. It was Amber!
She asked if I wanted to go get drinks.
Day 97 continues.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
September 25, Part 2: Meeting Amber
The phonebook listed a Woodbine Hostel as a potential place to stay. It might be cheap, and the location was 466 Main Street, which sounded downtown enough. When I arrived there the first thing I noticed is it was Woodbine Hotel, not Hostel. I walked in and so no one at what I took for the front desk: a kind of white, drywall counter. I felt foolish just standing there, so I went back to the street, walked around the block, and the second time saw 466 1/2 Main Street by the first door I had tried.
This door led immediately to a stairway leading straight up to the second floor. A dingy middle-aged couple were talking a half flight up and it was too narrow to pass them. I waited for these important people to disperse before I could get upstairs, where I squeezed through the hallways hoping to figure out what was going on here. It was still early afternoon but loud voices and televisions shouted through the scratched doors until I accidentally found myself downstairs again, back out in the street.
Once again I entered 466. This time I did not stop at the empty counter but continued into the bar behind it. There was a couple there indistinguishable from that I squeezed by on the stairs, and a plump blonde girl talking to them until I entered and grabbed everyone's attention.
I said my name was Kevin and I asked if there were any rooms available; no, there were not. But the blonde said she had an extra room available at her hotel, and without having time to think about this we were walking down the street towards it.
I asked for her name. "Amber," she said, "and wht's yours?"
"Kevin," I said, and then because I had already said this, added, "Still."
Tears filled her eyes and she said she suffered from memory loss due to a car accident in 1996.
She was on permanent disability since then.
Then, she explained that she didn't really have a second bedroom.
Or a second bed.
But this would be okay because we would take the mattress off of the bed and she would just sleep on the boxsprings.
Before we arrived at the Quest Hotel, she warned me that there were a bunch of old people sitting out front who "had nothing better to do" than watch people come or go. She thought it would be best if we went in separately because the people at the front desk were "really nosy" and she didn't want anyone to think she was having people over.
Compared to the easy pace of the river her statements hit me like a supersonic train and I did not have time to think. A minute after she entered the hotel I followed her through the gauntlet of wrinkled Indians, avoided the front desk, and found her at the elevator, which we rode to the second floor.
When we got to her room I paid $40 for staying two nights. She told me to make myself comfortable, take a shower, make some phone calls, and that I looked like the guy from Nickelback and could use whatever makeup I wanted.
I took my shower, and made a couple phone calls but when she returned an hour later she didn't seem to think I was comfortable enough. Not that what she was about to say was going to help this. Allow me to quote from my journal:
Although Amber told me she would be back at the hotel "way before" 10, I got there about a quarter after nine, and there was no response to my increasingly heavy knocking. Now I was the the one wanting to kick her door down. I couldn't believe I had become so naive to be taken in by just anyone I happened to meet downtown.
I sat outside the hotel, on a stone wall around the nearby park. I thought I would catch her as she went in and force her to live up to her part of the bargain. I realized she was not in; her room was dark, and the curtain left as I had seen it.
After some time of the old people at the entrance staring at me, I gave up my post and went into the lobby. There were four public phones in the Quest Inn, the leftmost lower than the rest like a children's urinal. At the right one I could keep an eye on the stairs and elevator.
I hoped to get in touch with Luke, who said he knew someone who might live in town, or Kathy, who might have contact information for a mutual acquaintance who had moved to Winnipeg a couple years previous. Instead I got in touch with my friend Richard.
"Hey Richard, apparently I'm not very smart..."
"So you're saying you're a dumbass?"
(I know Richard cares deeply about me but sometimes his timing is off.)
All of a sudden around the corner came Amber, who grimaced in the direction of the front desk and said she was going upstairs. She took the elevator and I took the stairs, to appease the all-seeing eyes of the "high maintenance" people at the front desk. She asked if they'd given me any trouble.
At the hotel we take the mattress off the springs and she asked me if I wanted to do anything. I just said "Sleep."
She lay on the box springs, saying, "Don't worry, I'm comfortable up here."
...
Minutes later, she said, "How do you sleep?"
"Well," I said, "sometimes I lie on my stomach like this; sometimes on my side, my back; whatever's comfortable."
She said, "Do you toss and turn alot?"
She said, "Okay, this is not comfortable so I'll just come down there and sleep by the wall, and you can have that side." She brought down her blankets, lying beside me.
She said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to try to do anything sexual to you!"
With finality, she said, "Good night!" She reached out and slapped me in what turned out to be the most ironic place possible.
Day 96 ended: Room 2xx, the Quest Inn
This door led immediately to a stairway leading straight up to the second floor. A dingy middle-aged couple were talking a half flight up and it was too narrow to pass them. I waited for these important people to disperse before I could get upstairs, where I squeezed through the hallways hoping to figure out what was going on here. It was still early afternoon but loud voices and televisions shouted through the scratched doors until I accidentally found myself downstairs again, back out in the street.
Once again I entered 466. This time I did not stop at the empty counter but continued into the bar behind it. There was a couple there indistinguishable from that I squeezed by on the stairs, and a plump blonde girl talking to them until I entered and grabbed everyone's attention.
I said my name was Kevin and I asked if there were any rooms available; no, there were not. But the blonde said she had an extra room available at her hotel, and without having time to think about this we were walking down the street towards it.
I asked for her name. "Amber," she said, "and wht's yours?"
"Kevin," I said, and then because I had already said this, added, "Still."
Tears filled her eyes and she said she suffered from memory loss due to a car accident in 1996.
She was on permanent disability since then.
Then, she explained that she didn't really have a second bedroom.
Or a second bed.
But this would be okay because we would take the mattress off of the bed and she would just sleep on the boxsprings.
Before we arrived at the Quest Hotel, she warned me that there were a bunch of old people sitting out front who "had nothing better to do" than watch people come or go. She thought it would be best if we went in separately because the people at the front desk were "really nosy" and she didn't want anyone to think she was having people over.
Compared to the easy pace of the river her statements hit me like a supersonic train and I did not have time to think. A minute after she entered the hotel I followed her through the gauntlet of wrinkled Indians, avoided the front desk, and found her at the elevator, which we rode to the second floor.
When we got to her room I paid $40 for staying two nights. She told me to make myself comfortable, take a shower, make some phone calls, and that I looked like the guy from Nickelback and could use whatever makeup I wanted.
I took my shower, and made a couple phone calls but when she returned an hour later she didn't seem to think I was comfortable enough. Not that what she was about to say was going to help this. Allow me to quote from my journal:
When she came back she was distraught and asked for $20 more.
"Do you drink?" [she asked] -- "Sometimes."
"Ever do any drugs?" -- "No."
"How old are you?" -- "28."
"Smart. I did something 1 time and now I'm in trouble.... if I don't get $20 to this guy he's going to kick in the door."
She was very worried about being seen w/ me & although I gave her $20 I am extremely suspicious of her at this time. Hope I can contact someone to stay somewhere else tonight. Her address is Rm 2xx, Quest Hotel, (Quality Inn) ph. (204)956-xxxx
I took photos inside her room to prove I had been there. Her full name is Amber xxxxxxx.
When I left, I took all my things, just in case -- I almost hope I can find someone else to stay with, even if I'm out my $60. I feel like the rube from the country.
....At the laundromat now. I hope I can find someone other than Amber to stay with ASAP
Although Amber told me she would be back at the hotel "way before" 10, I got there about a quarter after nine, and there was no response to my increasingly heavy knocking. Now I was the the one wanting to kick her door down. I couldn't believe I had become so naive to be taken in by just anyone I happened to meet downtown.
I sat outside the hotel, on a stone wall around the nearby park. I thought I would catch her as she went in and force her to live up to her part of the bargain. I realized she was not in; her room was dark, and the curtain left as I had seen it.
After some time of the old people at the entrance staring at me, I gave up my post and went into the lobby. There were four public phones in the Quest Inn, the leftmost lower than the rest like a children's urinal. At the right one I could keep an eye on the stairs and elevator.
I hoped to get in touch with Luke, who said he knew someone who might live in town, or Kathy, who might have contact information for a mutual acquaintance who had moved to Winnipeg a couple years previous. Instead I got in touch with my friend Richard.
"Hey Richard, apparently I'm not very smart..."
"So you're saying you're a dumbass?"
(I know Richard cares deeply about me but sometimes his timing is off.)
All of a sudden around the corner came Amber, who grimaced in the direction of the front desk and said she was going upstairs. She took the elevator and I took the stairs, to appease the all-seeing eyes of the "high maintenance" people at the front desk. She asked if they'd given me any trouble.
At the hotel we take the mattress off the springs and she asked me if I wanted to do anything. I just said "Sleep."
She lay on the box springs, saying, "Don't worry, I'm comfortable up here."
...
Minutes later, she said, "How do you sleep?"
"Well," I said, "sometimes I lie on my stomach like this; sometimes on my side, my back; whatever's comfortable."
She said, "Do you toss and turn alot?"
She said, "Okay, this is not comfortable so I'll just come down there and sleep by the wall, and you can have that side." She brought down her blankets, lying beside me.
She said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to try to do anything sexual to you!"
With finality, she said, "Good night!" She reached out and slapped me in what turned out to be the most ironic place possible.
Day 96 ended: Room 2xx, the Quest Inn
Monday, February 16, 2009
September 25, Part 1: Enter Winnipeg
Winnipeg doesn't seem so big from the river.
If anything, I was surprised how many more places there were inside the official city limits that might have made good camping. Large wooded areas indicated isolated city parks. Islands formed in the river, around bridge pilings both current and past.
The houses and fenced yards gave way to apartment buildings. A man at river left threw a plastic bag into the river, and I saw where it accumulated with his other droppings. He had a tent made out of tarps there, living in the city. Not the first such rat I'd seen, but it seemed so much more wasteful, so blatantly predatory, compared to Calvin of Brandon.
Improvised dirt trails braided around the sides of the river, just missing the litterbug's tent, and grew into paved riverwalks and plazas filled with people, some out jogging, others out on lunch break.
I was in downtown Winnipeg, city founded at the meeting of the great rivers of southern Manitoba. Here the Assiniboine empties into the Red River of the North, which flows on into Lake Winnipeg and then the Hudson Bay.
My route, however, lay south. When I arrived in the city, as soon as practicable I had stopped to buy a map and try to figure out where I could store my canoe. I was interested in seeing the city, and also uncertain how I was going to get south to the Mississippi River. There was some possibility I could find a trucker to take me to Minneapolis, or I could get out of the water and try to bike some distance, or I could head upstream on the Red River.
I would start the upstream trip immediately. I found a listing for a Winnipeg canoe club about two miles south on the Red River, so it was time to press upstream for the first time during my trip.
The Red River is wide and powerful. A wind from out of the south did not help. I paddled hard. I had to cross the Transcanada Highway yet again. This time, the arches tunnelled the wind against me and it took all my strength to keep the boat under control and push through the bridge.
The two miles took 45 minutes of paddling, which isn't too bad, considering. When I got to the canoe club I parked my boat out on the dock, got out and walked up to the club. I walked all around the club building and checked out their dragon boats before deciding that they must be closed. So then it was back north on the Red to the canoe club neighbors, the Redboine Boating Club. There I received permission to leave my canoe out by their blue shed.
I would have to find someplace to spend the night in this city, so I filled my backpack with clothes and books, and was securing my food in front when I saw something crawling around in my oatmeal. It scurried into a plastic bag, which I tied up and pulled out of the boat, coming face to face with a giant rat.
I should have just stabbed it there but I took it out on the docks where a worker was repainting the white stripes. He said we should just try to drown it, and so he took the rat bag from me, and held it under the water, under the dock. The first try was no good so he pulled it out and retied it, then submerged the rat again. The creature went wild under the river, thrashing it around. When he pulled the bag back up there was nothing in it but holes.
We had just released a rat in this dock with all these expensive motorboats, my gift in exchange for letting me stay.
I wished String was there. She would have known what to do.
Day 96 continues.
If anything, I was surprised how many more places there were inside the official city limits that might have made good camping. Large wooded areas indicated isolated city parks. Islands formed in the river, around bridge pilings both current and past.
The houses and fenced yards gave way to apartment buildings. A man at river left threw a plastic bag into the river, and I saw where it accumulated with his other droppings. He had a tent made out of tarps there, living in the city. Not the first such rat I'd seen, but it seemed so much more wasteful, so blatantly predatory, compared to Calvin of Brandon.
Improvised dirt trails braided around the sides of the river, just missing the litterbug's tent, and grew into paved riverwalks and plazas filled with people, some out jogging, others out on lunch break.
I was in downtown Winnipeg, city founded at the meeting of the great rivers of southern Manitoba. Here the Assiniboine empties into the Red River of the North, which flows on into Lake Winnipeg and then the Hudson Bay.
My route, however, lay south. When I arrived in the city, as soon as practicable I had stopped to buy a map and try to figure out where I could store my canoe. I was interested in seeing the city, and also uncertain how I was going to get south to the Mississippi River. There was some possibility I could find a trucker to take me to Minneapolis, or I could get out of the water and try to bike some distance, or I could head upstream on the Red River.
I would start the upstream trip immediately. I found a listing for a Winnipeg canoe club about two miles south on the Red River, so it was time to press upstream for the first time during my trip.
The Red River is wide and powerful. A wind from out of the south did not help. I paddled hard. I had to cross the Transcanada Highway yet again. This time, the arches tunnelled the wind against me and it took all my strength to keep the boat under control and push through the bridge.
The two miles took 45 minutes of paddling, which isn't too bad, considering. When I got to the canoe club I parked my boat out on the dock, got out and walked up to the club. I walked all around the club building and checked out their dragon boats before deciding that they must be closed. So then it was back north on the Red to the canoe club neighbors, the Redboine Boating Club. There I received permission to leave my canoe out by their blue shed.
I would have to find someplace to spend the night in this city, so I filled my backpack with clothes and books, and was securing my food in front when I saw something crawling around in my oatmeal. It scurried into a plastic bag, which I tied up and pulled out of the boat, coming face to face with a giant rat.
I should have just stabbed it there but I took it out on the docks where a worker was repainting the white stripes. He said we should just try to drown it, and so he took the rat bag from me, and held it under the water, under the dock. The first try was no good so he pulled it out and retied it, then submerged the rat again. The creature went wild under the river, thrashing it around. When he pulled the bag back up there was nothing in it but holes.
We had just released a rat in this dock with all these expensive motorboats, my gift in exchange for letting me stay.
I wished String was there. She would have known what to do.
Day 96 continues.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
September 24: Camp Manitou
Camp Manitou is just outside western Winnipeg, but the suburbs here already line the river on both sides. Before I got into Winnipeg proper, I thought it would be a good idea to stop at the campground for the night, make some phone calls about what to do with my canoe while I was in Winnipeg, and get myself cleaned up for the city as well.
The dock for the campground stuck out at river left, somehow immediately recognizable as public despite little visual distinction from the private docks owned by every other building on the river. Perhaps it was the thicker woods, or the larger area, but I have seen some significant docks connected to private acreages too.
I walked up the wood steps to the campground where I could hear only the clanging of a flagpole, and somewhere, the barking of a dog. To my right was a cluster of cabins, all but two were locked. One was full of tables. The other was the art cabin, and its sink refused to give the treated water I wanted.
On the left side of the campground, gathered around the clanging flagpole were the gathering places of this group campground. There was a giant mess hall and activity center, and the maintenance shed as well, all locked. A big empty swimming pool was gated off, and there was a garden, with the gate in its fence conspicuously open.
Further on, there was a regular two-story house, with a wooden sign on the front, "Bob's Place". I knocked on Bob's door, rang Bob's ordinary doorbell, and knocked again, over a period of some hours, but Bob, the caretaker of the place, was not there.
I walked the road to the campground's land entrance, which was closed by a locked chain-link gate.
Given the circumstances, I did what anyone would do. I ran the ropes course.
I couldn't ride the zip line at the beginning, since the "zip" part was packed away somewhere, but I walked the low tightrope, clambered over the hanging wood beams and climbed over the wooden barriers for an hour, all the while expecting that barking dog to come running out of the distance at me. In that case, I would need all these climbing skills.
I set up my tent at the top of the dock stairs and peed in the bushes there because the bathrooms were locked.
I never did see anyone there.
Day 95 ended: 49*51.964N, 097*20.818W
The dock for the campground stuck out at river left, somehow immediately recognizable as public despite little visual distinction from the private docks owned by every other building on the river. Perhaps it was the thicker woods, or the larger area, but I have seen some significant docks connected to private acreages too.
I walked up the wood steps to the campground where I could hear only the clanging of a flagpole, and somewhere, the barking of a dog. To my right was a cluster of cabins, all but two were locked. One was full of tables. The other was the art cabin, and its sink refused to give the treated water I wanted.
On the left side of the campground, gathered around the clanging flagpole were the gathering places of this group campground. There was a giant mess hall and activity center, and the maintenance shed as well, all locked. A big empty swimming pool was gated off, and there was a garden, with the gate in its fence conspicuously open.
Further on, there was a regular two-story house, with a wooden sign on the front, "Bob's Place". I knocked on Bob's door, rang Bob's ordinary doorbell, and knocked again, over a period of some hours, but Bob, the caretaker of the place, was not there.
I walked the road to the campground's land entrance, which was closed by a locked chain-link gate.
Given the circumstances, I did what anyone would do. I ran the ropes course.
I couldn't ride the zip line at the beginning, since the "zip" part was packed away somewhere, but I walked the low tightrope, clambered over the hanging wood beams and climbed over the wooden barriers for an hour, all the while expecting that barking dog to come running out of the distance at me. In that case, I would need all these climbing skills.
I set up my tent at the top of the dock stairs and peed in the bushes there because the bathrooms were locked.
I never did see anyone there.
Day 95 ended: 49*51.964N, 097*20.818W
Saturday, February 14, 2009
September 23: Tough night
Too many people and too much mud. Explosions on the river: invisible bullets flew over through the trees. I couldn't tell where they were coming from, could not see any people bearing firearms. I alternated between trying to stay as visible as possible and hoping the banks would provide some cover.
The sun was declining, I could not find any campsites and some amplified doorbell ding-donged over the river. What song was it playing? What was setting it off? Why was it so ear-splitting?
The bend in the river past the doorbell offered a tiny inbank of mud-covered gravel. I had to bend over the weeds that grew there to provide any footprint for my tent. The site was unnatural; there was a dirt road across the river and only a neglected area of bushes and trees stood between me and the doorbell of doom.
It began to rain that night, hard. The wind picked up and so did the lightning, which came down all around me. Unlike the Saskatchewan summer storms that banged around mostly in the cloudtops, some of these strikes were close. After one flash I could not even count to one before the thunder shook the doorbell's memory from my mind. I remembered the conservation officer from Virden who had been struck by lightning; his first thought on waking was that he had died and gone to hell.
There were no trees over my tent; the brush was too thick to approach them and it was too late to move anyway. The only thing was to lie in bed.
My sleep was broken by half-awake nightmares where, still laying in the tent, I seemed to grow forked limbs and slowly grow into robotic material while a voice asked, "This is what you want, isn't it?" Deeper sleep came and went. It was still filled with nightmares fed by rain and electricity.
Fed up with the pain I woke again and again, forcing myself through the layers of the unconscious until I had woken up so often I was actually awake. I bundled up against the cold night and drank some clean water, but did not sleep again.
In the morning it was still raining and I did not have the energy to do anything but read in my tent until the storm finally broke.
Day 94 ended: 49*52.043N, 097*29.337W
The sun was declining, I could not find any campsites and some amplified doorbell ding-donged over the river. What song was it playing? What was setting it off? Why was it so ear-splitting?
The bend in the river past the doorbell offered a tiny inbank of mud-covered gravel. I had to bend over the weeds that grew there to provide any footprint for my tent. The site was unnatural; there was a dirt road across the river and only a neglected area of bushes and trees stood between me and the doorbell of doom.
It began to rain that night, hard. The wind picked up and so did the lightning, which came down all around me. Unlike the Saskatchewan summer storms that banged around mostly in the cloudtops, some of these strikes were close. After one flash I could not even count to one before the thunder shook the doorbell's memory from my mind. I remembered the conservation officer from Virden who had been struck by lightning; his first thought on waking was that he had died and gone to hell.
There were no trees over my tent; the brush was too thick to approach them and it was too late to move anyway. The only thing was to lie in bed.
My sleep was broken by half-awake nightmares where, still laying in the tent, I seemed to grow forked limbs and slowly grow into robotic material while a voice asked, "This is what you want, isn't it?" Deeper sleep came and went. It was still filled with nightmares fed by rain and electricity.
Fed up with the pain I woke again and again, forcing myself through the layers of the unconscious until I had woken up so often I was actually awake. I bundled up against the cold night and drank some clean water, but did not sleep again.
In the morning it was still raining and I did not have the energy to do anything but read in my tent until the storm finally broke.
Day 94 ended: 49*52.043N, 097*29.337W
Friday, February 13, 2009
September 22: Legs and arms
A goose crouches on the riverbank, unable to join its compatriots' migration. A lone white insect floats over the surface of the water, having missed its species bloom by two weeks. A canoeist, living on the river for three months exactly.
What lonely things should we discuss today? We'll let E M Forster be our muse:
"Furniture ... alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas -- just imagine it! -- rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them."
You see them all along the river, often paired but never mated. Office chairs, mostly, that have outlived their fashion or comfort, or are simply old. I commonly see discarded bait boxes or tackle, and even chests containing who-knows-what. I believe everyone who owns riverside property has established some poor seat overlooking it from which to fish.
Sofas are not much less common, and are often in surprisingly good shape considering weather. The fates of office chairs are individual and mysterious, but sofas have more public destinies. The water will rise and snatch them away, it seems, and take them to some more scenic resting place - sans cushions, of course! They are often found face down under bridges, but I have at least once seen a sofa perched high in a tree, embraced by the branches of its distant cousin.
The nylon lawn chairs seem to fare the worst, but this is something a true scientist should test. Of these I rarely see more than a folding frame swaddled in rotting fabric, collapsed upon the bank. The white plastic ones do better, regular seafarers it seems, finding some pile of branches to rest in.
Best are the congregations, the multitudes of seats -- I exaggerate -- the half-dozens of chairs half-circled about some point near the water. Typically the central chair even sits higher than the others, as on a little hillock. So we know that even at the bottom rungs of its society, furniture maintains some social hierarchy.
And Forster is right: these seats are always empty, and slowly rolled by rivers to the sea. We can only hope that once there they are put to good use, that somewhere schools of fish study at discarded desks, sharks sleep in loveseats, and lionfish-tamers do their work with a chair and whip.
When the oceans are full, then we shall be buried in furniture. Before the end we will construct castles and oceanside villas out of the cushion, as we did when we were children, but before long it will become difficult to navigate: "Oh, turn left at the chesterfield, climb down five oak chairs and then take each right until you see the pink leather loveseat: we live behind the next roll-top desk."
Day 93 ended: 49*58.053N, 097*39.362W
(I apologize for the late post today. My written journal says "I typed up a pretty awful journal for Sept 22", and the filename for this typed journal indicated the entry was incomplete. I was loathing the thought of fixing up this awful, incomplete entry so much I put it off until now, when pulling it up in my text editor I found... this.)
What lonely things should we discuss today? We'll let E M Forster be our muse:
"Furniture ... alone endures while men and houses perish, and that in the end the world will be a desert of chairs and sofas -- just imagine it! -- rolling through infinity with no one to sit upon them."
You see them all along the river, often paired but never mated. Office chairs, mostly, that have outlived their fashion or comfort, or are simply old. I commonly see discarded bait boxes or tackle, and even chests containing who-knows-what. I believe everyone who owns riverside property has established some poor seat overlooking it from which to fish.
Sofas are not much less common, and are often in surprisingly good shape considering weather. The fates of office chairs are individual and mysterious, but sofas have more public destinies. The water will rise and snatch them away, it seems, and take them to some more scenic resting place - sans cushions, of course! They are often found face down under bridges, but I have at least once seen a sofa perched high in a tree, embraced by the branches of its distant cousin.
The nylon lawn chairs seem to fare the worst, but this is something a true scientist should test. Of these I rarely see more than a folding frame swaddled in rotting fabric, collapsed upon the bank. The white plastic ones do better, regular seafarers it seems, finding some pile of branches to rest in.
Best are the congregations, the multitudes of seats -- I exaggerate -- the half-dozens of chairs half-circled about some point near the water. Typically the central chair even sits higher than the others, as on a little hillock. So we know that even at the bottom rungs of its society, furniture maintains some social hierarchy.
And Forster is right: these seats are always empty, and slowly rolled by rivers to the sea. We can only hope that once there they are put to good use, that somewhere schools of fish study at discarded desks, sharks sleep in loveseats, and lionfish-tamers do their work with a chair and whip.
When the oceans are full, then we shall be buried in furniture. Before the end we will construct castles and oceanside villas out of the cushion, as we did when we were children, but before long it will become difficult to navigate: "Oh, turn left at the chesterfield, climb down five oak chairs and then take each right until you see the pink leather loveseat: we live behind the next roll-top desk."
Day 93 ended: 49*58.053N, 097*39.362W
(I apologize for the late post today. My written journal says "I typed up a pretty awful journal for Sept 22", and the filename for this typed journal indicated the entry was incomplete. I was loathing the thought of fixing up this awful, incomplete entry so much I put it off until now, when pulling it up in my text editor I found... this.)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
September 21: The growing hordes
I saw a flock of gulls and could not make out what they were doing. As high as they were, and as erratic the swarm, they resembled insects more than birds. As they circled round they flashed light and dark, top and bottom in the sun.
There was no overall direction, although my bird book listed them as a migratory species in the region. There was no obvious food in the water or the air; instead, they played in the wind and as I passed under the center of the group they formed a "donut hole" above my head.
When fleeing, gulls make fairly individual decisions. It is a strange fact that birds do not seem to pay much attention to the flight of other species, so I might see the geese fly off first, then the cormorants, then gulls, and pelicans; and always last if they even do flee, are the "fearless": the sandpipers. I had been seeing largely geese and gulls so they were the easiest to contrast. Geese always fly away as flocks, simultaneously. Sometimes I do see a goose or two start to fly off alone, but you can see their embarrassment when the rest do not follow, so they land immediately, pretending not to be afraid.
I never see an embarrassed gull. They make their own choices, and as I approach a flock of gulls sitting on the shore there is a gradual wave of flight as I broach their individual personal spaces.
This did not help me understand the donut flying above my head, however.
Later, I saw two hunters with rifles, dressed in jeans and baggy t-shirts; I guess they were kids but I could not see them clearly. Near my campsite I heard raucous young men drive by in 4-wheelers. I attended to my cooking to show I felt I had a right to be there and wasn't worried about kids running around with guns. At least I tried to convince myself this. I was glad the next day would be a Monday and there would not be so many people running around.
Day 92 ended: 50*02.398N, 097*52.004W
There was no overall direction, although my bird book listed them as a migratory species in the region. There was no obvious food in the water or the air; instead, they played in the wind and as I passed under the center of the group they formed a "donut hole" above my head.
When fleeing, gulls make fairly individual decisions. It is a strange fact that birds do not seem to pay much attention to the flight of other species, so I might see the geese fly off first, then the cormorants, then gulls, and pelicans; and always last if they even do flee, are the "fearless": the sandpipers. I had been seeing largely geese and gulls so they were the easiest to contrast. Geese always fly away as flocks, simultaneously. Sometimes I do see a goose or two start to fly off alone, but you can see their embarrassment when the rest do not follow, so they land immediately, pretending not to be afraid.
I never see an embarrassed gull. They make their own choices, and as I approach a flock of gulls sitting on the shore there is a gradual wave of flight as I broach their individual personal spaces.
This did not help me understand the donut flying above my head, however.
Later, I saw two hunters with rifles, dressed in jeans and baggy t-shirts; I guess they were kids but I could not see them clearly. Near my campsite I heard raucous young men drive by in 4-wheelers. I attended to my cooking to show I felt I had a right to be there and wasn't worried about kids running around with guns. At least I tried to convince myself this. I was glad the next day would be a Monday and there would not be so many people running around.
Day 92 ended: 50*02.398N, 097*52.004W
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Porcupine
He hid behind the grass and his spines. He wasn't afraid of me, but not too intent on cuddling, either.
September 20: Back filled with quills
I saw two couples at river right. Fishing or just sitting? There appeared to be a rod. Hutterites, I thought. The girl, Pamela, at the Portage la Prairie art gallery had suggested I try to meet some.
Hutterites are communal anabaptists, like Old Order Mennonites and Amish. Living by the second chapter of Acts, they renounce violence, hold all things communally in their colonies, and carefully manage the technology in their lives. Cell phones are in; televisions are out.
I have seen them around, visiting Calgary or the small towns I've stopped in, but had not met any. The mean wear dark clothes, but the women can wear colorful patterns in medium blue or red.
I waved uncertainly to them, but noticed no response. As I got closer, I called out to them, "Hello, are you fishing?"
They were. They called out to me that I was about to hit their lines, transparently winding down into the water. I just missed them and then I briefly explained about my trip, what I was up to, where I came from, and where I was going.
It was difficult yelling at each other over the wind, over the water, over the accents. One of the rambunctious women called out as I drifted away. Whether encouragement or invitation I couldn't know. I just smiled at her until they were gone, behind the curve of the river.
Something didn't sit right with me. It wasn't much of a conversation and I had any number of things to ask them about their culture, had I the opportunity. This business of trying to shout at people over the water didn't seem like any way to meet anyone. If I had pulled over the canoe, got out and tried to strike up a conversation, what's the worst that might have happened? I should try to talk to everyone I see. There aren't too many, and mostly on weekends.
Not half an hour further down a white-haired man fished with three grandsons. "Don't forget the worms!" one shouted, waking me from the book I was reading. But I didn't go talk to them.
I found an unexpectedly sandy beach somewhere after the Transcanada Highway, so excitedly set up my tent on the clean shore. A porcupine fed in the grass nearby, a spiky monkey pulling down plants with its paws to chew on the leaves.
He was the only animal that did not bother to run away from me, and I wondered how close I could get, and how useful it would be on occasion to have quills on my own back.
Day 91 ended: 49*58.902N, 098*05.547W
Hutterites are communal anabaptists, like Old Order Mennonites and Amish. Living by the second chapter of Acts, they renounce violence, hold all things communally in their colonies, and carefully manage the technology in their lives. Cell phones are in; televisions are out.
I have seen them around, visiting Calgary or the small towns I've stopped in, but had not met any. The mean wear dark clothes, but the women can wear colorful patterns in medium blue or red.
I waved uncertainly to them, but noticed no response. As I got closer, I called out to them, "Hello, are you fishing?"
They were. They called out to me that I was about to hit their lines, transparently winding down into the water. I just missed them and then I briefly explained about my trip, what I was up to, where I came from, and where I was going.
It was difficult yelling at each other over the wind, over the water, over the accents. One of the rambunctious women called out as I drifted away. Whether encouragement or invitation I couldn't know. I just smiled at her until they were gone, behind the curve of the river.
Something didn't sit right with me. It wasn't much of a conversation and I had any number of things to ask them about their culture, had I the opportunity. This business of trying to shout at people over the water didn't seem like any way to meet anyone. If I had pulled over the canoe, got out and tried to strike up a conversation, what's the worst that might have happened? I should try to talk to everyone I see. There aren't too many, and mostly on weekends.
Not half an hour further down a white-haired man fished with three grandsons. "Don't forget the worms!" one shouted, waking me from the book I was reading. But I didn't go talk to them.
I found an unexpectedly sandy beach somewhere after the Transcanada Highway, so excitedly set up my tent on the clean shore. A porcupine fed in the grass nearby, a spiky monkey pulling down plants with its paws to chew on the leaves.
He was the only animal that did not bother to run away from me, and I wondered how close I could get, and how useful it would be on occasion to have quills on my own back.
Day 91 ended: 49*58.902N, 098*05.547W
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Airplane in Island Park
Oops. I meant to post a blog entry every day, but I accidentally skipped this one. So instead I will post this photo of an airplane I saw in Portage la Prairie, the town which is the subject of the next two posts. I have started posting some other photos as well, not in any particular order.
While I'm here, I may as well mention the ads you might have noticed running all around the page now. I had an ad up during the blog's hiatus that pulled in a couple bucks, so considering that I don't have enough work right now I am going to see if I can pull in any real money with content rolling again. Let me know if these get too annoying. I am thinking of writing up summaries of the OLPC, Brompton, and other things targeted to certain communities in the hopes of pulling in a couple waves of people.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
September 17: POWER
Human beings are accustomed to feeling powerless. It is their uniqueness versus all the world, all of society. It is this powerlessness that makes us moan in pain against all the injustices perceived against us. And it is this powerlessness that makes us fight back, to use our power against the forces of the world.
We underestimate our powers.
Since few people are doing what I am doing, it is a struggle to proceed when society is not well structured for this kind of journey. Witness my anger at Buffalo Pound Lake. In ranting against big lawns and camper trailers I am using the power I have, and must be careful.
North American culture is enamored with this kind of trip. I have power because what I am doing is valued by society in a way they can relate to. I get free meals, lifts past dams, and other kinds of help. And, well, I like it too. I want to be able to encourage people, showing there are other ways of using space and time available to them if they want it. I belive these ways can be good for them and for the land. But I must be careful not to use my power as judgment against them. I have youth, freedom, and resourcefulness to do this, and while these are not necessary they are helpful.
So, I must use this power to encourage, not to judge. A difficult thing. Since we rarely recognize our power it gallops along without control, steamrolling the powerless mercilessly.
Day 88 ended: 49*52.718N, 098*23.943W
We underestimate our powers.
Since few people are doing what I am doing, it is a struggle to proceed when society is not well structured for this kind of journey. Witness my anger at Buffalo Pound Lake. In ranting against big lawns and camper trailers I am using the power I have, and must be careful.
North American culture is enamored with this kind of trip. I have power because what I am doing is valued by society in a way they can relate to. I get free meals, lifts past dams, and other kinds of help. And, well, I like it too. I want to be able to encourage people, showing there are other ways of using space and time available to them if they want it. I belive these ways can be good for them and for the land. But I must be careful not to use my power as judgment against them. I have youth, freedom, and resourcefulness to do this, and while these are not necessary they are helpful.
So, I must use this power to encourage, not to judge. A difficult thing. Since we rarely recognize our power it gallops along without control, steamrolling the powerless mercilessly.
Day 88 ended: 49*52.718N, 098*23.943W
Friday, February 6, 2009
September 16: Bob Crain
Bob Crain builds glass houses.
I suppose one day he was taking out the trash and noticed all the bottles. He realized he had a problem and decided to make something of himself. Or just the bottles.
Somewhere in southern Manitoba he started stacking them up. I don't know what he used for mortar, but he built a house with his addiction. When that was done he built a church out of bottles, and I guess that fixed him because he stopped there, with his house and church whistling in the wind.
I don't know how they are positioned, or how the sun glares off the surface at dawn or dusk. I don't know how tall, or wide, or deep those buildings stand. I don't know if they are close to each other, or far.
I did know they were ten miles from the Assiniboine and my bike had a gimpy tire.
The tire could have been fixed, or at least managed. The distance was not great but harder to negotiate. I did not want to see Bob Crain's glass bottle houses, so intriguing on my map and I did not see them.
I negotiated with myself. It's okay not to see everything. If you try to, you won't anyway. I could build something myself. A tribute to Bob Crain and his construction out of destruction.
Once while at a retreat stationed around a muddy lake, I went down to the lake and saw all the twisted rebar and concrete slabs there, and decided to build. I started with sundials and ended with cities five foot tall. I was the master of time and space, and pants of mud covered my legs.
It was joyous to build, knowing that these buildings would not last. In those days I hated photography and every attempt to preserve the passing world as if anything were permanent.
I could do it again, I thought, bargaining on the river. I won't go to Bob but I'll bring his spirit here.
The bargain made I passed under the bridge to Bob's house.
And, you know, I did not build my cities after all.
Day 87 ended: 49*45.265N, 098*29.262W
I suppose one day he was taking out the trash and noticed all the bottles. He realized he had a problem and decided to make something of himself. Or just the bottles.
Somewhere in southern Manitoba he started stacking them up. I don't know what he used for mortar, but he built a house with his addiction. When that was done he built a church out of bottles, and I guess that fixed him because he stopped there, with his house and church whistling in the wind.
I don't know how they are positioned, or how the sun glares off the surface at dawn or dusk. I don't know how tall, or wide, or deep those buildings stand. I don't know if they are close to each other, or far.
I did know they were ten miles from the Assiniboine and my bike had a gimpy tire.
The tire could have been fixed, or at least managed. The distance was not great but harder to negotiate. I did not want to see Bob Crain's glass bottle houses, so intriguing on my map and I did not see them.
I negotiated with myself. It's okay not to see everything. If you try to, you won't anyway. I could build something myself. A tribute to Bob Crain and his construction out of destruction.
Once while at a retreat stationed around a muddy lake, I went down to the lake and saw all the twisted rebar and concrete slabs there, and decided to build. I started with sundials and ended with cities five foot tall. I was the master of time and space, and pants of mud covered my legs.
It was joyous to build, knowing that these buildings would not last. In those days I hated photography and every attempt to preserve the passing world as if anything were permanent.
I could do it again, I thought, bargaining on the river. I won't go to Bob but I'll bring his spirit here.
The bargain made I passed under the bridge to Bob's house.
And, you know, I did not build my cities after all.
Day 87 ended: 49*45.265N, 098*29.262W
Thursday, February 5, 2009
September 15: Snow Geese
I saw three snow geese.
A large flock of crows.
Maybe two hundred.
Drifting down the river is so passive, waiting for the next thing to show up.
Sometimes,
nothing does.
Day 86 ended: 49*45.486N, 098*42.572W
A large flock of crows.
Maybe two hundred.
Drifting down the river is so passive, waiting for the next thing to show up.
Sometimes,
nothing does.
Day 86 ended: 49*45.486N, 098*42.572W
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Day 80: The birth of sand
I saw a snapping turtle sitting high on some island bar, and unlike the turtles I had been seeing on the river he didn't flee at my approach - didn't jump into the water and trade precious solar heat for increased safety.
I supposed he was dead, like the motionless beaver I had photographed on the Qu'Appelle. Out of perhaps a morbid curiousity I paddled over to take a closer look at him.
He had an enormous shell, larger around than my pith helmet, and extending from it were those fearsome, armored, bear-like claws. His tail had plates sticking up like a stegosaurus, and his little yellow eyes were motionless over the monstrous beak.
I reached in front of him with my paddle, luring him to snap, but got nothing. When I tapped the top of his shell the head retracted an inch and the tail flinched. He was fearless. His armor had gotten him through so many years, it would be a worthwhile surprise to him if there was any predator capable of finishing him off.
He was sitting high on a patch of sand a couple feet triangular. It was the first sand I'd seen on the Assiniboine since that misleading initial island at the Qu'Appelle confluence.
Not much further the river cut out into a sandstone bank, a nearly vertical cliff sixty feet high. Atop the cliff were spruce, a pleasant change from the still green deciduous trees dominating the river. Of course, most of the spruce were green as well, but one in twenty were grey, corpses standing among the living before being laid out over the river.
I was becoming an island snob. I dismissed many nice gravel islands for the usual trivial reasons: it's too early, too small, too noisy, too grassy. The sun made a blessed appearance, early, giving a warmth that lasted the day. The sun draped itself in clouds as it fell towards the horizon, reminding me it would not light my night as well.
That is when the islands gave out. I thought it was going to be another "Casey-at-the-canoe" story, where I'd reject several decent sites only to end up camping on mud. I saw a bank that looked gravelly, but the approach was predictably shallow and muddy. I would have needed to drag the canoe through twenty feet of mud to get to the cramped dirty shore. I relieved myself and moved on.
The wind temporarily with me, I let it push me backwards over the water. I looked up from my book and saw a long gravel bar. I had to paddle hard against the wind, against the current to get back to it. The filling between the gravel rocks was brown. I dreaded the thought of another of these muddy gravel campsites. It may be better than pure mud, but it disappoints when I was expecting gravel's cleanliness.
I dug my paddle into it and it was sand. I stepped my foot out and it was real sand. Real real, real sand.
Day 80 ended: 49*36.824N, 099*22.492W (?)
I supposed he was dead, like the motionless beaver I had photographed on the Qu'Appelle. Out of perhaps a morbid curiousity I paddled over to take a closer look at him.
He had an enormous shell, larger around than my pith helmet, and extending from it were those fearsome, armored, bear-like claws. His tail had plates sticking up like a stegosaurus, and his little yellow eyes were motionless over the monstrous beak.
I reached in front of him with my paddle, luring him to snap, but got nothing. When I tapped the top of his shell the head retracted an inch and the tail flinched. He was fearless. His armor had gotten him through so many years, it would be a worthwhile surprise to him if there was any predator capable of finishing him off.
He was sitting high on a patch of sand a couple feet triangular. It was the first sand I'd seen on the Assiniboine since that misleading initial island at the Qu'Appelle confluence.
Not much further the river cut out into a sandstone bank, a nearly vertical cliff sixty feet high. Atop the cliff were spruce, a pleasant change from the still green deciduous trees dominating the river. Of course, most of the spruce were green as well, but one in twenty were grey, corpses standing among the living before being laid out over the river.
I was becoming an island snob. I dismissed many nice gravel islands for the usual trivial reasons: it's too early, too small, too noisy, too grassy. The sun made a blessed appearance, early, giving a warmth that lasted the day. The sun draped itself in clouds as it fell towards the horizon, reminding me it would not light my night as well.
That is when the islands gave out. I thought it was going to be another "Casey-at-the-canoe" story, where I'd reject several decent sites only to end up camping on mud. I saw a bank that looked gravelly, but the approach was predictably shallow and muddy. I would have needed to drag the canoe through twenty feet of mud to get to the cramped dirty shore. I relieved myself and moved on.
The wind temporarily with me, I let it push me backwards over the water. I looked up from my book and saw a long gravel bar. I had to paddle hard against the wind, against the current to get back to it. The filling between the gravel rocks was brown. I dreaded the thought of another of these muddy gravel campsites. It may be better than pure mud, but it disappoints when I was expecting gravel's cleanliness.
I dug my paddle into it and it was sand. I stepped my foot out and it was real sand. Real real, real sand.
Day 80 ended: 49*36.824N, 099*22.492W (?)
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