Banff Gondola, Emerald Lake & Natural Bridge (Yoho National Park), Lake Louise, & Johnston Canyon (Days 3-4)

There are many travel blogs out there, and they all serve their purpose.  For me, the purpose has always been first and foremost to capture my experiences in the moment; to preserve something of the immediate, intimate nature of the present.  One day, when I can no longer travel, I can read these words back and recall these lived moments in a way that will stand the test of time, long after memory has blurred around the edges. 

Now that I have R, perhaps he too will one day find pieces of himself and pieces of us woven through these pages, for these are experiences he will never consciously remember, yet I like to think that these lakes, these forests, these staggeringly beautiful mountains, will make other kinds of impressions on his mind and heart; become a part of his internal tapestry and the way he views the world.

So if you are here to find travel tips for how to do Banff with kids, or to find information to perfect your itinerary, you may indeed find those things here, but incidentally. What you will find, however, is a small glimpse into how these places and landscapes have made themselves a part of me.

I would be remiss, too, if I didn't mention the other person I am writing for.  She was - and always will be - this blog's biggest fan.  She would read the latest installment of every blog entry with an avidness of one awaiting the next installment of their favourite novel or soap opera (and once made her son drive over from another town with his laptop when hers wasn't working so she could read the newest post).  She would email out my blog entries to everyone she thought would read them.  She would tell me, whenever I got back from our travels, that I should write a book.

Even though she is no longer with us, I feel compelled to write for her regardless.  So Grandma U., this one's for you. 

***

Banff Gondola to Sulpher Mountain

This morning we set off on the Banff Gondola, which is essentially a large pod dangling from a metal rope that brings you from safe solid ground up high into the mountains, and the experience is as mildly alarming as that sounds.  We were a little worried we wouldn't make our reservation in time, as Banff was full of lengthy construction delays at every turn, but we eventually arrived at parking and thankfully found a spot.

Initially R was excited by the idea of riding up to the mountain in a gondola, but as we waited in line and he observed the wild reality of it, his face turned slightly concerned, the way it always does when he is processing large pieces of information.  And truth be told, we were also processing it, with J commenting "how is this safe?"  Yet, safe it was, and by the time we hopped in. R was all smiles as he ate his cookie and stared out the gondola windows, and we all marveled at the incredible beauty of being so high up above the tree tops, looking down at the expanse of forest, mountains and river below. 

The views at the top along the boardwalk trail were equally breathtaking.  Mountains everywhere you looked - 360 degrees of them.  The views of the valley below, with the Bow River and expanses of forest, made you feel so small, and the world seem so fast and big.  What impression must it have on one's very being, to live surrounded by this kind of beauty? Or even by just the mountains themselves?  Surely people don't walk around in wonder their entire lives, but there must be subtle changes it has on one's way of thinking and being, one's way of taking up space and moving through the world.

A view along the Sulpher Mountain Boardwalk,
looking back towards the Gondola/interpretive centre

We walked along the boardwalk at R's pace, which was remarkably fast.  The child can hike for kilometers on end without stopping.  His internal drive for movement, the outdoors and general discovery knows no bounds.  You can take the boardwalk and stairs trail all the way to the Sanson's Peak viewpoint, which I highly recommend.  The views at every turn are simply incredible.  Also not to be missed is taking the elevator back at the interpretive centre up to the 4th floor, where you can come out on the roof and enjoy more 360 views, as well as watching the Gondolas come in. 

Bighorn Sheep made an appearance!  

Golden-mantled Ground Squirrels
will try to steal your lunch

View of the valley from the Gondola

After spending a good few hours at the top enjoying the views, we made our way back to the Gondola to head down the mountain and head to our car.  Traveling with a toddler means that after lunch is prime nap-time, so we time all our excursions to involve a drive at this time so he can nap on the go.  In this case, we headed over to British Columbia, an hour away, and Yoho National Park.  

Emerald Lake

Emerald Lake is another popular lake in the region, and has its own shade of turquoise that attracts visitors similarly to Louise and Moraine, but we decided to try our luck with parking and thankfully were able to find a spot.  After filling R up with a snack, we put him on our back in the carrier as he wasn't in the best of moods after his nap, and walked around the area a bit, admiring the views and the lake colour. (I also managed to spot a pair of loons with a tiny baby swimming beside them as well!)

Emerald Lake

Natural Bridge (Yoho National Park) 

Nearby Emerald Lake, you can stop at the Natural Bridge, which is an impressive structure that was sculpted by the powerful forces of water.  This quick stopping point is a beautiful place for a short walk (and maybe a picnic down on the rocks by the river's edge if you are willing to climb down a few uneven rocks).  

Natural Bridge river area (Yoho National Park)

After a long day adventuring, we headed back to Canmore to make dinner (my first time boiling pasta in the microwave, it worked unexpectedly well) and get R to bed for another very early morning - Lake Louise.

We used Fairview Limo again, as even though you can still drive to Lake Louise yourself, parking is very limited and fills up way before sunrise, so a shuttle is your best bet.  With a toddler we didn't want to risk trying to get the Parks Canada tickets 48 hours beforehand, and it was nice for peace of mind to have a scheduled ride.  R greatly enjoyed riding on the bus, and had a fun time in the short 15 minute ride pointing out all the "diggers", pylons ("pie-yons") and "waterfalls" (small rivers moving fast over rocks) that he could see from the large windows.  Definitely book with these folks if you're looking for a family-run, excellently organized, reasonably priced shuttle to both lakes. We had a great experience both times. 

Upon arriving at Lake Louise (around 8:45am), we quickly headed over to the boathouse to get in line for a canoe.  This was a bucket-list item for me, after seeing so many iconic photos of people canoeing on this lake.  Thankfully, the line was still very short, and it wasn't too long before we were donning life jackets and out on the water. 

Sometimes, when life is full of stress and chaos and there are so many things you can't plan for or control and so many disappointments and unexpected thwarted plans, having an experience like this is just what you need to have faith that sometimes, everything just works out.  Dipping my paddle in the pristine turquoise-blue waters of this famous lake, helped me remember that again.

The colour of the water was impossibly beautiful, and incredibly clear. We picked up a bunch of rocks for R to throw from the canoe, and we could see the rocks fall down into the depths of the water.  The mountains ahead of us were stunning, their reflections on the water mirror-like, and the lake was calm and quiet out at the end, a temporary escape from the crowds of tourists at the other end.  

Canoeing on Lake Louise

Happiness is a funny thing - external joys like these are temporary and fleeting, yes.  But they also help reset you, remind you that there is joy and stillness inside you that you can access at any time.  These memories of clear blue waters, cool water dripping from the paddle, mountain ranges on every side, will stay with me.  When life gets difficult I can close my eyes and remember this feeling, the way my breathing stilled, the way the towering rocky mountains reflected off the water's surface, the way it felt to have a small dream come true for a moment, and bring myself back to a grounded state.

This is what travel does for me. From the silence and solitude of the rocky red shores of Pass Lake, to the heat and endless lands of the Serengeti, to the incredibly stark and stunning landscape of Iceland, to the winding roads of northern Portugal, to the lush island of Fiji, to the oceans and rolling hills of New Zealand, these places and experiences are all still with me, a card catalogue of reminisces I can draw from at any time.  (That metaphor won't stand the test of time, but there's an almost tactile deliberateness about access these memories that referring to them as "computer files" just doesn't capture).

After our beautiful paddle, we headed off on the Lake Louise Lakeshore trail.  While there were definitely more people at Lake Louise than Moraine Lake, the further you got along the hike, the number of people greatly diminished, and by the end of the hike there were only a handful of others there. The hike is incredibly easy, all flat packed earth, and it's about 4km round trip.  R hiked it like he was on a mission, granting him amused comments from other hikers, and delighted in finding all the little creeks that fed the lake.  Going at toddler pace doesn't always work when you're on a time crunch, so we popped him in the backpack for the last bit of the hike.

Lake Louise Lakeshore hike views

The end of the lake was a magnificent place to have a picnic lunch, and we set up on a rock by the lake shore.  R found a large branch to play in the water with afterwards, while we took turns walking out onto the mud flats and soaking in more beautiful views of the lake looking back towards the Fairmont Hotel. 

Lake Louise Lakeshore hike

On our hike back to get our shuttle, we (aka me) were delighted by the surprise appearance of a Stellar's Jay, an absolutely gorgeous iridescent dark blue and black bird.  It was hanging out on a bench on the trail for a few moments before heading back into the dense forest. That, plus the surprise Canada Jays and the abundant Black-billed Magpies, made a birder-girl's heart very happy indeed. 

Stellar's Jay

Canada Jay

Black-billed Magpie

View from Storm Mountain lookout on Bow Valley Pkwy

After saying goodbye to Lake Louise and taking the shuttle back to our car, we went into Banff and stopped at Trailhead Cafe to get some incredibly delicious iced coffees and baked treats, and then took the daily drive-for-nap along the Bow Valley Parkway today, which is a nice alternate to the Trans Canada Highway, and we stopped at a few lookout points to enjoy the views (one person would stay in the car with it running so as not to wake him while the other went out, and then we'd swap).  My favourite spot was the Storm Mountain lookout, and I highly recommend it. You can actually see the Via Rail train tracks below and if you're lucky (as J was), you'll see the train pass by while you're there.  

Johnston Canyon

When R woke up, we set off on the Johnston Canyon hike to see the Lower Falls.  The child was full of energy and bounded ahead of us on the trail (which appeared almost entirely do-able by stroller, but we didn't bother bringing ours).  The picturesque hike through the canyon is definitely worth it, and again quite an easy walk through the woods.  The falls itself were small but beautiful, and just to the right of the falls there is a hole in the rock that forms a small cave where you can go out and get very close to the falls for an immersive experience.  This hike is actually where we encountered the most people of all our day trips so far - there weren't more people here overall, but the narrow trails made it so that it would easily get crowded.  To go into the little cave and experience the falls up close involved waiting in a line across the bridge over the falls, which was astounding to me, but thankfully there weren't many people today so we decided to do it.  It was a lot of fun!  R was excited about going in but the reality of the loud crashing water and the water spray quickly changed his mind so we weren't there for more than a minute, but it was still worth it. 

Johnston Canyon Lower Falls

We didn't have time to do the Upper Falls so we headed back to the parking lot, with R hiking the whole way back as well - 2.6km in total!  What a little trooper.  After making dinner back at the hotel, we took him out for a well deserved ice cream in the mountains at Lovely Ice Cream, a small-batch locally produced ice cream.  There's nothing that says vacation quite like an evening ice cream treat with a mountain backdrop!  Tomorrow, we are leaving Canmore and heading down the Icefields Parkway for the second half of our vacation in Jasper.

Whoever you are out there reading, I hope I've done these places a bit of justice and shown you their reflections through my eyes. See you again in a few days. 

Golden-mantled Ground Squirrel at Lake Louise

Me and R at the end of the Lake Louise Lakeshore hike

Banff: Arriving in Calgary & exploring Moraine Lake (Days 1-2)

It's been a long time since we've traveled. Long time readers will remember our incredible travels through New Zealand, Fiji, Kenya/Tanzania/Zambia, Iceland, and Portugal, and the resulting daily blog instalments that took you along for the journey with us. (If you'd like to re-live these adventures, they're hyper-linked on the righthand side).

Add in 3 years of a fertility journey, a pandemic, a pregnancy, and a couple of years getting our bearings as new parents, and here we are, 6 years later, traveling again. 

Things look a little different now, trying to wrangle a toddler and all our extra stuff to and through the airport and keeping him calm and contained on the flight, but the premise is the same.  I could write paragraphs about how difficult it is to drag a car seat through the airport and convince flight attendants you're allowed to use it on the plane, or waiting in line for an hour and a half in Calgary to get our rental car while said toddler has several meltdowns, or about how he ate a bag of cookies for dinner because we were too exhausted after a day of travel and jetlag  to convince him to eat anything else, but that's not why you're here. 

After a very long day of traveling, we finally left the Calgary airport, made a quick grocery run, and were on the road to Canmore (just south of Banff).  And then, there they were.  The mountains. 

Something about them enters your being like nothing else.  Impossibly large, not really stand-alone objects but more a part of the earth around you, covered in seemingly perfect rows of dense evergreens, and topped with snow, they appear in the distance, beckoning you to come closer. As we approached, and every turn yielded more and more of the tumbling mountains, Alberta's Rockies, and a deep sense of calm came over me (or maybe it was that R was passed out in the back seat with an empty bag of cookies in his hand, finally not making a sound).

Truthfully though, this feeling washed over me unexpectedly.  The blurred years of IVF and a pandemic and pregnancy/early parenthood put such a gap between my pre-parenthood self that I had not even noticed what I had been missing.  This longing to be elsewhere, to be immersed in unknown landscapes, bubbled to the surface, drawn out slowly, like the early melts of the glaciers running down the mountain sides themselves. 

We checked into our hotel in Canmore, Falconcrest Lodge.  The room has a full kitchenette (though no stove - we missed the fine print so had to do some meal rearrangements) and a sliding glass door to a little balcony that looks out at the Three Sisters mountains, plus several others. Our little traveler, who had been asking us every day for at least a week "we go to mountains today?" finally got to see what we had been traveling over 12 hours to see. They were partially covered in clouds, and he was amused that they might be "hiding/playing peekaboo".  

After unpacking and settling in (which involved an urgent call to the front desk to request a vacuum cleaner after R tried to "help" unpack the groceries and smashed a glass of strawberry jam), we had a late dinner we had picked up from Thai House in Canmore (incredible Panang Curry if you like spicy food, and the Pad Thai was quite good too), we all went to sleep to prepare for a busy next day. 

Life as a parent means the concept of sleeping in is non-existent, so we were well prepared to get up for a bright and early morning and be on the road by 7:30 to drive to our shuttle pick-up spot near Moraine Lake.  The drive along Trans-Canada Hwy 1 was an endless string of mountains, and R felt the need to announce each and every one ("Look mama, anodder one!"  "More mountains overdere mommy!")  

We were probably just as excited as he was, and it made me think about how precious it is to see life through the eyes of a toddler - everything is new to them, everything is full of wonder and excitement. Is this why we travel - to recapture that feeling of newness and wonder?

We had booked a shuttle bus with Fairmont Limousine as we didn't want to risk not getting a spot on the Parks Canada shuttles (Moraine Lake is closed to personal vehicles now), as they were reasonably priced and had good reviews.  We parked at the Lake Louise Inn as instructed, and hopped aboard a very clean and comfortable bus led by very friendly and incredibly organized folks.  R was in his element, riding yet another mode of transportation, and his excitement was contagious.  It was a short, 20 minute drive over to Moraine Lake, and we were soon on the trail for the Rockpile hike.

This short trail climbs steadily up quite a fair bit of stairs, but is not overly strenuous. At the top is where people get the "iconic" Moraine Lake photos and selfies.  R was delighted to no end, giggling and laughing as he climbed up the stairs faster than I could, boasting about his "strong legs" and not showing any signs of slowing until we reached the top.  

Mystery couple at the view of Lake Moraine from the Rockpile hike

There were quite a bit of people doing the hike and at the lookout points, but everyone was calm and friendly and gave us space.  We were happy that today was a relatively clear day and the sun was out, hitting the water at the perfect angle and giving the water that magical turquoise colour that everyone wants to see.  We explored a little at the top, took the obligatory photos, and then headed back down to start our main goal - the Lakeshore hike.

Clark's Nutcracker

At the bottom, my birder radar was of course alert to any new birds. I had already been delighted to have a Black-billed Magpie land on the tree outside our hotel room, and here at Moraine there were many Clark's Nutcrackers hanging around, hopping close to people in the hopes for a handout. 

R needed a snack, so we headed over to the shore of Moraine Lake for him to throw rocks (the child has no greater joy than this activity) and have a bite to eat.  After a few minutes of this, we heard some commotion and saw the crowds of people moving away from the lakeshore and back up to the main road.  Soon we caught wind of what was going on - a young grizzly bear was walking very close to where we all were, and Park Rangers were trying to get people away from the area.  We quickly grabbed all our things (why does traveling with toddlers require so. many. things?!) and made our way back up to where the other people were congregating to try and get a glimpse of the bear.  

"This is a serious situation - please stay back!" the Rangers shouted at people, as they tracked the bear.  Their intent was to keep it away from the area and scare it away with a paintball gun.  Grizzly bears are much more dangerous than the Black Bears we are familiar with back home who will bolt at the drop of a hat, and the ranger's main concern was to discourage the young bear from getting anywhere near the populated area. There are only around 60 bears in the park and they are working hard with conservation efforts to keep them safe, but their last resort if the bear decides to charge is to shoot to kill, so frightening it away with paintball guns is one of their management strategies to encourage fear of humans and hopefully making sure that sad last resort never comes to pass. 

I did manage a glimpse of the bear and ranger from afar with my zoom lens, and I am quite happy if this is the closest I ever get to a grizzly bear.  Once the commotion died down and the rangers were tracking the bear further off, we checked in with a park ranger to ask if it was safe to continue on the Lakeshore hike.  The short answer was that it was as safe as it usually is - meaning you are still likely to encounter a grizzly at any point and you should be aware of the risks.

Park ranger and the light-coloured young grizzly

We decided to go for it.  R was quite upset by the whole event and his compliance levels were 0%, so we popped him on my back in the hiking carrier and away we went.  As he whined and wailed, I commented to Jen how we were hiking with the best bear deterrent there was!  

The hike along the Moraine lakeshore is absolutely beautiful.  It's short (3 km round trip) and we did it at toddler pace in just over an hour.  The hike takes you away from the crowds of people almost immediately, and while we encountered a few people on the trail, most of the time we felt like we had this magical turquoise lake almost to ourselves.  Once R calmed down, he enjoyed the multitude of little creeks and mini "waterfalls" running off the mountainside and into the lake, and enjoyed looking for the next ones.  The colour of the water and the view of the mountains was absolutely breathtaking, and we loved taking our time along the trail to breathe it all in.

Lakeshore trail

Moraine Lake

Moraine Lake seen from Lakeshore hike  

Yellow-rumped Warblers, Swainson's Thrushes, an Oregon Dark-eyed Junco, Chipping Sparrows, and an incessantly singing Wilson's Warbler were observed along the trail, as well as a Harlequin duck way out in the lake, but the most exciting bird of the day was found for me by R.  I was looking at something else, when he pointed to the bushes and said "mama what's dat?"  When I looked, it was a Boreal Chickadee!  These beautiful little birds have a soft chestnut cap rather than the black caps we are used to back home, and I'd only ever seen one once.  My excitement was infectious as I marveled at the bird and tried to get some photos, and R kept saying "I found it" with obvious pride.  My little birder in the making!

Boreal Chickadee

We enjoyed our lunch on a nice big flat rock at the end of the Lakeshore trail, near the mouth of a river that was tumbling over the rocks and feeding the lake. It was a beautiful place to rest before heading back, and even though there were a handful of people there doing the same, it was so much better than the throngs of people over at the Rockpile hike where everyone else usually goes.  If you come to Moraine, I highly recommend this hike, even if you're not a hiker - it's quite easy and flat, and you'll be able to experience the beauty in a much slower, relaxed way. 

After one more stop on the way back for R to throw rocks again, we headed back to our shuttle for the Fairview Limo folks to pick us up.  We had timed it so that R would be ready for a nap by the time we got back, and after a bathroom stop inside the Lake Louise Inn and grabbing a coffee from there ($5 for one regular brewed coffee - pro tip if traveling with a partner or friend, ask for a large coffee and a cup of water, drink said water, pour half the coffee into the second cup and voila!  A regularly priced coffee.)  (Backpacking skills die hard, apparently)

We took route 1A part of the way back to Canmore in order to extend R's nap a bit, and enjoyed the scenery on the way to Johnston Canyon.  After that we went over to the BC/AB
border and the Great Continental Divide (marked red on the map to the left) and had gorgeous mountain views on the route here.  The Great Continental Divide separates the watersheds that feed into the Pacific vs the Atlantic ocean, and is one of the more prominent of such divides as it follows a mountain range all the way down to Mexico.  There is a marker at this spot that separates Alberta from British Columbia, and Jen drove R around the parking lot spanning two provinces while I hopped out to take a quick photo.

AB - BC border

At the end of the Three Sisters (not pictured) short hike   

Once back at the hotel, we prepared an early dinner and let R play a bit before heading out for a quick evening hike.  We chose the Three Sisters Viewpoint hike as it was only a few minutes from the hotel and promised a beautiful view, a body of water for R to throw rocks in, and was only 1 km long.  The parking instructions were a bit confusing and we missed it on first pass, but you park outside the large fenced in dog park, and then you have to cross the highway to the other side, which was a little unnerving to do while holding a toddler but we didn't have to wait too long for a sufficient break in the traffic.  The hike itself follows a creek bed, which is quite rocky, and goes underneath the railway tracks which form a small bridge, and then after a bit more rocky footing turns into a nice flat packed dirt trail through the woods.  The view of the Three Sisters and their perfect reflection in the water did not disappoint, and if you walk down to the left a bit you'll find a spot with plenty of rocks for a toddler to throw (which he did).  It was peaceful here and we didn't encounter many people except for some local dog owners. 

After that, it was back to the hotel to get R ready for bed and pack our bags and lunches for tomorrow's busy day. 

The Gazebo Group: How 5 Choristers survived a pandemic

We were 6 months into a pandemic that had already gone on longer than anyone had thought it would.  A curious email appeared in my inbox – a call from a fellow despondent choir member, wondering if anyone in her choral circle wanted to gather outdoors and sing Renaissance music together.  My interest was piqued, as my heart was missing group singing more than it missed anything else the pandemic had taken from us, but the proposed weekly date and timing didn’t work for me. 

For the next few weeks, I read with curiosity the email updates that came from Jane after each gathering, and thought how lovely it was that a small handful of people had found a way to come together and sing safely despite the various stages of lockdown we were finding ourselves in.

The updates came with vivid and intriguing descriptions of each week’s gathering:

“We met up, sang a Christmas carol (and got compliments from passers by) and then worked on Sicut Cervus by Palestrina. Even though our numbers were small, we were so happy to be singing together and our spirits were high.”

“Last week's gathering was the opposite of illustrious or spectacular. It was King Lear on the heath weather - driving rain, cold, and miserable. I turned up but the rest of you had the sense to stay home! I met some interesting people (…), sang Sicut Cervus to the rain, and went home slightly sodden at 6 p.m.”

The image of my solitary choir member singing to the rain was simultaneously tragic and yet indicative of a strange kinship that I could no longer ignore.  The following week, I made my inaugural walk from my home to a nearby park that, unbeknownst to be at the time, would become a weekly pilgrimage over the next year.

The heart of the choral singer is a complex one to describe.  It is not simply that we “love singing” – if it were only that, singing alone in the shower would suffice, and a pandemic that deemed group singing to be one of the most ‘dangerous’ activities would not have affected us so. 

“Why don’t you just join a virtual choir?” was a comment I heard often from well-meaning, non-choral friends.  As lovely and peculiar as it is to sing alone by yourself in your living room while watching other floating heads silently doing the same on your computer screen, it does not come close to the rhythmic joining of your breath with others’ breaths, the melding of your notes against the choral harmonies of others’ notes, and the intangible mystery of so many individual voices somehow becoming one cohesive entity.

As I walked across the park to our meeting place of choice, I briefly looked around for by-law enforcement or members of the public ready to inform us how ‘illegal’ our group gathering was.  No such phantoms appeared.  It was a desolate, empty field, with perhaps a lone dog walker in the distance.  The autumn air was crisp, and the trees around us had mostly shed their leaves.

I approached the designated meeting spot, and, seeing no one, sat down on some concrete steps to wait.  Perhaps the others had decided that we shouldn’t, in fact, be engaging in such dangerous, law-breaking activity.

But I needn’t have worried.  At promptly 4:30pm, Jane appeared in the distance, squinting across the field at me, carrying a large basket.  I stood up; smiled and waved.  “Ana!” she beamed at me.  “You’re here!”

Soon after, a handful of others arrived.  There were 6 of us that day – 4 short of the current allowable gathering limit.  We stood 6 feet (or more) apart.  Jane distributed sheets of music from the aforementioned basket. 

And, just like that, we sang.

How do I explain to you what that moment felt like? 

To join my voice to the voices of others after so long.  To breathe in sync with the breath of others.  To hear woven harmonies all around me.  Those first few notes, my eyes filled with tears – but there was no time for that.  There was serious sight-reading to do.  Black dots and lines of notes flooded my mind like old familiar friends, and the part of my brain that knows how to automatically sync in time to a communal rhythm turned on like a glowing flame.  It did not matter that the wind whipped our sheets of music, that the cold air made our fingers numb.  We made our way through a dizzying amount of 4-part Renaissance music, oblivious to the elements and the occasional passerby.

We were singing!  Together.  The hour passed much too quickly. 

The weekly emails from Jane continued:

“Greetings!  We must have looked like miners last week as we shone lights of various sizes and positions onto our sheet music which kept threatening to be blown away by the wind. And we shared the bandshell last week with minors who were skateboarding. Accommodating minors who did their stunts alongside our rounds.  Please feel free to join us tomorrow, Thursday, from 4:30-5:30 p.m. as usual! We will be starting with some rounds and a Christmas carol and then attempting to work on the longest piece we have ever tried: Civitas Sancti Tui by William Byrd. We will see how far we get! It is haunting and the words are about the city (Zion) being desolate. A lamentation, which somehow seems appropriate for what we are all going though now.  Dress warmly! Sheet music and candy will be provided!”

As the weeks progressed, it became clear that a stalwart group of 5 of us were consistently showing up, week after week, ready with music in hand to sing no matter the weather.  We were, unbeknownst to us, forming a curious bond over something that was a mutual shared passion.

As one of us wrote in retrospect: “Eventually, however, as the winter tightened its grip, it became obvious that something amazing and wonderful was happening. The response to the weather worsening was the emergence of a small group of people who had obviously come to share a common belief and commitment, that we would sing, every week. But in some way the commitment to sing every week represented a commitment to other things too, to a way of living and a way of being, individually and with each other.”

Ted’s words above describe very succinctly what the source of our bond truly was, beyond simply a mere shared love of singing choral music.  A commitment to a way of being.

October turned into November, which turned into December.  The location of our initial gatherings was moved several blocks down the road to another park, with an 8-sided Gazebo that could shelter us a bit more from the elements.  This became our permanent home for the next year.  As the weeks went on, our 4:30pm start meant we started with fading daylight and finished in complete darkness. 

We developed a pattern – while we still had daylight, we tackled the more challenging pieces first.  I was often the one who ended up 'conducting', which mostly consisted of waving my bright blue mittened hand up and down to keep us on a steady beat.  Whenever there was a page turn in the music, I momentarily had to stop conducting while I quickly removed my mitten, turned the page, frantically tried to keep singing in time, and put the mitten back on so I could keep going. 

As the light faded, we would pull out our little headlamps or booklights so we could still see our music.  When it was really cold, we would hop in place in between songs.  Most days, we sang alone, completely unnoticed by the few who happened to be walking through the park in the dark. 

Occasionally, though, we did manage to attract a micro-audience.

A toddler wearing a bright neon pinny that broke away from his daycare group taking a walk and ran over to see what on earth we were doing.  The teacher followed along with the other two children and they stood there and listened to us sing a few songs before continuing on their walk. 

A boy and his father, attracted either by the bobbing of our headlamps or our disembodied voices in the dark, also came over one night.  The young boy clapped after each song - we waved at him and smiled, though we doubted he could see us.

A lone man walking his dog through the park, who stopped a distance away and listened for a little bit before continuing on.

In the midst of strange and uncertain times, this tiny little ad-hoc choir of crazy people willing to stand outdoors in winter's cold and darkness and join our voices together in lovely harmonies kept me sane.  Kept us all sane.  And who were ‘we’, exactly?  A teacher, a choir director, a music librarian/church administrator, a busy mother of 2 young children, and me - a pregnant behaviour analyst/choral singer.

Together, we managed to cover most 4-part music by having an Alto, a Bass, 2 Sopranos, and a Soprano-on-Tenor.  We sightread whatever we could get our hands on, always doing a mix of brand new pieces each week and going over a variety of favourites.  Over the course of the time we sang together, we worked out way through over 60 pieces.  Palestrina, Byrd, Vasquez, Lassus, Bach, Pitoni, Rachmaninov.  A dizzying array of Masses, Ave Verums, Cantate Dominos.  Portuguese polyphony, madrigals, Sacred Harp, hymns, modern liturgical music, spirituals, chants, rounds.

All of this while straining our ears to listen to each other standing so much further away than any choir is used to, keeping our music from flying away in the wind, keeping headlamps pointed at the score, and occasionally even conducting with a glowstick out of desperation to stay in time in the dark.

It was beautiful madness.  And I loved it.

One dark night in January, we acquired an audience of 3.  They lingered, and chatted with us between songs, wanting to know who we were and what on earth we were doing there.  They seemed drawn to us, to the magic we were creating... starved, almost, for beauty, for live music, for human connection.  Everything the pandemic had taken from us.

A woman passed by, stopped, and said "I just wanted to tell you something."  We all held our breaths, afraid she was going to point out we were breaking the law, that we were more than 5, that we shouldn't be gathering.  Instead she simply said "You all sound so beautiful" and continued her walk.

We exhaled.  

By the end of January, light finally started to return.  No longer were headlamps needed.  We survived the darkest of winter, and it was so vividly apparent to us, so striking; we all just marvelled at it, at being able to see our music by the end of it, at no longer being disembodied voices in the dark, but real and present and defiant - not defiant of the law, but of despair.  We had created a tiny island of sanity and refuge in our lives amidst massive uncertainty.

As Covid waves rose and fell, restrictions ebbed and flowed along with them.  For several weeks, it became illegal to gather outdoors with ANY one at all.  We briefly hesitated – would this be the end of the Gazebo Group?  We showed up that first week after the new restrictions were implemented, looked around briefly for by-law enforcers hiding in the bushes, and, seeing none, continued the business of singing as usual.

Winter gave way to spring, and spring to early summer.  One warm day, when restrictions about gathering limits had lifted slightly above zero, we found ourselves sharing the Gazebo with a group of 6 energetic children, running around, shouting, riding bicycles and scooters.  We simply moved ourselves off to the side, passed around some new music, and sang as we always did.  When we finished our first piece, we were startled to turn around and find all 6 children had assembled themselves on the ground in a straight line, and had been quietly listening to our “concert”.  They beamed at us as we turned around, and gave us a smattering of applause, telling us we were “really good”.

Surprised and a little humbled, we acknowledged them, and continued on with our singing, receiving a round of applause from tiny hands each time.  What was it that caused those young children to assemble themselves, unprompted by an adults, and quietly listen to an impromptu ‘concert’ of Renaissance music from a handful of strangers?  Was it the pandemic, that had isolated us for so long from each other?  The novelty of people singing outdoors for no apparent purpose?  The sound of the music itself?  Whatever it was, it was definitely a special moment.

You have to understand.  Life during the pandemic was not like what we know now, or have always known.  Those two years, we were like ghosts.  Disembodied versions of ourselves, trying to float through whatever this life was now.  Hugging your grandmother was illegal; so was a child playing on a swing.  The complete unknown of what we were all thrown into, collectively, has changed us in ways we don’t yet fully understand.  The world around us is back to normal; yet our experiences from the past two years were anything but normal.  How do they fit into our current lives?  What place does an ad-hoc group of outdoor renaissance singers have in this post-pandemic world?  What do we still carry with us from that time of madness and beauty?

This little group and our experience together under the Gazebo changed us all in some way.  It kept us sane and connected during a time when there was no stability in our lives, when everything was unknown, when everything we loved and needed most in our lives, connection and closeness, was taken away from all of us.  It was no small comfort to know that every Thursday at 4:30pm, there would be a handful of others waiting to sing together, no matter the situation around us.

We took a small hiatus over the summer, as all choirs do.  The world was starting to open up somewhat from all the restrictions, and we all had social and travel engagements for the first time in over a year.

Nevertheless, as fall approached and another covid surge with it (with accompanying restrictions on gathering), we met again in early September and continued our weekly gatherings, singing as the evenings grew cooler again, and wind and leaves blew around us.  This was familiar by now; a rhythm and connection with the elements, the music and each other, that kept calling us together.

One day in late October, we came together for our usual singing, and realized with a pang of bittersweetness that this would be the Gazebo group’s last gathering.  Our lives were pulling us in different directions – a move to a new home several hours away, a baby about to be born, a friend in hospital that needed weekly visiting, the start-up of church choir administrative duties. 

Jane, in true Jane fashion, brought us all hot chocolate to hold on to while we sang, to keep our hands warm.  We sang all of our old favourites from the past year, with perhaps more energy and passion than we ever had, knowing it was our last time together.

One of our favourite pieces to sing was actually a Christian folk hymn from the American South: Wondrous Love.  We had early on adapted the lyrics to suit our present predicament – instead of singing “and when from death we’re free”, we had modified the lyrics to: “And when from Covid we’re free, we’ll sing on, we’ll sing on… and when from Covid we’re free, we’ll sing on.”  It was our mantra, a prayer for the future, something to give us hope.

On this last day of our singing together, I requested a new modification, to which everyone obliged, and we sang this:  “And since from Covid we’re free, we’ll sing on, we’ll sing on… and since from Covid we’re free, we’ll sing on!”

There were teary-eyed hugs goodbye as we parted for the last time, and made our slow ceremonial walk towards our cars across the leaf-strewn park.  When I got home, I looked at the calendar and realized that it had been exactly a year to the day that I had joined this strange and wonderful group.

As I sit here reminiscing, a year later, I look out my window and see yellow, red, and orange leaves blowing in the wind, just like they did that day.  The pandemic is not exactly over, but restrictions have lifted and our lives have returned to somewhat of a state of normalcy.  This very evening, I have a dress rehearsal for a choral concert tomorrow – a sure sign that life as we used to know it has definitely returned.

And yet, despite the return of regular choral activities, the memory of the Gazebo Group lives on, and tugs at my heartstrings in a way I cannot explain.  What we created, by coming together in such a time of uncertainty, was something that I fear I have failed, still, to capture in words, despite taking a year to work on describing who and what we were. 

We were a beacon of light to each other in a very dark time.  And in a world where every moment, good or bad, is captured via digital means, there exists no record of our weekly singing, no video clips on anyone’s phones, not even a still photo.  Was it a dream, then, these gatherings I speak of, with music sheets flying in the wind and headlamps bobbing in the dark? Certainly no sane person would engage in such madness, and definitely not for an entire year.

Who knows – if there is ever another pandemic, I definitely know where I will be going every Thursday afternoon.  I think, even without prior planning, that 4 other people will somehow also be there.  We will just know.

And if you are ever taking a walk in a park, some warm and bright spring day, chilly fall afternoon, or frigid and windy dark winter evening, and notice a gazebo in the distance, maybe walk a little closer.  Listen for us. And remember that we existed.

Ontario Birds

Purple Sandpipers

It's been a while since I've written a blog entry.  The world has changed so much; continues to change.  We all know this; there's no need for me to re-hash it here.

My one consistent solace has been birds.  The warblers and thrushes, waterfowl and songbirds, migrate like clockwork, completely unaware of the current pandemic or the political turmoil south of our border. Borders are irrelevant to them.  And so I find comfort in their tiny eyes, their fluttery wings, their vibrant or muted colours.

Purple Sandpiper Range Map (allaboutbirds.org)

I took a walk the other day to search for a Purple Sandpiper.  There had been reports on ebird.org that Purple Sandpipers were being sighted in a nearby area, so I took a chance.  Why are they so special?  Well, as you can see from the range map, it's quite rare for them to appear in Ontario at all. They breed and migrate in very remote northern regions, though they can very rarely be seen around the Great Lakes. 

These elusive creatures had been spotted at Pipit Point at the Leslie Street Spit in Toronto, which was about an hour's hike one way.  I got up before the sun, and was on the trail as the sun started to rise.  I was mostly alone on this solitary hike, though I did pass the occasional cyclist or runner.  I was actually surprised I didn't run into more birders, eager to see this rare appearance.

Finally I arrived at Pipit Point, and scanned the rocky shoreline where the waves of the lake were splashing gently.  No signs of birds at all, only mossy-covered rocks.  I climbed over some boulders and made my way to a different viewpoint. 

2 Purple Sandpipers on the left; Dunlin on the right

Suddenly there it was - a Purple Sandpiper.  Quietly walking along a large boulder, periodically pecking at the rocks.  I recognized it instantly.  The overwhelming feeling of wonder is hard to explain.  Up until that very moment, the Purple Sandpiper had been a mythical creature; something I had only ever seen in photos; something that lived so far away from these southern shores that I'd never imagined I would see one.  And there it was.  Just like that.  A few moments later, a second one joined it, as well as a more common Dunlin.

Purple Sandpiper

I sat on the rocks for half an hour, watching them as they walked back and forth along the rocks, oblivious to my presence.  Part way through, a flock of unidentified birds swooped over the lake in the distance, and without warning both Purple Sandpipers and the Dunlin immediately took to the skies and joined the flock, flew with them for a few seconds, and then circled around and came right back to the rocks where I was.  Why?  For what hidden reason did this happen?

Birds have so much to teach us.

Jen and I have recently revived our Ontario Bird Flashcards project and increased the number of cards in the deck to 100.  All of our own photography was used to create these beautiful cards. They have a photo of the bird on the front and the name of the bird on the back.  We have been completely floored by the response we've gotten - we've sold almost 500 decks since the pandemic began. I guess birds are offering a comfort to many people during this time.

We still have some remaining if anyone is looking for holiday stocking stuffers.  You can watch a cute little video about our bird cards here:   https://youtu.be/A9DgdJ_OIpU

Cards are available for purchase on our Etsy shop at this link: https://www.etsy.com/ca/listing/820429876/ontario-birds-flashcards

Stay safe out there everyone.  We will get through this. 

Blackburnian Warbler

Scarlet Tanager

Tennessee Warbler

White-throated Sparrow

Wood Ducks

Yellow Warbler

Still I rise

I never thought I’d want a tattoo.  While I was always able to think of multiple images that could represent what is deeply meaningful to me, the truth is that I have so many passions (music, hiking, canoeing, birds, poetry, science, social justice…) that I couldn’t fathom how I would choose just one or a few of those things to mark myself with permanently.  I have never been able to settle on one thing – one hobby, one skill, one career, one way of being.  The path in life that I have followed is far from linear; often not even coherent.

So what is it that remains the same?  Change.

Though I resist it, I simultaneously embrace it.  How can I not want to know what’s just around the next river bend, or just beyond that dark, frightening forest?  How can I remain still, as afraid as I often am, when there is the unknown, just beyond my reach?

The phoenix is an ancient, mythical bird from Greek folklore.  It is said that a phoenix constantly cycles through a death and rebirth.  It dies, in fire and ashes and smoke, and then is born again from these flames, simultaneously brand new and yet still the same. 

The symbolism of this is one that I resonate with.  My life has been a series of constant deaths and rebirths.  I rarely speak about my prior “lives” to most people, as they seem so far away as to belong to someone else entirely.  Yet I simultaneously recognize how deeply these past periods of pain have formed and shaped me.  From chronic physical & emotional abuse, to briefly being without a home, to a relationship that tore me apart; from being given label after label, diagnosed but never ‘cured’, dark months of severe depression and thoughts of ending my own life; figuring out I was queer only in my 30's and the associated familiar rejections, the painful loss of loved ones; the soul-tearing journey that is seeking fertility treatments; the loss of my sweet little raspberry-sized baby…

These selves, these lives, these versions of me – some are so far in the past that I am only vaguely aware of how they shaped me; others are immediately present, the wounds in my heart still open and baking in the sun.

So who am I but this – this constant cycle of death of the Self, the Ego, and the inevitable Re-births?  I have learned that pain and suffering is not something to be feared.  Pain in this life is a given; that much I have learned through my various iterations, if nothing else.  Even that emotional, soul-crushing pain where it felt like I would never breathe again, never live again, never be myself again… it is not ‘bad’.  It just is.  It is a part of me, no better or worse than the other parts of me.

Most days I feel perpetually 17, as if the years had not since doubled.  I am still that wild, awkward, un-tamable creature with the intensity of love and despair over life that for some peaks at 17 and for me seems to have remained constant.  If I could go back in time and tell her just one thing, it would be this:

Life is so much more intensely beautiful than you could possibly imagine; and also more intensely full of pain than you could ever fathom living through.  Yet you will.  You will die inside and you will be born again.  You will think that you cannot possibly ever be the same person, and nevertheless be reborn into the exact same core of who you are… just more so, each time.  Do not get stuck, do not cling to one single idea of who you are or what your life should be – the most unexpectedly painful and beautiful things await you.  Yet you will still be you, perpetually 17.

Once I realized how much I resonated with the mythology of the phoenix, it became quite clear to me that this was quite possibly the only thing I could ever permanently mark my body with, because it is the only part of me that will always, always remain.  The cycle of destruction and resurrection. 

The experience of sitting down and actually getting it was almost spiritual.  I knew, going in, that my extreme sensitivity would likely cause the experience of pain to be more intense than is typical for this part of my arm, and I was indeed correct.  The process of slowly tracing the outline of the phoenix felt like knives slicing my skin.  I clung to my worry stone (given to me by someone who has also experienced intense suffering and rebirth), and breathed into the pain, rather than trying to escape it. 

There is no real growth, real beauty, without being forged in fire.  The pain became an offering, a gift to myself; just another micro-death and re-birth.  The energy coursing through my arm after each small application of ink was almost pleasurable; the intense cocktail of chemicals inside me doing their job to process the pain.  I had tears in my eyes for a good while, though they didn’t fall.  They weren’t induced by the physical pain; rather they were a release of emotion, at this promise that I was making to myself.

Why place something permanent on my body, where I will see it every day?  As a commitment.  A necklace or purple hair or a change of clothing is temporary and can be taken on and off or hidden.  This tattoo, for me, and the process of getting it (it took a year of thinking about it before I finally went and did it) is a commitment to the Self and this process of giving myself up to Life.

I do not know what is to come; I do not know how much it will hurt nor how beautiful it could possibly be.  But I am done hiding, I am done making excuses and I am done letting the small self win.  17 years of self-growth, therapy, journaling, meditation, exploration, various spiritual practices, have led me here.  This was not an easy decision nor one made lightly.

The phoenix tattoo is a commitment to that; a commitment to embrace my shadow self, the ashes of the previous incarnations of who I have been.  You can see the specks of these ashes falling from the black shadow phoenix on my arm, representing how impermanent it is.  The firey, re-born phoenix rises behind the shadow self, and flecks of fire come out the top, also representing the impermanence of every re-birth and new self that we become.  We are in constant motion and change. 

I didn’t want just a single phoenix; I needed both, the old and the new; the dark and the light; death and rebirth.  Pain and suffering makes up just as much of me as love and light does.  None of it is ‘good’ or ‘bad’.  It all just Is.  Just as I simply Am, and do not need to chase one identity or the other, or conform to any single shape.

I am everything; a river in constant motion; a phoenix rising from the ashes.