As jubilados (Spanish for retirees) living in Canada, we’re interested in exploring the natural and nuanced in North America
Not often do I swear in my diary.
But twice I see “G. Damn” in my entry for Upper Muley Twist Canyon, curses aimed at our guidebook and the National Park Service.
“We walked for hours and never came to the Rim Trail. 20.6 kilometres and no Rim Trail! Anyway, we survived and it was beautiful. The stillness. Absolute. The chill. Deepening. The Light. Lingering. Bed. Beckoning.”
Once upon a time at the edge of a forest beside a river there was a magical place, Glenora, a golden valley in the northern wilds of British Columbia. Even its name had the lilt of birdsong, Glenora: glenn, the Gaelic word for valley; and ora, Spanish for gold.
One Sunday in the summer warmth of June, a man called Magellan and his wife Spice decided they wanted to camp at Glenora after hearing about its charms earlier that afternoon.
Leaving Las Vegas you might, like us, miss the turnoff sign for Seven Magic Mountains. But you can’t miss seeing them—ginormous, 30-35-foot-tall neon-painted totems towering in the barren desert looking like massive stacks of florescent marshmallows. One of the largest land-based art installations in the US in the last forty years. Worth the U-turn for Rove-Inn.
I’ve wanted to see them for decades.
Ever since I saw their photos back in the 70s, mystical figures of ghostly grey imparting a powerful, compelling presence.
The totem poles at Ninstints on Haida Gwaii.
It’s the only place on Haida Gwaii where they still stand. A dozen of them, disciples of the supernatural, silently keeping watch.
Discovering the literature and poetry of a country we’re visiting: for me this is one of the greatest pleasures of travel. And what a thrill when it happens in your own country like it did in the Yukon this summer. Read more
If our marriage lasts, we’ll celebrate our 50th wedding anniversary next Friday!