10 October 2025 – Given this is a simple post about a simple walk on a route we have walked before, you and I, it does seem excessive to lead with a philosophic tussle about the nature of “change.” But tussle we shall. Precisely because , for me anyway, same-old and change are a package deal.
On the one hand, French critic/novelist Jean-Baptiste Alphonse Karr, who, in 1849, penned the epigram we quote to this day: “Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose” (The more things change, the more they stay the same). On the other hand, Zen Buddhist monk Shunryu Suzuki, who, when asked after a California lecture in 1968 to express core Buddhist philosophy in a way ordinary people could understand, replied: “Everything changes.”
The “same,” in this post, is yet another walk along Lost Lagoon. You know the route! Bus ride to the edge of Stanley Park; Lost Lagoon trail out to Second Beach on English Bay; Seawall for a bit up toward Third Beach & down again; out through Morton Park; on down Denman Street; that same bus, reverse direction.
Ohhh… let’s just toss French philosophers & Zen Buddhist monks to one side. Let’s acknowledge what every walker of familiar pathways knows: the same is never the same.
Each time, you & your mood & the place & the weather & all the swirling molecules of the universe dance together in new patterns to create a new experience.
It is therefore my pleasure to offer you moments from this day’s totally different version of the same old Lost Lagoon walk.
This specific Canada Goose, pensive on his rock in Lost Lagoon…
specific people & pooches along the way, including Hamish the wag-tail dog and the Vivaldi fan listening (very quietly) to The Four Seasons while resting on a weathered Seawall bench…
and another bench, the bench itself and the plaque it bears both brand-new.
We carefully cross the bike path and move closer. Flowers, notes, CDs and plaque — a multi-dimensioned tribute by local fans to Hong Kong Mandopop artist Khalil Fong, who shot to fame with Soulboy in 2005 and died this year, just months after the release of The Dreamer.
Out in English Bay, this specific moment’s arrangement of the same-old tableau: rocks & tide & freighters & Seawall pedestrians & trees & sky & clouds.
Up close: tidal flats silvered in this afternoon’s watery light.
Also up close: a burst of green & ochre.
And then, medium-distance, a moment’s drama, out there in the bay.
We have just watched this couple strip to bathing suits and stride into those chilly waters. Chest-high, no hesitation.
It is all about to change. He (L) is about to duck-dive and fully embrace the moment. She (R) is about to un-embrace the moment, and head smartly for shore.
We, snug in our fall clothing, head smartly for Denman Street, Delaney’s Coffee House, and a flat white & latte respectively. And then, warm inside & out, on down Denman to the bus.
2 October 2025 – I’m over at St. George & East 6th, hunkered down for the view south along this stretch of the St. George Rainway.
Then I pay serious attention to the map — to the lost small-c creek and to the lost big-c False Creek as well, lost when (1915 onward) they filled in the final stretch to create industrial & railway land. I trace my finger along that bright turquoise line, showing us the shoreline that used to be.
I study the 1889 photo…
and then I go study the 2025 reality, from that same Main & 7th intersection.
26 September 2025 – Not for the first time. and especially not for the first time in fall, I stop at the W 41st & Oak Street entrance to the VanDusen Botanical Garden, and wriggle happily at the colour contrasts.
Citrus yellows! Deep furry greens! Deep glossy greens!
And, while I’m wriggling, how about the reds palette in that shrub?
Leaves toss in the breeze, proving even their undersides have their own blushing story to tell, a subtle counterpoint to all that show-off stuff on top.
We meet, my friend and I, and start walking later than intended — but for irresistible reasons.
We get talking with a Calgary couple who decided to celebrate their 43rd wedding anniversary in take-a-trip style. Conversation ranges from where they live in Calgary (since friend & I each have Calgary histories); to what colour is the most fun to dye your hair (Calgary woman’s daughter once had hair that glowed in ultra-violet light, great for nightclubs); to their anticipation of the free cart tours the VanDusen offers people whose enthusiasm outpaces their legs.
They await their cart. We veer off to the right, my favourite VanDusen walks almost always starting on the floating bridge through the Roy R. Forster Cypress Pond. After that, one path leads to another and choice doesn’t much matter, because they’re all worth walking.
Colours definitely now on the shift. Shapes also, as leaves fall and seed pods develop, and more sculptural lines emerge.
A whole dazzle of yellows, up in the sunflower beds.
Yellow-yellow…
and yellow-yellow with tawny-orange colleagues farther back…
and then a reminder that the range on display is not only colour, but height as well.
Giants gravely bend their heads, as if to inspect these tiny humans down below…
while bees (count ’em, two) prove…
they can visit any height they want.
Time out to take souvenir photos for some visiting Peruvians.
“¡Queso!” I cry; “¡Queso!” they chorus back at me, all of us laughing that “cheese” works equally well in both languages, to evoke a smile for the camera.
A pearly shimmer, in path and seed heads, among all the shades of green…
and then we spend yet more time walking up and around the grounds before looping back down again.
Still happy with whatever path our feet happen to discover, and still discovering more plays of colour, in this annual seasonal dance.
Greens falling away, in deciduous trees…
allowing all those yellows/golds/oranges/reds to have their moment. All that, against the quiet majesty of coniferous dark green.
And then… look!
a coyote.
And farther down the path…
an owl.
Still farther…
another winsome coyote, one paw raised.
I later discover they (and more, in this harvest celebration) are works by Burnaby BC artist Nickie Lewis, whose eco-creatures I first saw in a Burnaby park back in 2021. (When we all badly needed charm and delight, in our pandemic-hedged lives.)
We re-meet the Calgary couple, who can’t rave enough about their cart tour of the Garden. They’re now off to a slap-up expensive lunch in the serious restaurant — that anniversary deserves every tribute they can offer it — and we head, equally cheerful, for the café.
What with both Calgary and those twig coyotes built into my day, it’s perhaps inevitable that I now start reminiscing about Coyote Pancake Mix. It’s an Alberta brand I discovered in my Calgary years, its image the silhouette of a coyote and its slogan (wait for it): “a howling success.”
Quite possibly, all this means more to me than to my friend — oh, you think? — but she is generous in her friendly attention. We enter the café, well pleased with our day.
19 September 2025 – You come back home with fresh eyes for your own city.
I wake up yesterday and, just before 7 a.m., stare awe-struck at the grandeur of clouds drifting above and among the mountains, in a still-opalescent sky.
Aand today, just now, I fall into fits of giggles at the decals on this slightly battered car.
First, the grouping as a whole…
and then, the exquisitely perfect placement of the cat claws vis-à-vis the dings in the car body.
After that I stroll the perimeter of Dude Chilling Park, just ’cause it’s my local park and I love the way The Dude watches over us…
from his perch on the south/east corner of this ordinary patch of grass.
“Ordinary” to the eye, that is — not-very-large rectangle of grass, some trees around, some benches around, and that’s it. But people gravitate, in considerate and companionable ways, and they enjoy themselves and they thrive and they make magic.
Today’s magic: what I find at the south/west corner of the park.
A pop-up street sale is underway, one I’m sure no City authorities ever heard about (let alone licensed) and who cares, because it’s only a few tables and lots of good humour. I learn this young woman has clothes on offer because she’s moving to Rome tomorrow and can’t take everything; I learn this other young woman collects stuff and then moves it on, y’know?; and I learn that grizzled guy, the one with the racks of old LPs, is a Rolling Stones fan. I learn this last factoid because, when I tell him it was a thrill to see the name of jazz great Joe Pass once again, he replies, eyes a-gleam, “With the Stones!” I manage to contain my enthusiasm for the Stones, he ditto for Joe Pass — but we agree in our enthusiasm for Dude Chilling Park.
14 September – And then, from morning to afternoon, I leave Toronto and land in Vancouver. Here I am, looking through slight drizzle to the mountains, with one last love-letter I want to offer “T.O.” (Tee-Oh, Toronto.)
My T.O., that is, nobody else’s — my own mix of memory and re-discovery, blind to what others would notice, alert to all my own triggers.
Glimpses from streetcars, for example.
A rampart mural by Shalak Attack, which I remember watching her paint, many years ago…
the distinctive two-tone brick and architecture I associate with my own decades in the Cabbagetown neighbourhood, but common to the city in that era…
and Streetcar Dog. Not unique to Toronto, but part of my own memory bank of riding the TTC.
Then there are my re-discoveries on foot, all around the Grange neighbourhood and the Art Gallery of Ontario, where I was for years a volunteer and therefore an area where I came and went, a very great deal.
Bronze turtle watching martial-arts in Butterfield Park, the new-since-my-time refurbishment of the land just east of Grange Park and south of OCAD (Ontario College of Art + Design) University…
Henry Moore’s Large Two Forms, looking very at home in its new home in the reinvented Grange Park, with the brilliant blue rear wall and distinctive Frank Gehry staircase as backdrop…
and, once inside, the soaring glulam arches of the AGO’s front-façade Galeria Italia.
Unchanged, these arches. Ditto, the way the Galeria invites you to look out across Dundas Street. Native son Gehry made sure his design honoured and welcomed the neighbourhood of his childhood as its own visual final wall.
I am in the AGO as much to walk old ground as to see current exhibitions, but in the end I do both.
The Joyce Wieland retrospective, Heart On, speaks not only to my memories of her bursting on the scene, but also to how current she now is, once again.
Wieland was a fierce ’60s-70s feminist and, despite (or perhaps because of) long years in New York, a fierce Canadian patriot as well. She often used the soft “feminine” skills of embroidery or quilting to express strong political convictions.
For example, with her 1970 work, I Love Canada – J’aime Canada.
Awwww. (Twist finger in cheek.) So sweet.
Now read the signage.
And read the embroidered fine print.
Wieland’s narrow definition of Canadian identity is now out-dated — but the rest of her analysis is Elbows-Up contemporary.
Some hours later, I leave the building. I still have more circling and prowling to do.
I check out the S/W corner of Dundas West & McCaul. It is also the N/E corner of the AGO footprint and, in my day, was still home to Moore’s Large Two Forms. For the first time, I see what now sits on that corner — Brian Jungen’s commissioned work, Couch Monster. (Read more, here, in a fine post by our WordPress colleague, Canadian Art Junkie.)
I circle the work, and also take in the larger view, including the top of an old mural by veteran Toronto artist Birdo, now obscured by newer construction and backed by even-newer construction.
Finally, and not with terrifically high hopes, I take myself across Dundas West and into the alley between Dundas and Darcy Street to the north. I am eager but also dreading to see what it’s like, these days. My memory is of an alley bursting with street art, full of the “garage-door art” that I associate with my memories of Toronto.
And…
there it still is. On and on, to the west, beyond the frame of this image. Not exactly as it was, of course not, but alive and current and so-very-T.O.
I turn right on a second, N/S, alley, passing delicate tendrils and other art as I go…
and emerge on Darcy Street.
Where I drink in an enclave of old downtown residential architecture, oh look, some still survives…
and then pivot on my heel to look east down the block. Out to McCaul Street.
Still some old brick homes, and still the spire of St. Patrick’s Church (the 5th-oldest Roman Catholic parish in Toronto) as well — plus the immediate examples of all the new towers now exploding skyward.
There it all is.
The whole jarring/exhilarating, cacophonous/euphonious, forever-evolving symphony of the city.
12 September 2025 – More old + new, here in Toronto. The joy of time with old friends and familiar places, but also the joy of discovery.
For example, Biidaasige Park — some 40 hectares once complete, down at the mouth of the Don River and part of an even larger overall program to re-gentle, re-green and detoxify the sprawling Port Lands for what we now understand to be wiser, more multi-purpose and more inclusive use. Read more about Biidaasige (“Bee-daw-SEE-geh” with a hard “g”) on the City‘s website, on an analytical design website, and in her 6 September “As I walk Toronto” post by our WordPress colleague, Mary C.
The park is very much a work in progress, but some elements are already in place. They include several imaginative children’s playgrounds, one of which has as its guardian spirit, Snowy Owl.
Not only is his open tummy a stage for all kinds of child-friendly events, the interior of his body is open to visitors as well. You can walk inside…
and start climbing. Stairs, then ladders, and up you go.
Bang-thwack-ouch! Smack your head a few times and you finally realize the structure is child-scale. You learn to bend and duck accordingly.
Your reward? You get to look out through the Owl’s eyes, across the undulating playground, across Commissioner St. and westward toward downtown.
I scramble back down. We take ourselves off to explore trails down in the marshy areas around the various channels.
I am awestruck. This grubby, much-abused waterfront is being transformed. We lean on the railing of this pedestrian bridge and admire the grace of the new vehicular bridges, the abundant wild greenery along the banks, the habitat all this must offer for so many species. (Plus the knowledge of habitat yet to come, in plans for housing and further human community and settlement as well.)
And then… we move on.
The day is hot, and sunny, and, thanks to on-going park construction, noisy. We want still to be close to nature, but somewhere that offers soothing shade and a lack of noise.
All of which leads us to discover…
Mailbox Spider.
He is only some 4-5 km. away, slightly south-west of Biidaasige Park…
but in a very different world. The world of the Toronto islands.
More specifically and of importance to me, we are on one small island within that larger cluster: Algonquin Island, which is reached by a pedestrian bridge close to the Ward’s Island ferry dock.
Trace your finger over that pedestrian bridge and tap the intersection just off the bridge: Omaha and Ojibway avenues. Got it? Right there on that corner lot, almost invisible within its own mini-forest of trees and shrubbery, there is a white cottage. The white cottage where, 60 years ago, I used to live.
So it’s heavy-duty nostalgia time for me, and my friend is generously indulgent.
We stop, immediately off the bridge, to explore the community take/leave stand. It was active decades ago and, to my delight, is still active now.
A couple of Algonquin residents are near-by, people about my age. We chat, I explain I used to live here, I name a few names and they smile. We three didn’t know each other, but we each knew these other people.
Then, my friend and I, we just weave slowly up and down the narrow, car-free streets. (It is on Ojibway that we meet Mailbox Spider, with his blue cottage tucked away in the rear.)
The atmosphere is leafy, and peaceful. It is now a world of pretty smooth relations between residents and City — the welcome resolution of the long fight by residents and supporters to protect any residential community at all, in the face of the City’s desire to remove everybody and make the entire islands cluster into one big park. Now most of the land mass is park, but residential communities are recognized and stable on both Ward’s and Algonquin.
We reach the foot of Ojibway Avenue, down at Seneca, which runs along the island’s harbour-side waterfront, and offers panoramic views back across the water to the city core.
Including that CN Tower. I gave you only a distant and slivered view in my previous post; here it is, front and centre.
Still on Seneca, a good example of visitor/resident co-existence:
a bench for tourists and residents alike; one of the island’s many art boxes, again for the pleasure of tourists and residents alike — and a hammock in a resident’s front yard. For that family only, thank you!
Finally, my nostalgia satisfied and our minds and bodies refreshed by the peaceful environment…
7 September – Continuing my new, but very happy, Winnipeg tradition, I go walkabouts on departure morning. Once again, art comes my way as a result.
I cross the Red River to neighbouring St-Boniface and, just as I’m completing a loop through the neighbourhood, I find myself pulled into a parkette.
By this.
It is Joe Fafard‘s 2011 sculpture, Entre chien et loup — a tribute to the French saying, to this francophone quartier, and to the mystery and energy of transition zones.
By 10:30 pm I’m in the train station, ready to board, eager for our 11:30 departure and all the new sights that will come our way.
Except we don’t promptly board, and we don’t leave at 11:30 pm. Instead, we board at 3:30 am.
By then we are the walking dead. (Including the staff change coming on board with us — just as tired as we are but, unlike us, required to be up and active and even happy-faced just a few hours later.)
I don’t know when we finally leave Winnipeg. I’m asleep.
8 September – When I awake, we are somewhere just over the Ontario border. It’s about 7:30 am, and Groggy Self doesn’t understand why she is awake.
But it’s very pretty, isn’t it? And still very northern-looking.
I could show you lots more photos of boreal forest and lakes. But I won’t! By now you know what they look like. So, instead, imagine you’re with me as I enjoy those stunning views, all day long.
And sunset, near Hornpayne.
9 September – We’re just leaving Washago as I slide up my blind around 7 am, passing a CN work station and a cluster of workers. I’m happy to offer them this tribute: maintaining, scheduling, running trains is hard work. Thank you.
A rusty-but-sturdy little bridge, as we pass Sudbury…
first flashes of fall colour among the trees, here near MacTier…
and also near MacTier, one example of the rocky islands that stud glacial lakes throughout the region. Complete with cottages. (You can see a white one peeking out on the left-hand side of the middle island.)
We’re on the Shield! The glorious, hard-rock Canadian Shield — more than 1 billion years old, and covering a good 50% of Canada’s land mass. Oh, I love this rock. This particular example near Torrance.
We’re now well into the transition from boreal forest to more southern, more deciduous, forest mixtures. Also in transition to gentler, but still water-rich, vistas — creeks, rivulets, rivers, marshy or rock-bordered, and flanked by forest. This particular example, near Severn Bridge.
Solar panels near Washago (northern tip of Lake Couchiching)…
and farmland. We’re back to farmland. This barn, near Brechin (east of Lake Simcoe).
I’ve loved this segment of the trip, dropping us down through Muskoka, one of Ontario’s “cottage country” regions and one where I have many happy memories.
We continue south, and as we enter Toronto, I’m into another rich cache of happy memories.
The tracks here run alongside the east branch of the Don River (just south of Eglinton Avenue East). I clap my hands like a child, in delight. I’ve walked these trails, walked that foot-bridge, stepped across these train tracks. Ohhhh, just look.
The scenery goes on being familiar, and then, as we round into Union Station, I hit old + new.
New construction, new towers — but back there, its silhouette slivered in between the two left-hand buildings, back there is the CN Tower. No longer new, but still iconic: it opened in 1976 and, at 553 metres, reigned as the world’s tallest free-standing structure until 2007.
It’s still handsome. And it still says Toronto.
Here I am.
In Toronto. Land cruise ended, magic beyond belief.
Thank you, all of you, who have crossed the country with me. I’ve enjoyed your company.
Epilogue – I want you to know: by the time we reach Toronto, we have made up all that late-time in Winnipeg. These few passenger trains have so little control over their running time! They share over-burdened train tracks with a great many freight trains — all of which claim priority. When push has to come to shove, as it often does, it’s the passenger train that sits on the siding. This explains why passenger train departure times are meant to be honoured, but arrival times are fiction. “Fiction” in the sense they are not the straight running time; they always have padding built in. Siding-waits are as much part of the trip as every station along the way.
5 September – Now I’m doubling back across the same terrain, this time south, Churchill to Winnipeg. It will surprise none of you that even though we’re travelling the same tracks, passing/stopping in the same places, the trip is entirely different. There’s the same train culture around me, but with different people. Perhaps because I’m slightly less obsessed with the landscape this time, I’m more aware of the people — who, because we’re still between tourist seasons, are again individuals rather than job-lot packages on tour. Such a range!
the trio who trained as nurses in Winnipeg long ago and as a result have been friends, and attending reunions and sharing other adventures, for more than 65 years
the young Parks Canada IT/AI specialist, who works summers based in Churchill and winters back in Winnipeg
the Australian couple (she originally from Ireland) who are this side of the world to attend a wedding in the Caribbean but decided, having come this far, to explore Canada while they’re at it
the deep-south American who “hates heat” and therefore does advance reconnaissance each year for the following summer’s travels in Canada with his wife (so far, Newfoundland is his hands-down favourite)
and… Origami Man. Oh, I’ll save him ’til later.
I think the other reason the reverse trip is different is precisely because it is in reverse. You approach from a different angle, you come at a different time and probably in different weather, and you yourself, even if only slightly, are already a different person. So, you notice differently.
For example, I notice the young man dis-embarking in Thompson, sporting the cap his wife found for him on the internet…
and the bilingual aisle signs in a Thompson grocery store.
Soon after Thompson, ’round about Mystery Lake, I come through the dining car and see Origami Man teaching the basics to two VIA staff with a rare moment free of obligations.
It’s another day before I learn he and his wife (she knits, while he folds) are from Detroit, and have their own deep Canadian memories, including ferry travel some 17 years ago down the north shore of the St. Lawrence River east of Quebec City.
We roll into The Pas at 10:30 pm. This time, I’m awake. I raise my blind a smidge…
take in the sliver of train station, and decide our steward is right. The location means there’s nowhere interesting to walk, especially this time of night. I pull down my blind once again.
6 September – I meet Calgary Alex going into the dining car, also with breakfast on his mind. He tells me he saw a deer, when he looked out his window shortly after dawn. I saw no deer — but now, in the dining car, we both see cranes.
Origami Man strikes again!
Talking with him later, I learn that, maybe predictably, his career was in the spatially precise world of engineering, and that this skill has become his passe-partout worldwide. “I start folding paper wherever I am. People gather. I spent a whole afternoon with kids in Mongolia.”
I’m startled when, at about 7:30 am, our cabin attendant announces we’ll soon roll into Kenora for a 10-minute stop. I smack the side of my head. Kenora? We’re in Ontario? She smiles, sorts me out: “Cee-ay-nora. Canora. Not Kay-ee.”
At the station, the display caboose and its signage complete the story.
No, a comment from fellow passenger Sue completes the story.
She is from the other one, from Kenora, and she explains that its name is also an acronym. In their case, for local communities & history: KE – Keewatin; NO – Norman; RA – Rat Portage. I tell her I want to visit Rat Portage; she says it’s now Kenora. Kenora was called Rat Portage until Maple Leaf Milling Company said they wouldn’t build a mill there if it meant putting the word “rat” on their flour.
Back to Canora-with-a-C. The town has an historic main street…
and a this-minute communications tower.
Approaching Dauphin, early afternoon, I don’t have to gawp at the 1912 train station — I’ve done that already. I’m free to notice brightly-graffiti’d box cars…
and the RR-themed parkette, with its plaque-bearing benches.
The arrival of the first train in 1896, says the plaque, “sparked the binding of over 550 communities across Canada, and forever changed the landscape of immigration, settlement, agriculture and commerce.”
{While all this 2025 train travel is going on, Origami Man is teaching Parks Canada AI Man some serious skills. The young man bends his head to the task. There is much laughter and an accumulation of geometric, and beyond-geometry, shapes.}
And then, pouf!, we’re in Winnipeg.
By 5:30 pm, I’m physically out on the street….
but mentally/emotionally…
I’m still back there with the birch and the black spruce.
Somewhere north of Gillam, the sun not yet visible, but the horizon glowing…
and, an hour and a half later, the first glimpse of Churchill, its massive port structure.
We arrive. We scatter, each to our own priorities.
Mine will take me pretty directly from the train station (the dark oblong near the top of that bottom blue loop) straight through town to Hudson Bay.
Not quite directly. First a stop to refuel in the Seaport Hotel’s coffee shop.
It is clean and cheerful, unpretentious, and near the station. A convenient pivot-point. (I have no idea of the dramatic role it will play in my life, later that day.)
Fortified, I take my own boots past a boots mural…
straight-lining it to the water.
And there it is.
There, too, is one of the warning signs I’ve been told about. The polar bear “season” has not yet quite started. But this is the polar bears’ world, and they live by their own instincts, not the schedule of glossy tourist brochures. Every visitor is told to obey all the signs. Yes, I am told, go to the beach area, but no, don’t go to water’s edge, because bears can rise right up out of the sea, and don’t go near the rocks, because that’s where they like to hang out. As the tourism rep in the train station explains to the person in front of me: “You wouldn’t want to step on one.”
Lots of “don’ts.” I take them seriously. You have to respect nature.
So I do something very safe. I climb this convenient, if unorthodox, observation tower…
right to the top level.
Where, first, I view the forbidden rocks to the east …
and then, second, I focus on the beach right in front of me.
I focus, specifically, on the man way down there at water’s edge, walking happily along — man plus small dog, equally happy and unleashed.
This dog.
Not eaten by a polar bear, as you can see. The dog’s owner is a quite elderly Inuk, so I decide if anyone can give me reliable advice, he’s the one. I greet him. I say I watched him enjoying his shoreline walk, and I’d like to do that myself.
He explains he goes there because he likes to pick up stones. “Me too!” I cry. We beam at each other, dig in our respective pockets, and hold out our handfuls of stones for mutual inspection. Much murmured enthusiasm and poking at treasures ensues. After all that, I ask about safety. He says, “You have to watch. I don’t see any bears around right now.” He adds that if I position myself behind the sand bar, I should be fine, since I won’t be next to deep water.
With further compliments about our respective good taste in beach stones, we part company. He toward town, and I straight to the rivulet behind that sand bar.
Where (bottom left)…
I keep the promise I made my toes, that day on the Point Grey beach.
The day is cool — about 9-10C — but sunny and not yet windy. I continue walking the beach, completely happy. I see beluga whales cresting the water surface — just arcs of white, rising and falling, nothing dramatic, but clear enough for me to know they are indeed whales and not waves.
Finally, I walk west toward another line of forbidden rocks…
obediently stop short, and turn inland.
These bright, helpful signposts are all over town. This one is just uphill from the beach, and persuades me to visit the Granary Ponds…
with an initial stop in St. Paul’s Anglican Church, there on the left.
I look at various artefacts, including this 1930s Cree plaque quoting scripture from the Gospel of St. Matthew…
and I read the 2008 Federal Government’s Statement of Apology, signed by then-Prime Minister Stephen Harper, to all those who suffered under the residential school system. Here’s an excerpt:
The road out to the Granary Ponds leads me past riots of wildflowers, still vibrant so late in the season…
and then a closer view of the Port of Churchill…
which, if political promises are kept, will benefit from major expansion in the near future. (An initiative announced by Prime Minister Carney during a European trip — one more move in building stronger and more diversified relations with other parts of the world.)
I backtrack into town. My one goal is to walk. A lot. Though I’ve had only one prior visit to Churchill, in the early 1980s, I spent a lot of that decade going in and out of the Arctic hamlets. I haven’t the foolishness, the arrogance, to think I am any kind of insider, but I do still resonate with all of this. Young self did lots of jumping around. Old self seeks only to put feet on the land, to see and smell and hear the land, and be in this place. So I walk.
And, oh yes, I see very northern sights.
This truck decal, for instance…
and this komatik (sled), waiting for winter…
and this polite request in the doorway of Itsanitaq Museum.
But I also see streetscapes that could be anywhere in Canada.
There are community gardens all over Canada, as well…
though this one takes proper northern measures to protect the crops.
Right next to it, a happy pod of beluga whales, swimming a very different ocean.
And then… and then, no more pictures.
Because then, getting on for 5 pm, my gut announces that it is not pleased with the tasty falafel bowl I had for lunch in a highly recommended local bistro. My gut makes clear that it plans soon to start Throwing Out the Garbage.
This will be merely unpleasant, not dangerous, but also highly inconvenient. The train station is not yet open and I am not registered in any hotel. I’m again near the Seaport Hotel, so I walk in. What else can I do? They look after me. I am safe and sheltered. My gut can briskly go about its housekeeping detail in privacy. When I finally totter off to the train station, a fellow passenger, the station staff and VIA Rail staff are all equally practical and kind. Soon I am whooshed aboard the train, tucked up in my own sleeper-cabin. After a few more rounds of garbage-removal, I sleep. When I wake again, I am completely well. It’s all over.
So is the day in Churchill. Our train is now in motion.
I lie there, think about all that helpful kindness — and decide that my little bout of food poisoning was in fact the final heart-warming event in a thoroughly wonderful day.
"Traveller, there is no path. Paths are made by walking" -- Antonio Machado (1875-1939)
"The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes" -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)
"A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities" -- Rebecca Solnit, "Wanderlust: A History of Walking"
WALKING WOMAN 