16 September 2024 – Two of the surprises were bonus additions to the plan; the other was a subtraction, that turned out not to matter.
Plan # 1
A friend and I meet at the VanDusen Botanical Garden where, in addition to a walk in the Garden, we plan to take advantage of a bonus activity — free admission for Garden visitors to an unrelated fundraiser event in one of the facility’s meeting rooms.
Surprise. The event is a separate ticket and, as befits a fundraiser, at a hefty price. We decide we are not that fascinated by the event’s focus, and settle for the Garden walk, all on its own.
And it is plenty! Despite heavy skies and intermittent rain…
the air is luminous, and the grounds pop with colour and texture.
The mossy curve of a tree branch, weeping over a brook…
the colour patterns of a Birch tree, bold against its backdrop…
colour intensities along a pathway, so green, so purple, with the glistening silver of rain drops…
and the tonal palette of freshly raked gravel…
in the newly restored Stone Garden.
Plan # 2
The next day, my only plan is to put myself in the hands of my companion, out there in Surrey, who has curated a trio of walks for us to explore. I know about the three walks; unbeknownst to me, he has a surprise in mind for one of them.
BC is chock-full of soaring trees, and sometimes all you have to do is tilt back your head to be wowed all over again.
This head-tilt has me in the middle of Redwood Park, an 80-acre park that contains “the largest collection of Redwood trees north of the 49th parallel” (which is Canada-speak for this stretch of the Canada/US border).
It contains more than 30 other species of European, Asian and North American trees as well, testimony to the park’s backstory. In 1881, on the occasion of their 21st birthday, a settler gave his twin deaf sons a land grant each of 40 adjoining acres. Instead of simply farming the land, the reclusive brothers began re-timbering it, starting with Redwoods and expanding their activities over the years.
I love the history and I’m enjoying the trails, all per plan. Then my companion leads me to the secret.
A sort-of clearing, with lots of fallen logs and stumps, and… And what is all this?
It is the park’s “Farie forest,” per this child’s plaque, aka “faerie village,” per Atlas Obscura language, or just plain old Fairy Forest. It is the designated place in the park where children who have been encouraged/helped to build tiny farie/faerie/fairy homes elsewhere come to tuck them into their own ever-expanding community.
Lots of them.
Lots and lots of them!
All of them obeying the signposted rule: “Do not nail or screw them into a tree and do not remove bark.” So, for example, this tiny house with its fresh-moss décor…
is simply looped into place.
While we’re there, a birthday-party’s-worth of young children arrive and are guided to search out the little gift globes that adults have hidden among the fairy houses. Soon small hands are waving large turquoise globes, and laughter fills the forest.
Two more park visits after that, per the Surrey plan, and I have had a splendid day.
Plan # 3
So the only remaining plan, come late afternoon, is to ride SkyTrain and bus back home to Vancouver and my own neighbourhood.
A simple plan that, as I step down from the bus, offers me one final surprise.
It is Main Street’s turn to host one of this year’s Car Free Days, here in the Lower Mainland! Twenty blocks with no cars, but lots of feet, dog paws, kiosks and tents and tables and things to buy, watch, eat and do.
I join in. I could buy anything from earrings to hand-embroidered T-shirts to goat’s milk hand-milled soaps; I could check I’m registered for the upcoming provincial election or sign up as the newest volunteer at a neighbourhood community centre; I could buy Japanese or Thai or Sri Lankan or Mexican street food (or a cone of old-fashioned day-glo candy floss); I could hold out my hand for a henna-dye pattern or bare some other bit of anatomy for an ink-&-needle permanent tattoo; I could even try my skills at skateboarding in what is surely the world’s tiniest skateboard arena.
But I don’t.
Instead, I watch a judo demonstration, and a juggler, and next join the crowd watching this performer not swallow his sword after all.
8 November 2022 — So there we all were, we downtown Vancouverites, tucked up in our little beds and minding our own business… and this morning we wake up to snow.
Surprise!
We should not have been surprised. We were warned. Yesterday, we woke up to proof that winter had arrived — the freezing level was again drawing its sharp horizontal line right across the Coast Range Mountains. Bright above; dark below.
“Freezing level,” as in, the altitude at which the temperature is currently 0 C, causing precipitation to land as rain below the line, and as snow above.
But surprised we are anyway, because we always are.
This bicycle, for example, did not take cover in time.
And most of the city’s deciduous trees & shrubs are equally surprised, since they haven’t yet had time to shed their leaves.
It makes for magical combinations, as a friend & I discover in a mid-day visit to the VanDusen Botanical Garden. There wasn’t that much snow to start with, and by now some has melted, but despite blazing sunshine the air is still crisp, and snow still lingers.
Peer over the walkway edge into a gully and, look, dark pebbles gleam snow-free but the ground plants are entirely white and even the conifers play white-against-green.
West side of the Cypress Pond pedestrian bridge — star of my deosil walk — where a distant Red Maple blazes bright, but is outshone by the moss in the nearby Cypress. This is such a neon-green smack in the eye that I almost miss the traces of snow, still smudging some of the branches.
Neon green moss? I don’t know how neon neon can be, until we walk farther west, toward Heron Lake. A bush shines red, over there beyond the snowy grass by the lake, but I am transfixed by the neon green outline of the mossy tree branches right in front of me by the path.
(Sorry, I can’t account for that turquoise flash in the tree trunk.)
Finally, just as we’re about to head indoors to warm up, proof that gold can be just as punchy as red or moss green — especially when all wrapped up in white, for contrast.
We stroke the Larch’s silky needles, and go find ourselves some hot chocolate inside.
30 October 2022 – I have neither pond nor this extraordinary word “deosil” in mind as I pick my way through the Woodland Garden, one of the areas within Vancouver’s VanDusen Botanical Garden.
Instead, I am looking for a very specific image — the visual echo of one of my recent stacked-stone photos in Stanley Park.
This is the photo I have in mind.
There they are, a stone couple stop their rock, looking out across English Bay to the far freighters.
And here I now am in the VanDusen woods, where — yes!– I find what I am seeking….
a red cedar couple atop their knoll, looking out across Livingstone Lake to the Visitor Centre.
Different scale, different material, and a known sculptor, but there’s my visual echo, and I am happy.
I circle the installation before moving on.
It’s one of my favourites: Confidence, 2012, by Michael Dennis. (Among his other works, one I show you frequently: the eponymous Dude, aka Reclining Figure, in Dude Chilling Park.)
I decide to go walk around the Cypress Pond, partly because it’s near-by and mostly because I just plain like it a lot. Quickest way there is back through the Woodland Garden, where nature’s dramatic fall colour contrasts punch me in the eye…
before I emerge onto the path just south of the pond.
If we think of the pond as hat-shaped, its crown to the north…
I’m now at the lower right, eastern edge of the brim.
Purely on whim, I decide to walk clockwise, water to my right, rather than my usual counter-clockwise.
“Widdershins!” I think happily to myself. Such a ridiculously wonderful word and now I can actually use it. “I am walking widdershins….” Oh, um, oops. Which way ’round is that? So, later, I look it up and, thanks to the Waning Moon website for southern-hemisphere “lovers of Earth’s mysteries,” I discover the etymology and definition, not just of widdershins, but of deosil as well.
Deosil! In all my decades of life, I had never heard that word. Now I not only know the word, I am able to tell you that, in choosing to walk with the pond to my right, I am walking deosil, not widdershins. The persistence of language! From their Scottish Gaelic/Middle Irish/Lowland Scottish/Germanic origins, through their centuries of misspellings and re-spellings — they are still with us today, two ancient words to distinguish right-turning from left-turning.
All that book larnin’ comes later. Meanwhile, back here at pond’s edge, I soon forget fancy language, and just start my loop.
There’s the pedestrian bridge to the north, as I set off from the pond’s south-east corner.
I follow that southern edge, and then make a right turn onto a trail cutting north through the woods on the pond’s west side. It offers me more dramatic fall contrast of colours, this time in a Lebanese Cedar.
Talk about colour-blocking! I walk close…
and then really close…
and finally back off, back to my trail.
Nobody is sitting on the little bench just south of the bridge, not in today’s chill, and no turtles are sunning themselves on the rocks either.
About to step onto the bridge, I pause to enjoy the reverse view, west to east, and the way drooping tree branches frame the view (Sweet Gum on the left, Bald Cypress on the right).
Droplets from the morning showers still glisten in the Cypress needles, and a Red Maple beckons from the far side.
Off the bridge now, into the Eastern North America woods to the east of the pond, with more bright blaze from some Red Maples.
Completing my deosil loop, I’m back where I began. I give the pond one last glance…
and head indoors.
I’ll approach the café either deosil or widdershins, and who cares? Either way, there will be a latte at the end of the loop.
"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"