courtesy Lone Primate; flickr.com

“Do you think that mountain is taller than the CN Tower?” We all laugh, thinking that Joe is making a joke. But no, he is quite serious. In fact, he will pose this same question several more times as we drive through the Rockies, becoming increasingly convinced in his own mind that none of the soaring peaks around here are actually taller than Toronto’s phallic landmark.<!– fi

There are five of us in the van: Janice from Tourism BC, Tom, our driver and fixer, and three journalists – myself, André, from Montreal’s La Presse, and Joe, from the Toronto Sun. We are on a trip to southeastern B.C., but we have begun our journey in Calgary and are approaching our destination via Trans-Canada #1. The route winds through Banff National Park, where we make a stop so that Joe can take photos of some mountain goats that are grazing by the roadside.

courtesy kris247; flickr.com

Joe is a strange character; red-haired with a crew cut and freckles, he somehow manages the rare feat of  looking young and old at he same time. He stands on the shoulder of the road in a loud Hawaiian shirt, ill-fitting shorts and scabrous runners, trying to bring the goats into focus as 16-wheelers howl past only paces to his left. “Watch out for the trucks!” yells Tom, leaping out of the van and running over to make certain that we don’t have to witness a horrible accident.

Joe is a throwback, a guy who would be at home in one of those 1930s movies, screaming “Stop the presses!” The only thing that is missing is the cigar. At least that’s what I thought at first. But a half hour into the trip, I am stunned to see him smoking a stogie in the back seat. Thoughtfully, he is holding it out the window. Joe is also an urban creature. He used to write a column entitled “The Night Scrawler” for the Sun and admits that this is the farthest west he has ever travelled in Canada. Not only is B.C. virgin territory to him, this is also his first up-close glimpse of the Rockies. You would think then that he might be awe-struck by the scenery, but he doesn’t seem to be paying much attention. Instead, he has spent most of the drive making and taking repeated calls on his cellphone.

As boisterous as Joe is, André, the Quebecer, is virtually silent. A big, broad-shouldered guy who bears a resemblance to Guy Lafleur, he is originally from Belgium. Although André seems to speak English fine, he claims to be uncomfortable with the language, so he usually only speaks if spoken to. Because he never removes his dark shades it is often difficult to tell if he is even awake.

courtesy Mike.in.NY; flickr.com

We make a brief stop at Lake Louise to admire the scenery. Just as Tom predicts there are Japanese tourists paddling around the lake in red canoes. “A red canoe on a blue-green lake – it’s the Japanese ideal of Canada,” he says. Down at the dock in front of the Chateau Lake Louise there are two newlyweds posing for their own personal photographer. The groom is wearing white pants with a pink tie and a pink vest. His bride, a blonde bombshell with a large tattoo on her shoulder, is clad in a tight, low-cut, wedding dress from which her breasts are threatening to burst out of.

Lake Louise may have more people with cameras per square kilometre than any other location in Canada, and within minutes every male with a lens has found his way to the dock to snap the bride with the jiggling bosom. Every male that is, except for Joe. We find him back at the van jabbering into his cellphone. He didn’t even make it down to the lake. I tell him about the scenic vista that he missed at the dock. He seems to think I’m putting him on.

We are headed for Cathedral Mountain Lodge in Yoho National Park. As we drive west through a gauntlet of glacier-topped peaks, Joe keeps asking Tom to stop the van so he can take photos of road signs. While he is outside lining up a shot, I tell Tom, “This cellphone stuff has to stop. The guy is driving me crazy.”

“Don’t worry,” he replies. “We’ll soon be in a cellphone dead zone.”

Tom is right on the money. After we cross Kicking Horse Pass and enter into B.C., Joe can’t get a signal. When he is informed that we are out of cellphone range and will remain that way for a few days, he has a mild panic attack. “What am I going to do?” he says. “My girlfriend is going to kill me.”

(To be continued …)

We arrive in Whistler just in time to enjoy a fantastic lunch at the Four Seasons Hotel. From there we proceed to the Squamish-Lil’wat Cultural Centre, which opened in June 2008. The 30,400 square-foot complex is designed to evoke a traditional Squamish longhouse and a Lil’wat Istken (pit house), with pictograph-adorned boulders gracing the walkways along the approach to the carved cedar entry doors. Anchored by massive Douglas fir beams and columns, the glass-skinned exterior opens the building to the surrounding mountain scenery. The entrance and the axis of the building align with the celestial points of the compass, as is traditional in First Nations cultures. When the site was under construction, a mother bear and her cub wandered through the building, which was interpreted as an auspicious omen.

The $30-million structure is the product of a collaborative effort between the Lil’wat and Squamish First Nation, who signed a Protocol Agreement in 2001, the only one of its kind in Canada. The agreement affirms the Nations’ shared heritage and commits them to identify issues of mutual concern, explore economic opportunities and consider shared jurisdiction and co-management. Oral histories of the Squamish and Lil’wat people of southwest B.C., dating back several millenia, tell of their relationship to the land as well their connection to each other. In fact, they were so interconnected that they once shared a village named Spo7ez (SPO-ez), at the base of Garibaldi Mountain about 16 kilometres south of Whistler. Trade, social events and intermarriage formed the basis of their peaceful coexistence. Unfortunately, the village was buried by a rockslide resulting from a volcanic eruption or earthquake thousands of years ago.

The building showcases the cultures of the two tribes–dance masks, woven cedar baskets, Salish blankets, dug-out canoes, carved spinning whorls and ceremonial headdresses are just some of the treasures on display. The woolen blankets are especially impressive. Each one is hand woven with each inch representing over one thousand lovingly executed hand movements. For the cultural-centre project, 10 Squamish Nation weavers were specially chosen to design and create 10 monumental and distinctly different weavings. The techniques used for these weavings were based on those of the blankets worn by a delegation of B.C. chiefs during their trip to London to discuss land issues with King Edward VII in 1906. Equally striking are the wooden Salish canoes, including one which hangs suspended from the soaring ceiling of the Great Hall. The largest, measuring 18 metres in length, was carved from a single cedar tree by master carver Ray Natrall, who spent years researching historical records and seeking advice from the elders in order to revive the unique Squamish style of carving. According to tradition, it must be removed from exhibition each year and taken on a journey in the ocean to honour the spirit of the canoe.

Somewhat surprisingly, Nancy Nightingale, the cultural centre’s gift shop manager, tells me that the classy facility has not yet been discovered by too many of Whistler’s tourists. I sense that this situation will not last long. Our trip through the interior of B.C. has vividly demonstrated to me how many different and fascinating types of aboriginal cultural experiences are out there waiting to be discovered. Although this sector of the provincial tourism industry may still be in its infancy, all the indications suggest it is going to grow up to be a muscular force. As the saying goes, “the Natives are restless.”

Photo Credits:

#1, 2, 3, 4: Kerry Banks

At Hat Creek Ranch we swing west on Highway 99 and motor through Marble Canyon, which is famed for its pastel-coloured limestone walls. Within the canyon there are a series of lakes that drain down toward the Fraser River. The largest of these is Pavilion Lake, which is home to a large colony of microbialities, unusual and ancient carbonate structures built by bacteria that resemble freshwater coral. These strange formations, which were discovered by recreational divers in 1997, have recently become the subject of research by astrobiologists who believe they may help them answer questions about how early life took hold and began to flourish on Earth.

Pavilion Lake is considered a “spiritual place” by the Tskwaylaxw people of Pavilion. Overlooking the scenic lake is an eroded limestone pinnacle called Chimney Rock that they believe is a “Transformer Stone,” created by the actions of the “Transformers,” a group of supernatural beings who travelled around the country putting things right by changing things into stone. The Tskwaylaxw call the formation “K’lpalekw,” which means “Coyote’s Penis” in the Shuswap language.

We roll into Lillooet around noon. Originally known as Cayoosh Flat after the cayuse ponies that once grazed the area, Lillooet boomed into existence in 1858 with the dawn of the gold rush. Designated Mile 0 on the original Cariboo Wagon Trail that led to the goldfields, the frontier outpost became a buzzing hub of activity. By 1860, Lillooet had 13 saloons and a population of 16,000, which made it the largest city west of Chicago, with the exception of San Francisco. Lillooet’s dusty main street, lined with Wild West-style buildings, hitching posts outside the saloons and drygoods stores and saddleries, became known as “the Golden Mile.” However, only a few years later when the main Cariboo Road was completed and bypassed Lillooet, the town faded in importance.

In Lillooet, we are welcomed by representatives from the St’at’mic First Nations at the St’at’mic tribal offices. They have lunch waiting for us inside their recently completed replica pit house. It’s a striking building, the largest and most beautifully constructed one that we have seen our tour. In olden times, 25 to 30 people would live in these structures during the winter months. Lit by soft sunlight seeping in through the pit house’s roof opening, we dig into a meal of smoked sockeye salmon, salmon and vegetable pate, salad and soap berry juice. Dessert is a cake made with Saskatoon berries and huckleberries. Band member Erin Leech gives us a talk about her people and regales with a song. She also poses for photos wearing a bear head and hide used in traditional St’at’mic dance performances. 

Later in the day, we visit a salmon channel created by the band to give the fish a safe pace to spawn. The congregation of salmon often attracts hungry bears, which they have to drive off by banging pots and pans. Walking along the trail we spot fresh bear scat, and someone suggests it might be time to leave. As we are about to depart, Leonard impulsively puts his CD of Metis fiddling music on at full blast, gets out of the van and starts dancing a jig with a big grin on his face. Amy and Dannielle try to follow the steps, but it’s not as easy as Leonard makes it look.

We then drive north of town to view the largest late 20th-century Native fishery on the Fraser River. Every summer, hundreds of Native people gather here at the confluence of the Bridge and Fraser Rivers to dip-net sockeye salmon from the turbulent waters. The fish are filleted and hung on covered racks to dry in the warm canyon winds. This rock shelf, known in gold rush times as the Lower Fountain, was reputedly made by the trickster Coyote, leaping back and forth across the river to create platforms for people to catch and dry fish on. 

Considered to be one of the oldest continuously-inhabited locations on the continent, the area is reckoned by archaeologists to have been inhabited for several thousand years. As we stand on a cliff high above the chasm, watching the fishermen and admiring the pictographs painted on the rocks, Elaine James of St’at’mic Cultural Adventures demonstrates how the salmon is filleted and cut with hatched marks before being hung up to dry. She says that during the summer families can catch and dry enough salmon to last them all winter. As she finishes, we spot a black bear prowling along the other side of the river. For Shilong, Zoe and Amy, it is cause for major excitement. It is the first bear they have seen in the wild.

We arrive back in Lillooet in late afternoon to check into our lodging for the night–the Retasket Lodge and RV Park. After unpacking, I stroll outside and take a few pictures of the motel sign, a lonely urban beacon set against the brooding backdrop of the mountains. Night falls quickly. The next morning they tell me that there was a wild party next door in the adjoining RV Park. “It sounded like someone was getting murdered over there,” says Leonard. I guess I’m a heavy sleeper. I didn’t hear a thing.

(To be continued …)

Photo Credits:

#1, 3, 4, 5: Kerry Banks

#2: dailygalaxy.com

The Xats’ull (pronounced hats’ull) First Nations community is known to non-Native society as the Soda Creek Band. Xats’ull translates as “on the cliff”. The Xats’ull are part of the Secwepemc Nation, and Soda Creek is the northern-most Secwepemc (translated into English as “Shuswap”) Band. The Xats’ull people have occupied the benchlands north of Williams Lake, high above the Fraser River, for some 5,000 years. At one time, several thousand lived in the area, but a smallpox epidemic decimated the population. Today, there are only 350 left in the community.

This heritage village is not a luxury destination. There are showers and indoor bathrooms, but visitors sleep on hardboard floors inside tepees, and socialize and eat around a campfire. However, everything about the place, aside from the tepees, is authentic. The tepees, which were imported from Alberta and erected by a Piegan medicine man, are a concession to the expectations of German visitors, who make up a large segment of the village’s clientelle. Germans have a deep fascination with the North American Wild West and aboriginal people. The seeds of this interest date back to the late 1800s and a German author named Karl May (pronounced “my”). May wrote more than 60 books but his most successful and beloved characters were Old Shatterhand, a German immigrant trapper and his blood-brother Winnetou, noblest of all the Indian warriors. Initially aimed at a juvenile market, May’s romantic yarns began appearing in print in the late 1870s. He was quickly adopted by a wider reading public and became more famous throughout Europe than any other writer on the subject, including American authors.

Ironically, May never set foot upon the American plains and largely researched his subject in German prison libraries while serving time for, among other things, fraud and impersonating a police officer. Despite being peppered with historical inaccuracies, May’s stories continue to be immensely popular. His works have sold more than 100 million copies worldwide, far more than any other German author, and his fans have included the likes of Albert Einstein, Albert Schweitzer, and even Adolph Hitler.

“When we started this project in 1993, the band didn’t want to do it,” recalls tribal elder Ralph Phillips. “They said, ‘We’re selling our culture.’ ‘I said, what culture? We don’t have any culture left.’” Phillips, a lanky, grey-haired character with a wicked sense of humour and a cackling laugh, conducts the camp’s sweat lodges. Phillips says there are several types of sweat lodges: regular, medicine, healing and warriors.’ A warrior’s sweat–used when men go into battle or before a hunting expedition or a long journey–is the strongest. “There are 28 rocks in a regular sweat; 48 in a warrior’s sweat. Each round lasts one hour, and there are four rounds. Between rounds, the men will come outside and drink a cup of juniper tea.”

Traditions regarding sweat lodges vary among different tribes, says Phillips. “Some allow women, some don’t. In some you have to be clothed. In others you can be nude.” The mention of nudity causes Phillips to launch into a story. “We had a lot of guests and I’d been running sweat lodges all day. I said, ‘This is the last one I’m doing.’ There was a large Dutch woman sitting there with a towel wrapped around her, and she announces, ‘Well, I’m going in this one.’ She stood up and dropped the blanket and she was buck naked. All this flesh jiggling around,” says Phillips, grabbing his heart in mock horror. “There was a bunch of Korean students on a bus trip standing there and their eyes were bulging out of their heads. I said, ‘Woman put that towel back on!’ Those Dutch people have some different ideas about nudity.”    

Later in the day, George Keener leads us down to the river for a demonstration of dip-net fishing. With his fair complexion, blue eyes and battered ball cap, Keener may not look like an aboriginal, but he is the genuine article. The product of a broken home, he was raised by the tribal elders, who passed on a wealth of traditional knowledge. Simply walking through the forest with Keener is an education. Lighting up another of his ever-present cigarettes, he points out a red Oregon berry. It’s used to produce a wine-coloured dye on buckskin and to make a tea that stops bleeding in women. Farther on, he shows us a choke cherry–the juice is used as a tonic for cleansing the system and its seeds are used to make beads. He grabs hold of a Balsam fir. “You can make an antiseptic from the blisters of the tree.” He opens up one of the blisters and squeezes out a milky sap. “If you put a bit on your tongue it will go numb.”

Farther down the trail he points to a hillock in the bush. “There’s a gravesite here,” he says. “We traditionally buried our people sitting up facing the east, but the priests told us this was sacrilege. They made us bury our dead lying down.” Keener claims that the entire area is rife with ancient artifacts and calls it “the richest archaeological site in B.C.” He estimates that there are about a thousand gravesites in a nearby stand of poplars. “There were 300 to 500 cache pits on the ridges above the river; places where my ancestors stored dried meat, berries and fish.” As we imagine the scene as it used to be, a pair of bald eagles soar past and Keener calls out to them, “Hello grandfather! Hello grandmother!”  

There is a lot of wildlife in the area, including black bears, whose grunting and snuffling sounds Keener sometimes imitates near the tents at night to give the tourists a thrill. One bear became a pet. “I called him Buddy,” says Keener. “He came by as a yearling and returned every year for six years. I remember when I was building a sweat lodge, he sat and watched me from a few feet away.” Other bears are not so genial, like the stubborn, young black bear that showed up when was taking a British tour group down to the camp. ”He was on the trail and wouldn’t let us past. He wanted a fight.” Keener got out of the truck and held his black jacket up over his head to make himself look as large as possible, then shouted and growled and charged the bear. The beast turned and fled. “The sweat was just streaming off of me,” recalls Keener. “My legs were shaking so badly I could hardly stand up. But when I turned around these English tourists had their video cameras out and were shooting the whole thing. They started applauding. They thought it was all just part of the show.”  

That evening some of us accompany Phillips into the sweat lodge. Back at the campsite, a woman arrives selling handmade dreamcatchers and Native youths pass through on their way to the river. They are going to fish off the rocks with dip-nets and flashlights. Considering the power of the current, this sounds like a dicey undertaking. A few hours later, after our salmon feast and another round of stories, we retire to our tepees. Nora freaks out when a mouse runs across her sleeping bag and opts to change tepees. There are no mice in mine, but I have to contend with a more daunting obstacle–Leonard’s wheezy snoring. I awaken the next day with a sore back, but the morning sun and the arrival of Ralph Phillips and his wife Winnie with a hot breakfast soon chases the stiffness away. As we begin to pack up our gear, I take a last look down into the gorge at the raging river. I wish we had more time to spend here. It has been a unique experience. 

(To be continued …) 

Photo Credits:

#1, 3, 4: Kerry Banks

#2: aboriginalbc.com 

Our destination is Xats’ull Heritage Village, a couple of hours drive to the north. Heading up Highway 97, we pass through Clinton, formerly known as 47 Mile House. The Cariboo truly begins here at the junction of the Cariboo Wagon Road and the original Gold Rush Trail. Clinton was an important town during the Gold Rush era, but it can’t make that claim any longer. Even so, it bills itself as “the Guest Ranch Capital of North America,” a grandiose title for a place with a population of 740. However, the village does have several unique attractions. Each year since 1868, it has hosted the Clinton May Ball, the longest running event of its kind in North America. The first Ball was the idea of Mary Smith, co-owner of the old Clinton Hotel, the finest hotel on the Cariboo Road. Guests came by invitation on horse-drawn equipment from as far away as San Francisco and Chicago. The event lasted for days as guests dressed in elegant imported fashions dined and danced in beautifully decorated halls. They say that people still come from far away to attend. This year’s musical entertainment will be provided by a band called The Evergreen Drifters.

Clinton also plays host to the annual Clinton War, a week-long event staged by the Society for Creative Anachronism, a group devoted to the recreation of the Middle Ages “as they ought to have been.” This full-costume festival and war attracts anywhere from 2,000 to 4,000 people, mostly Society members from western Canada. Another Clinton curiosity is a brick museum that once served as the courthouse for Chief Justice Mathew Baillie Begbie, the famous “Hanging Judge.” At six-foot four, with a black, waxed moustache and a white beard, Begbie was an imposing figure. But historians say he did not deserve his nickname, which was applied to him after death. He was lenient and fair and sent fewer criminals to the gallows than his contemporaries did. Only 27 of the 52 murder cases he heard in the history of the colony ended in hangings—and hanging was the punishment required by law for the crime of murder at that time. Begbie was a man of culture, an artist who drew sketches of the witnesses in his courtroom and an opera singer who gave concerts in Victoria. He was also a linguist who heard cases in the Shuswap and Chilcotin languages without needing an interpreter. How then to explain his menacing nickname? It may have been simply due to a confusion of words. The Barkerville Gazette once dubbed him the “Haranguing Judge” because he regularly lectured prisoners in the dock.

History buffs will find plenty to occupy their imaginations on Highway 97. Our immediate concern, however, is caffeine. A good cup of coffee is sometimes hard to find. Racelle and Nora are desperate for “Cowboy Coffee”–not the campfire version, but the Guatemalan brew made by a North Vancouver company called Bean Around the World. But since we can’t find one of their outlets, we pull into Tim Horton’s in 100 Mile House. The joint is jammed. In fact the line extends back to the doors. I pass two disappointed female customers, who are leaving, having decided the wait is not worth it. “Well, we could go the Chatreuse Moose,” says one.

Like Clinton, 100 Mile House has invented a big title for itself: “The Handcrafted Log Capital of North America.” The town also calls itself the “International Nordic Ski Capital.” In defence of that claim it boasts the world’s largest pair of cross-country skis. Standing on display beside the Visitor’s Centre, they are 10.9 metres in length and weigh 273 kilograms. Outside the Red Coach Inn you can also see a remnant of the Gold Rush era–the only surviving stagecoach of the Barnard Express and Stage Line.
 
Just up the road is 108 Mile House which features a heritage site with a collection of seven historical buildings on a three-hectare lakeside property, including a 1908 Clydesdale barn, one of the largest in Canada, the 105 Mile roadhouse, the 108 Mile telegraph office, and the 1867 hotel and store. Despite its placid setting, this place is also reputed to be the site of B.C.’s most heinous murder cases. From 1875 to 1885, the roadhouse here was run by a woman named Agnes McVee, her husband Jim and her brutal son-in-law, Al Riley. The trio are credited with anywhere from 10 to 56 murders of gold-carrying miners and the kidnapping and selling of young girls to guests. After the miners were killed, their bodies were bundled into a covered wagon, and Jim McVee dumped the remains into one of the many lakes in the area. Agnes meanwhile cleaned out their possessions, and buried gold and coins in the vicinity of the Inn. As a sideline, Jim collected the men’s horses, and when he had a sufficient number to make up a string, he sold the animals in Fort Kamloops.

The cutthroats continued their murderous operation for 10 years before finally being apprehended. Their arrest came after Agnes poisoned her husband in retaliation of his killing of another man that she had fallen for. Agnes and Al Riley were taken to New Westminster, jailed and charged with kidnapping and murder. In June 1885, shortly before she was brought to trial, Agnes committed suicide by poisoning. Riley was found guilty and hanged. Nobody is sure how much gold Agnes stole from her victims; estimates range from $100,000 to $150,000. Of that, an amount of $2,500 in gold nuggets and coins was unearthed by a farmer in the 1924, and a further $6,000 came to light when Block Brothers developed the area some years later.

It’s early afternoon when we descend down a dusty track and arrive at Xats’ull Heritage Village, a cultural camp run by the Soda Creek Reserve, the northernmost band of the Shuswap Nation. The camp, which stretches across a grassy bench above the roiling Fraser River has been a village site for 5,000 years. Fishing has been carried on here forever because migrating salmon concentrate in the huge eddies down below and can be caught with dip nets, and because the hot winds that blow through the gorge are ideal for drying fish. There is a wind blowing today, but it’s cool and it carries the scent of sweetgrass.

(To be continued …)

Photo Credits:

#1: bcguestranches.com

#2: briarfiles.blogspot.com

#3: bartadesign.com

Stagecoaches were a primary mode of transportation in the ranch’s early years. In fact, several years after Donald McLean’s death, Hat Creek Ranch was purchased by Steven Tingley, a famous stagecoach driver known as the “Whip of the Cariboo,” who became the owner of the BC Express Company, the largest transportation company in the province. Tingley established the Hat Creek Hotel as one of the best stopping houses along the Cariboo Wagon Road and added a west wing with a formal dining room, kitchen and six additional sleeping rooms upstairs, as well as two large barns to house draft horses, mules and stagecoach teams.

The 400-mile road, which ran from Yale to the gold fields in Barkerville through treacherous terrain, was built by pick, axe and shovel between 1862 and 1865 at a cost of $1,500,000. During construction, supplies needed to be transported into the road camps for the crews. A group of entrepreneurs, hoping to make a fast profit, purchased 23 Bactrian camels from the U.S. Army to be used as pack animals. Camels could carry twice the load and travel twice the distance that a mule could in one day. However, the plan was a complete disaster. The rocky paths soon tore up the camels’ feet, which were accustomed to soft desert sands. As well, their strong smell frequently caused stampedes among the regular pack animals along the trail. The camels were all eventually turned loose into the wild. The last one reportedly died in 1905.

In 1910, Tingley retired and sold the Hat Creek property to Vancouver businessman Charles Doering, who operated the house as a hotel until 1916, when motorized transport had become popular and travellers didn’t need to stop as often along the way. Today, the pioneer hotel has been preserved to resemble the way it would have looked at the turn of the century, with furnished bedrooms, a saloon, a sitting room, and a dining area featuring a gold-trimmed China set that once belonged to McLean’s daughter-in-law. The large kitchen is illuminated by an original Thomas Edison bamboo-filament light bulb that our guide claims has burned for 73 years without replacing. The meals served at the hotel usually included apple pie, which was made using apples from the still-functioning orchard out back.

McLean’s original log cabin still stands as well, its interior decorated with several archival photos, including images of his three mixed-blood sons (Allen, Charley and Archie) from his marriage to Sophia. Fourteen years after McLean’s death, this trio, along with a friend named Alex Ware, went on a wild rampage, gunning down police constable Johnny Ussher and a settler who refused to give them food, before finally being cornered and captured near Douglas Lake. The three outlaws were tried, convicted and hung for murder in 1881, earning 16-year-old Archie the dubious distinction of being the youngest person ever executed in B.C..

Interestingly, George McLean, a son of one of the “Wild McLean Boys” was awarded the Distinguished Conduct Medal in 1917 for an extraordinary feat of valour at the Battle of Vimy Ridge. Armed with a dozen bombs, private McLean killed 19 Germans and captured 14, before being severely wounded himself. Another of Donald McLean’s many descendants is Mel Rothenburger, a former mayor of Kamloops, who wrote a book about the McLean Gang, entitled We’ve Killed Johnny Ussher, and another about the events that led to his grandfather’s death, entitled, The Chilcotin War.

The Chilcotin War was the name given to an uprising by the Chilcotin (Tsilhqot’in) people in April 1864. The conflict was sparked by a road-building project led by a land speculator who threatened to bring smallpox to the area. The tribe, which was already ravaged by the disease, reacted in anger. A war party organized by a chief named Klatsassin massacred the road-building crew and several other settlers. Armed expeditions were sent out in response. The possees failed to capture Klatsassin, but during one skirmish, Donald McLean was shot and killed, reputedly by Klatsassin himself. Some would suggest McLean had it coming. Known for his brutality when he worked as a factor for Hudson’s Bay at Fort Kamloops, McLean proudly claimed “19 Indian kills.”

Klatsassin and several other rebellious Tsilhqot’in warriors were later persuaded to surrender on a promise of an amnesty, but when they came in to discuss terms of a truce they were arrested. Klatsassin was tried and hanged in Quesnel, along with his 17-year-old son and five other members of the war party. The chief’s last words before he was executed were “We meant war not murder.” To this day mystery persists as to his true identity. The word Klatsassin in Tsilhqot’in translates as “We do not know his name.”

This little known, but fascinating piece of frontier history is still very much alive among the Tsilhquot’in, who regard Klatsassin’s resistance to the colonists as a rallying point in their long struggle to protect their territory. In 1993, the government of British Columbia conducted an inquiry into the 1864 uprising, which resulted in an apology by the Attorney General for the hangings of the Tsilhqot’in chiefs and provided funding for the archaeological excavation of their graves to ensure a proper burial. This apology and the 1999 dedication of a memorial plaque at the site of the hangings on their anniversary date, led to the creation of an annual Klatsassin Memorial Day, an October 26 holiday that rotates annually among the Tsilhqot’in communities. A B.C. mountain was also named after Klatsassin, an honour that he now shares with the man with whom his bloody legacy is so closely linked–Donald McLean.

(To be continued …)

Photo Credits:

#1: hatcreekranch.com

#2: #3: Kerry Banks

#4: canadianmysteries.ca

The ranch is the centrepiece of a complex of 20 historic structures that include a working blacksmith shop, horse barn, teepees, a First Nations’ pit house, a hotel and a saloon. On display amid the buildings is a wide variety of historic artifacts and farm equipment used during the pioneer era. From mid-May to late September, the ranch offers tours of the site, camping, nature hikes and trail and stagecoach rides. Located 11 kilometres north of Cache Creek at the junction of Highways 97 and 99, the ranch began as a small log house built in 1861 by Donald McLean, a former Hudson’s Bay trader. McLean moved to the area with his third wife, a Native woman named Sophia Grant, and his five children, dreaming of a small fortune to be made by servicing the thousands of miners and settlers headed north up to the goldfields near Barkerville. The Cariboo Wagon Road came through two years later, filling McLean’s roadhouse with plenty of customers. However, McLean did not live long enough to enjoy the profits of his new enterprise. He was shot and killed while riding with a posse during the Chilcotin War only three years after he finished construction.

Ranch manager Liza Curran is on hand to greet us when we arrive at Hat Creek in late afternoon. Joining her are two members of the Shuswap Nation: Mike Retasket, chief of the Bonaparte Indian Band and fellow band member, John Pierro, who is decked out in full aboriginal regalia. Besides being a colourful, wisecracking character, Pierro is an accomplished traditional performer, well known for his unique dancing style and his elaborate regalia. He and his wife make all of his apparel by hand. After posing for photos, Pierro takes on a tour of the small First Nations’ village attached to the site, where he explains some of the local Shuswap customs and rituals.

That evening, after enjoying a dinner at the ranch house restaurant, we head down to a spot near the creek to take a look at our lodging for the night. We are staying in a traditional Shuswap winter dwelling known as a kekuli. These pit houses were built half above and half below ground. Pine logs were made into a conical structure on top of the support poles. Fir boughs, humus, stripped bark and other natural insulation was piled on and then finally the earth was put on top creating a heat-efficient structure.

Kekulis always featured two openings. The men’s entrance was down through the top using a notched log as a ladder. The lower entrance was reserved for elders, women and children. These two entrances were handy in case of attack by enemies or an aggressive animal. Each family would usually position the lower entrance toward the creek or river to create circulation and to push the smoke out the top hole. A movable reed screen would be positioned to block the weather.

As we inspect the kekuli, Chief Retasket begins building a fire. He encourages eight-year old Amy, who has never been camping before, or been exposed to an outdoor fire, to help him ignite the kindling. Her initial apprehension quickly gives way to excited wonder. We spend the evening sitting around the fire talking and listening to Retasket sing a few songs, which he delivers in syncopation with his hand-held drum. He tells us that 60 years ago he could have been arrested for singing like this. At that time, the practise of all First Nations’ rituals were banned by Canadian law.

As darkness descends and the wind picks up, Retasket asks us if we want to play a traditional game called lehal. He carefully unrolls a package from his bag, revealing a carved set of polished, painted sticks. Half of them have wolves’ heads on the top, the other half are crowned with frogs. One larger stick features a painted raven.   

Seldom seen by the public, lehal is an aboriginal gambling game played throughout B.C.. The painted sticks act as scoring devices. There are also a couple sets of bones. Each set of bones includes one with a stripe around it, and one without a stripe. The object of the game is to correctly guess the location of the unmarked bone while one member of the opposing team is shifting each of the two sets around behind his back. Guessing the correct bone wins sticks, until the game is finally won by the winning of the large kick stick. Each round has a winner and a loser and wagers can be placed on the outcome of individual rounds or on the result of the completed game. Both players and participants place bets. Retasket tells us that lehal is sometimes played for big money. “I once saw a game in Prince George where $60,000 was riding on the outcome.”

The game always includes singng. Songs are used to distract the other team and to pump up your team’s morale. Because none of us know any songs, Retasket decides he will sing for both sides. It doesn’t take very long before we have all gotten into the proper spirit. There is a lot of chanting and crazy dancing by the flames. The game takes about an hour to complete. The frogs finally triumph. Retasket looks crestfallen. “You know, I have played this game three years with this set of sticks and that is the first time my team has ever lost.”

Our night in the kekuli, spent sleeping on air-filled rubber mattresses, is an interesting experience, but not entirely restful. Vigorous stereophonic snoring makes it difficult to drift off. When I finally fall asleep I dream of howling wolves and firelight.

(To be continued …)

Photo credits: Kerry Banks

About 8:00 p.m. we arrive at our destination—Talking Rock Resort and Quaaout Lodge, located on the shores of Little Shuswap Lake, near Chase. Opened in 1992, the 72-room luxury resort and conference centre is a development of the Little Shuswap Indian Band. Last year, the band added an 18-hole championship golf course to the local list of attractions, which include trail rides, a sweat lodge, teepees and canoeing. It’s an attractive resort, with a lot of First Nations’ art integrated into the layout. Even the signs marking the individual holes on the golf course are marked with pictographs.  

At dinner, we meet Felix Arnouse, chief of the Little Shuswap Indian Band, who recently returned from a trip to the remote highlands of New Guinea. The adventure provided for an interesting cultural exchange. “They were quite curious about us,” he admits. “They said they had never seen a North American Indian before. Except in John Wayne movies.” Before being allowed to enter villages, his group had to be officially welcomed by tribal committee. “Sometimes we had to wait a few hours,” says Arnouse, which sounds like an even more rubbery extension of Indian time. 

While devouring my steak, I learn more about one of my travelling companions–Shi Long Yang, the senior reporter from Xinhua News. The official press agency of the government of the People’s Republic of China, Xinhua is a massive organization, employing more than 10,000 people–as compared to about 1,300 for Reuters. Xinhua has 107 bureaus worldwide which both collect information on other countries and dispense information about China in seven languages. It also maintains 31 bureaus in China–one for each province plus a military bureau.

The Xinhua press agency was started in November 1931 as the Red China News Agency, but changed to its current name in 1937. Acording to Reporters Without Borders, an independent organization that monitors freedom of the world’s media, Xinhua’s journalists are hand-picked and indoctrinated to produce media reports that give the official point of view of the Chinese Communist Party. Reporters Without Borders accuses Xinhua of being “the world’s biggest propaganda agency.”

I ask Shi Long about censorship in the Chinese media, but he claims that things are loosening up. “There are more than 8,000 newspapers and magazines in China,” he says. “The government can’t censor everything. It’s too difficult.” He also notes that the media in China is becoming increasingly competitive and are beginning to adopt Western methods to increase their popularity and win readership. Is this propaganda? Who knows?

From their base in Ottawa, he and his wife Zoe, another reporter for the news agency, cover all of Canada, reporting on business, culture, entertainment, tourism and politics. “Although not so much on politics. Because Canadian politics is not so interesting,” he says. Shi Long is writing a feature about our B.C. trip, entitled In the Heartland of Canadian Aboriginals. It’s not the sort of title you would ever see in a Canadian magazine, but maybe it sounds different in Manadarin.

In truth, neither Shi Long or his wife appear to know very much about the subject. Yesterday, Zoe said to me, “At university we were taught that there are four different types of people in the world–the yellow race, the white race, the brown race and the black race. Where do these people fit in?” she asked, gesturing across the table at Leonard.

“I’m not familiar with that theory,” I tell her. “At one time they called them the red people. But it’s not a term that used anymore.”

“The red people?” she repeats, frowning in bafflement.

After dinner, I go outside and walk down to the beach. Everything is soaking wet. The storm passed through earlier and the air has turned soft and fragrant. Across Little Shuswap Lake I can see an electrical storm flickering on the horizon. I watch the lightning dance in the darkness for awhile, then head back to my room.

(To be continued …)

Photo Credits: Kerry Banks

Morning finds me staring at a sign that reads “Be Alert. Watch for Rattlesnakes.” Since I have not yet finished my first coffee of the day, I may possibly be in some danger here. The sign is posted beside the the first hole at Sonora Dunes–Spirit Ridge’s executive golf course. The course is situated amid Canada’s only true desert, a section of the south Okanagan that is home to more than 30 percent of B.C.’s threatened and endangered wildlife, rare insects and plants. The rattlers tend to come out when the weather is hot because the grass is cool and soothing. If you stumble upon a snake, then it’s wise not to mess with it. There’s a $2,500 fine for trying to hurt the threatened species, and if you kill one you can go to jail. Researchers at the nearby Nk’Mip Desert Cultural Centre are currently working on a friendly way to reroute the creatures. But for now, rattlesnake warning signs have to suffice.

The climate that the rattlers find so appealing is also ideal for viniculture. The Osoyoos region enjoys long, hot summers and short, mild winters with minimum rainfall–perfect conditions for grapes, especially bold red varieties as we soon discover at Nk’Mip Cellars. The winery, which is 51 percent owned by the Osoyoos Indian Band and 49 percent by Vincor Canada Ltd., is the first winery operated by aboriginal owners in North America. The band leases out a portion of its vineyards, but still has the capacity to grow up to 800 hectares of grapes for its biggest customer–Vincor. These vineyards sprawl across only a small section of the band’s 13,000-hectare reserve, yet they total 25 percent of the total grape acreage in the Okanagan Valley.

Designed by Penticton architect Robert Mackenzie, the winery is a striking structure, with a high, vaulted ceiling and an interior adorned with various pieces of First Nations’ art. The varietals currently produced here include Pinot Blanc, Riesling, Chardonnay, Pinot Noir, Merlot, Syrah, Meritage and Riesling Icewine. We are taken on a tour of the facility by assistant manager Dan Yoja, who explains that the vineyard covers 21 acres, with the capacity to produce 18,000 cases annually. That is a medium-sized vineyard by Okanagan standards, but it’s puny by world standards. “Just one vineyard in Napa, California, is larger than all of the Okanagan vineyards combined,” says Yoja.

During our tour we learn something about the differences between wine barrels made of French oak as opposed to American oak, and also that the word the word “Meritage” was invented by the Los Angeles Times in the early 1980s by combining the words “merit” and “heritage,” in order to describe wines from California and elsewhere that were modelled on French Bordeaux. Our visit ends with a tasting of some of Nk’Mip’s wines, where Yoja introduces us some interesting wine terms. “Legs”–the streaks that wine leaves on the inside of the glass when you swirl it around (the thicker the legs the higher the alcohol content); “Nose”–a synonym for a wine’s aroma; and “Hairy”–an adjective used to describe wines with a rough, puckery taste. I think that “hairy” was the word he used. But then thhis revelation came near the end of the tasting session.

Well lubricated, we adjourn for lunch on the winery’s outdoor patio where we are joined by Clarence Louie, the chief of the Osoyoos Indian Band. Louie is an unconventional Native leader in both his demeanour and his philosophy. His slim and boyish appearance belies a ramrod-tough character. Among other things, he is known for his uncompromising messages to his people, such as “Indian time doesn’t cut it” and “Our ancestors worked for a living. So should you.”

As he informs us, “I don’t give the usual Indian speech; that we fly with the eagles, run with the buffalo, swim with the salmon and beat with one heartbeat. I want to talk about creating jobs and making money.” To those who contend he is ignoring tradition, Louie replies: “You’re going to lose your language and culture faster in poverty than you will in economic development.”

His rhetoric is backed up by results. When Louie was first elected chief in 1984, at age 24, the 440-member Osoyoos Indian band was bankrupt, crippled by welfare dependency and sky-high unemployment. Health problems, corruption and violence were rampant. Twenty-four years later, the tiny band is a regional powerhouse, pumping an annual $40 million into the B.C. economy. It owns more than a dozen businesses and is the biggest employer in the south Okanagan.

Considering that elections for the position of chief, which Louie likens to the role of a city mayor, are held every two years, he’s clearly a popular figure in his community. Even so, Louie claims he would rather dispense with the elections. “I wish it was dictatorship,” he admits. “But it’s not. It’s a democracy.”

Later in the day, during a tour of the Nk’Mip Desert Cultural Centre we discover that Clarence Louie is not the only visionary leader in the band’s history. A century ago, Chief Baptiste George convinced the Canadian government that their children should attend day school on the reserve rather than being sent to residential school. As he stated, “I want you to teach my people to meet the world upon its own terms.”

The Inkameep Day School opened in 1915 but struggled until a gifted teacher named Anthony Walsh arrived in 1932. Walsh encouraged the children to create drawings, paintings, stories and plays that honoured traditional language and culture. Their art, exhibited in Paris and Vienna, regularly won awards at the Children’s Wartime Drawing competition in London. Canadian artists Emily Carr and Lawren Harris corresponded with Walsh about his work, as did American film-maker Walt Disney.

After Walsh left in 1942 to help with the war effort, the dynamic arts program came to an end. In 1943, the first replacement teacher at the school burned the children’s art, denouncing Walsh’s teaching practices as backward and detrimental to the process of “civilizing the children.” By the mid-1940s, many former students had been sent to residential schools in Cranbrook and Kamloops, B.C. Fortunately, Katie Lacey, a non-native supporter of Walsh, rescued much of their art from destruction. She hid it for 20 years under her bed, then donated it to the Osoyoos Museum when it opened in 1963. In 2003, drawings from the collection were displayed at the Vancouver Art Gallery, and in 2004 an on-line presentation entitled “Drawing on Identity: Inkameep Day School and Art Collection” was posted on the Virtual Museum of Canada website. Visit www.virtualmuseum.ca for more on this inspiring story.

(To be continued …)

Photo Credits:

#1,2: Kerrry Banks

#3: Virtual Museum of Canada

The first thing that hits your eye when you drive up the winding road to the Spirit Ridge Vineyard Resort & Spa is a large metal sculpture of a Native chieftain sitting astride a horse. His arms are lifted skyward and resting on his open palms is a peace pipe. The warrior looks right at home amid the surrounding Okanagan grasslands of sage and antelope brush. The sculpture is the work of Virgil “Smoker” Marchand, a member of the Colville Eastside Reservation in Omak, Washington. It is one of several of Marchand’s pieces that decorate the grounds of the elegant Santa Fe-style resort, all of them commissioned by Chief Clarence Louie of the Osoyoos Indian Band to honour the local native history. The hotel’s striking design and Marchand’s impressive metal sculptures are only two aspects of what ranks as one of B.C.’s most imaginative and surprising tourist developments.

Located just outside Osoyoos, the $75-million complex, which the Okanagan band operates in partnership with Bellstar Hotels and Resorts, is the South Okanagan’s only 4.5 star resort. It is comprised of 94 villas and suites, a restaurant, spa, pool and hot tub and meeting spaces. Standing next to the hotel is Nk’Mip (Inka-meep) Cellars, North America’s first aboriginal-owned-and-operated winery. Attracting up to 500 visitors a day during the summer months, the winery, which opened in 2003, now produces nine types of wine. In only five years of operations, it has received several awards and accolades and it produces only wines with the Vintners Quality Alliance seal. Nearby is the Nk’Mip Desert Cultural Centre, an architectural marvel sensitively constructed into a hillside with outdoor and indoor galleries highlighting the culture, art and history of the aboriginal people of the Okanagan. Interactive stations and hands-on displays allow guests to witness live feedings of nesting bats, take a peek into a “rattlesnake hotel,” view a multimedia presentation in the Pithouse Theatre or stroll self-guided trails through the Great Basin Desert. And just east of the Desert Centre, nestled at the base of a sage-covered mountain, sits the nine-hole Sonora Dunes golf course.

Remarkably, this is only the first phase of the project. Phase 2, slated to be completed by the fall of 2009, will include 132 more condominium suites, a bistro-deli, outdoor pools, conference facilities and a fitness centre. The layout and the size of the development have made a powerful impression on the members of our media group, most of whom have not viewed the site before. Our numbers include Shi Long Yang, a senior journalist for China’s Xinhua News Agency, his wife Zoe Zhao, a reporter for Xinhua, and their daughter Amy; photo journalist Dannielle Hayes; travel writer Alison Gardner; Racelle Kooy, director of marketing for the Aboriginal Tourism Association of B.C. (ATBC); Nora Weber, travel media specialist with TerraCom Group Communications; and our driver and Tourism B.C. board member, Leonard Laboucan.

We have come to Spirit Ridge on the first leg of an aboriginal culture trip through central B.C. We drove here from Vancouver, stopping along the way to view the Mascot Mine, near the tiny town of Hedley. The gold mine, which operated between 1936 and 1949, was one of the most unusual operations of its kind in the world, being built entirely on the side of a mountain, 850 vertical metres above the town. In the 1990s, the British Columbia government was going to burn the site down because it posed a safety risk, but Bill Barlee, who was British Columbia’s Minister of Tourism at the time, saw the potential tourism opportunity in developing Mascot into a large outdoor mining museum. He convinced the provincial government to purchase the site, and in 1995 steps were taken to preserve the site as a Provincial Heritage resource. The buildings were stabilized and rehabilitated over an eight-year period, and in 2004, the site was open for tours. Today, the Upper Similkameen Indian Band has developed the former mine into a first-class tourist attraction. Buses take visitors up a dirt road with 43 switchbacks to the site where they then descend down more than 500 steep, wooden steps and tour through the precariously perched buildings that made up the original mine.

The Mascot Mine is unique, but it pales in comparison with the ambitious scope of the Spirit Ridge development. Tomorrow we will tour the grounds and meet Chief Clarence Louie, the man whose vision and determination spearheaded the project. But tonight is reserved for relaxing. We enjoy a spectacular meal at the resort’s classy Passatempo restaurant and several glasses of Nk’Mip’s award-winning varietals. During dinner, I take note of eight-year-old Amy’s snazzy do. I ask her where she gets her hair cut. “At the Chinese embassy in Ottawa,” she says.

It strikes me that “I used to get my haircut at the Chinese embassy in Ottawa” would make a pretty good first line for a short story. But I have no time or energy to write it tonight. Sleep beckons.

(To be continued …)

Photo Credits:

#1: Kerry Banks

#2: SpiritRidge.ca

#3: Shaw.ca

We make the crossing and head for Les Escoumis to visit the Saguenay-St. Lawrence Marine Park. The centre’s mandate is to protect and showcase the various species and ecosystems found in the St. Lawrence Estuary and the Saguenay Fjord. This unique park, which is entirely underwater, covers a surface area of 1,246 kilometres. The centre has an interactive show in which visitors can watch and talk to divers that swim out underwater equipped with headphones and microphones. Evidently there are a lot of whales in the area, so many that campers have been complaining that they can’t sleep at night because of the spouting sounds of the leviathans. There is an observation deck here with telescopes to allow people to scan the river for whales. As we gaze out over the swells we spot a humpback. Our host tells is that this is Tic-Tac-Toe, a female who returns to the area each year, often with a calf in tow.

In the afternoon we drive to Tadoussac, the oldest village in Canada and the site of the first official fur-trading post. Founded in 1599, Tadoussac was the first European settlement built north of Mexico. Situated in one of the most beautiful bays in the world, the town of 900 permanent residents sits beneath rounded hills that inspired its name–it comes from the Algonquin word tatoushak, meaning “breasts.”

Basque whalers were the first Europeans to live here and by the time Samuel de Champlain arrived in 1603, Tadoussac was a thriving trading post. By the mid-1800s, Tadoussac had evolved into a lumber settlement and holiday resort for wealthy Anglophones. Today, the main industry is tourism, specifically whale watching. In fact, some call it the No. 1 whale-watching spot in Canada. Two decades ago, just a few boats were taking out tourists. Now there are a dozen companies, operating 55 boats that handle about 350,000 passengers annually–people who eat in the restaurants and stay in the hotels and B&Bs that have sprung up in recent years. All told, the local whale economy generates an estimated 1,000 direct and indirect jobs.

We joint the giddy throng, climbing into rubber boots and bulky Michelin Man style clothing that functions as a life preserver and troop down to the docks. Our guide for the voyage is Chantal, a pretty biologist with a sexy voice, who tells us before departing to “Use me as your tool.” I certainly don’t have any objection to that request. Out on the open water it becomes clear that the easiest way to find whales is to follow the birds. Shrieking flocks of sea gulls circle above the fish, and the whales follow the fish. We see several Minke whales and Tic-Tac-Toe makes another cameo appearance. Chantal proves to be a great guide, offering scientific information on the whales in two languages and adding a dose of drama with her raspy French delivery. “There, to the right at four o’clock. “Superb. Superb. Incroyable!”

Our home for the night is the Hotel Tadoussac, which first opened its doors in 1864. Once considered the jewel in the crown of Canada Steamship Line, the hotel still retains a touch of stately elegance with its whitewashed walls, red roof, dormer windows and cupola. History is all around us. Directly across the road is the oldest wooden church in Canada, the tiny Chapelle de Tadoussac. Also known as the Indians’ Chapel, it was built by Jesuit missionaries in their efforts to convert the Montagnais to Christianity and it still contains some of the original religious items used when the chapel was first constructed in 1747. Tucked on the other side of the hotel, the steep-roofed Poste de Traite Chauvin replicates–right down to the handmade nails–the first trading post on the north shore of the St Lawrence as described in Champlain’s 1603 diary. It houses a small museum of beaver pelts and knicknacks pertaining to the fur trade.

Once again our evening meal is terrific, replete with service by waiters wearing white gloves. This marks the fourth straight night we have enjoyed first-rate cuisine and yet we have not eaten in a place with a population over 3,000. I can’t imagine having the same success rate in towns of this size in B.C., or anywhere else in Canada for that matter. After dinner, I stroll outside and sit in one of the hotel’s wooden lawn chairs and let the sweet summer breeze blow over me. Sadly, this marks the end of our tour. Tommorow we return to Quebec City. High overhead I pick out the Big Dipper, la grande ourse, twinkling in the heavens. I give it a salute and wander off to bed.

Reford Gardens (Jardin de Métis) is a national historic site. Located on the banks of the Métis River, near the south shore of the St. Lawrence River, the gardens were created in the mid-1920s by Elsie Reford, a dynamic woman and plant lover, on property that she was given by her uncle, George Stephen, one of Canada’s richest railway barons. The gardens cover 17 hectares and include some 3,000 species and varieties of native and exotic plants, which is a major accomplishment considering that the area gets only 110 frost-free days each year.

We are given a tour of the grounds by Alexander Reford, Elsie’s great–grandson, who has managed the property since 1995. An historian by trade, Alexander wrote a book in 2004 entitled Elsie’s Paradise, which recounts the story of the how this horticultural Eden came to be. While summing up the history of the place, he escorts us to the Blue Poppy Glade, home to Reford Gardens’ signature flower–the exotic Himalayan blue poppy. Evidently, Elsie Reford was one of the first North American gardeners to attempt growing this ”marvel of the plant world.” Discovered in 1924, high in the Tibetan mountains, the poppy, which grows at altitudes of 3,120 to 4,000 metres, was a challenge for Elsie, but by 1936, she had hundreds of flowers thriving in her garden. Today the gardens contain 13,000 blue poppies, one of the largest collections in the world. Although it is notoriously difficult to grow, Alexander says that the soil here has the perfect acidity for the poppy to thrive and also the large disparity between night and day temperatures that the species prefers.

Alexander also shows us a few of the installations currently on display in Reford’s annual International Garden Festival, which features 13 contemporary gardens designed by teams of artists, architects and landscape architects from all over the world. The piece that instantly draws our attention is a holdover from 2007’s festival–Pomme de parterre (potato flower bed). More than 1,000 heirloom potatoes are displayed, growing in the ground and on shelves inside a partially buried clapboard shed. Each spud in the hut is wired for sound and light. It’s an odd sensation to stand inside and listen to them beeping and squawking. The first instinct is to laugh. The second is to marvel at all the work that went into creating the installation.

After tucking into lunch in Reford Gardens’ Estevan Lodge, an elegant 37-room historic home that was once Elsie’s resdience, we proceed to Bic National Park, where we hook up with a speed-talking park ranger named Camille. Running late, we have to settle for a quick tour of the beautiful, 33-square kilometre park, which is host to more than 800 different species of plants and large colonies of seals and sea birds. Camille drives us up to a scenic lookout where we admire the jigsaw of islands, coves and inlets far below. It is likely that Champlain paddled through these same waters on his way up the St. Lawrence in 1615.

In the evening we arrive in the town of Le Bic and check into Auberge du Mange Grenouille, which translates as The Frog Eaters’ Inn. An eccentric hostelry, it is jam-packed with lace, red velour, candelabras, gilded frames, romantic posters, strange sculptures and Byzantine décor. The restaurant’s award-winning menu offers Quebec lamb, seared halibut, braised buffalo shortribs and guinea fowl breast, but oddly, no frog.

Carole Faucher, the inn’s co-owner, drops by our table to greet us. A former professional comedian, Carole declares that she likes my voice and starts massaging my shoulders. She also decides that my name should be Brad, and christens me on the spot. Chuckling at my perplexed expression, Suzie explains that Brad is one of the stars of Le Coeur a Ses Raisons (The Heart Has Its Reasons), a popular Quebec TV soap. Suzie assures me that Brad is a sexy, he-man character, but she leaves out a few details. Later when I do some checking, I discover that Brad is an evil, scheming cosmetics tycoon who buried his twin brother alive in one episode. 

(To be continued …)

Today’s first destination is the Pointe-au-Père Maritime Historic Site, where we visit a fine museum that documents the sinking of the Empress of Ireland. Oddly, few Canadians are familiar with this important piece of maritime history. The Canadian Pacific luxury liner departed Quebec City for Liverpool at 4:20 p.m. on May 28, 1914, with 1,477 passengers and crew. Henry George Kendall just been promoted to captain of the Empress at the beginning of the month and it was his first trip down the St. Lawrence in command of the vessel.

Early the next morning, the liner was proceeding through heavy fog down the channel near Pointe-au-Père, Quebec., when Captain Kendall sighted the Norwegian collier Storstad. A fog bank could be seen approaching from the land, and Kendall realized it was going to pass between the Storstad, which was then about two miles away, and his own vessel. Then the fog came and the Storstad’s lights disappeared. Fog signals were exchanged, but these were misunderstood. At 2:00 a.m., the Storstad crashed into the side of the Empress of Ireland, cutting open a huge gash in its starboard side. The Storstad did not sink, but the Empress, with severe damage to her starboard side, rapidly began taking on water. The lights and power quickly failed and the ship rolled over and sank within 14 minutes, claiming 1,012 passengers and crewmen, making it the most devastating maritime disaster in Canadian history. In fact, more passengers perished on the Empress (840) than on the Titanic (818).

Only 465 people survived the sinking of the Empress, of which only four were children (the other 134 children were lost), and 42 were women (the other 279 women were lost). Among the lucky survivors was a coal stoker named William Clarke, who improbably enough also survived the sinking of the Titanic  two years before. In an newspaper interview Clarke described the doomed ship’s final moments, saying, ”The Empress rolled over like a hog in a ditch.”

In a bizarre sidebar, the ship’s cat Emmy, a loyal orange tabby that had never once missed a voyage, repeatedly tried to escape the ship near departure. The crew could not coax the feline aboard and the Empress departed without her. It was reported that Emmy watched the liner sail away from Quebec City while sitting on the roof of the shed at Pier 27, which would later become a storehouse for the dead pulled from the river.

Standing outside the museum is the second-tallest lighthouse in Canada. Built in 1909, it is the third lighthouse to occupy the site. Despite a fear of heights, I foolishly join the others as we tromp up the 128 spiralling steps to the top of the 33-metre high tower. Even more foolishly I attempt to keep up with the breakneck pace set by our ridiculously fit teenage guide. By the time we reach the top I am a candidate for a cardiac arrest. The view from the glass-walled cupola is spectacular but I’m too out of breath to properly enjoy it. The trip down proves even more harrowing. It’s baby steps all the way.

Interestingly, Pointe-au-Père pre-dated air travel and air mail as the main distribution centre for mail brought from Europe to North America. Ocean liners dropped off their mail bags at the lighthouse. Smaller ships then collected and sorted the mail as they sailed along the St. Lawrence. The mail was offloaded onto waiting trains for final destinations across the continent.

The area boasts another unique historic distinction. In 1909, Pointe-au-Père became home to the new Marconi wire telegraph station for improved communications with the shipping industry. Within the year, Henry George Kendall, the captain of the Empress of Ireland, used the telegraph and its new “instant” hook-up to tip off police that notorious murderer Dr. Harvey Crippen was aboard a ship bound for Montreal. Crippen was disguised as a father accompanying an adolescent youth (in reality his mistress). He was arrested by police when his ship reached Pointe-au-Père and deported back to the U.K. for trial. Crippen was later found guilty of murdering his wife and was sent to the gallows.

(To be continued …)

Together, the two islands harbour the largest colonies of Razorbills and Black Guillemots in the entire St. Lawrence Estuary. More than 15,000 pairs of Common Eider, the duck from which we get eiderdown, one of the lightest and most effective insulators known–breed on the islands of the estuary. Interestingly, Société Duvetnor supports itself through the sale of eiderdown, which employees collect each spring. The female duck plucks down from her breast to line her nest and cover the eggs. Once the nest is abandoned, the eiderdown is gathered. It is sold by Société Duvetnor in Europe for the manufacture of comforters and clothing.

We land on  Île aux Lièvres and spend an hour roaming a section of its 45 kilometres of hiking trails, before finding a comfortable spot on the beach to enjoy a picnic lunch. We don’t see any belugas or seals, or even any of Jacques Cartier’s rabbits, but the sun has finally emerged from behind the clouds and it feels good.

After returning to the mainland, we travel 110 kilometres to the tiny village of Auclair to visit Domaine Acer, a place that specializes in creating alcoholic beverages made from maple syrup. Domain Acer is an Economuseum, one of a network of 33 businesses in Quebec that use traditional craft techniques and host tours and public workshops. Domain Acer produces 30,000 bottles a year of various maple concoctions including a dry wine, a sparkling wine and two sweet apertif wines, as well as maple syrup, butter, taffy and sugar. The company receives 5,000 visitors annually, which is quite remarkable considering it is situated in the wilds near the New Brunswick border.

Another 55-kilometre drive takes us to the town of Cabano, where we check into the Auberge du Chemin Faisant. The 1950s home, remodelled in modern art deco, was formerly the mayor’s residence. The halls are decorated with the work of Claude Theberge, a famous local painter, who has a fascination with capes and umbrellas. Our hosts are Hugues and Liette Massey. Hugues makes an immediate impression on the ladies by picking up both of Cinda and Joanne’s bags, which must weigh close to half a ton each, and hauling them up two flights of stairs. There are six individually designed bedrooms, each one with its own name. I pick the one called La Verriere, which translates as “the Solarium.” There is a large window overlooking the backyard and lots of leather furniture. The bed covers are silk. Richard is in Maitresse, “Mistress.” The choice seems fitting as during lunch Richard gave us a detailed rundown of the last five French prime ministers and their assorted mistresses.

Although the inn would normally be closed today, the Masseys have opened the place up especially for us. Before dinner, Hugues prepares everyone a cocktail, then we sit down at the table and the feast begins. Hugues describes each dish in English and French. Every serving is an exquisite piece of art. Liette, who is a trained sommelier, matches the dishes up with different wines, which she excitedly describes in French. They have 1,500 bottles in their wine cellar. The food is simply fanstastic.

Although the presentation is quite formal, Hugues is anything but–he wears purple crocs and a pair of Bermuda shorts beneath his apron. After the main course, he surprises us by sitting down at the piano and serenading us with beautiful music. The musical interlude is something he does every night. It’s all part of his desire to create a convivial spirit. As he tells us, “When I begin to play the piano it changes the atmosphere. The women like it especially,” he says. “Usually when the woman is happy, the husband is o.k. As they say, ‘Happy wife. Happy life.’”

I think Mr. Massey may be on to something.

(To be continued …)

You have to feel for Richard. He speaks little English and likely enlisted for this tour because he figured he would be in familiar surroundings–travelling in a French-speaking province with a French-speaking guide. Unfortunately for him, he has hooked up with three Western Canadians who can barely string two sentences together en francais. Our guide, Suzie, gamely tries to interpret, switching from French to English and back again. The exchanges make for some amusing word play. At one point, Suzie explains that the easiest way to learn a foreign language is to have a lover who speaks it. “Le langue de l’amour,” she says, “the tongue of love.” This provokes a round of laughter, since the phrase’s meaning in English is not quite the same thing.

Richard and Suzie both find the English language unattractive and difficult. When I first learned English it felt like I was speaking with a potato in my mouth,” she states.  

Our route winds through a landscape of rolling green farmland, dotted with farms and wooden cottages. From time to time we pass monadnocks, strange rock formations that jut suddenly upward from the plain. Often called “coffins of the giants,” their unusually solid quartzite formation explains how they were able to withstand glacial erosion. We stop in the resort town of Kamouraska (population 715), where we visit a general store, soap shop and bakery. Along the coastline here, nets used to ensnare eels are perched over wooden stakes stretching several metres long. The town, which boasts a waterfront promenade, quays and fine old ancestral homes, is best known in English Canada because of the 1970 Anne Hebert novel Kamouraska, and the Claude Jutra film of the same name, which were both based on a murder that occurred here in 1839. But Kamouraska also produced two famous Quebecers: Adolphe-Basile Routhier and Rene Chaloult.

Routhier, a judge and author, wrote the original French lyrics for the National Anthem, “O Canada.” Interestingly, those lyrics, penned in 1880, do not resemble the English version, which went through several versions before finally being officially adopted in 1980. Routhier’s song begins:

“O Canada! Land of our forefathers
Thy brow is wreathed with a glorious garland of flowers.
As in thy arm ready to wield the sword,
So also is it ready to carry the cross.
Thy history is an epic of the most brilliant exploits.
Will protect our homes and our rights
Will protect our homes and our rights.”

Chaloult, a member of the Quebec legislature, designed the Quebec provincial flag, the Fleurdelise. Unveiled by the province on January 21, 1948, it was the first provincial flag to be officially adopted in Canada. The Fleurdelise is highly visible today in Quebec. Many of the homes fly it proudly, proclaiming a keen sense of individual identity. It’s a startling departure from what I am used to. You rarely ever see provincial flags in the other Canadian provinces, unless you happen to be standing outside city hall or a courthouse. In fact, I can’t recall ever seeing a B.C. flag attached to a home. But here they flutter in abundance, outnumbered only by the wild roses strewn along the roadside.

The other distinctive feature of the settlements we pass is the pervasive presence of the Roman Catholic Church. In every town the largest building is a house of worship, invariably topped with a slender, grey Gothic steeple. However, the presence is largely historical. Today, only seven percent of the Quebec population under 35 who call themselves Roman Catholic, still go to church on a regular basis.

In the afternoon we stop at Vin Artisanal le Pacomois (Pacomois Artisan Wine) where we sample wines made from strawberries, raspberries and blueberries. It’s a boutique winery, producing 10,000 bottles a year. Despite the small scale, things can get very busy here during summer. Our hosts, Robert and Natalie Vallier tell us that they often have people lined up eight rows deep at their tasting bar. 

The title of our media tour is “Charming Inns” and we’ll be staying at several of them during the week. The first night’s stop is at Auberge La Solaillerie in St. Andre-de-Kamouraska. Erected in 1892, the beautiful white heritage house has its own chapel attached to the main floor. The place is filled with antiques and assorted art objects. One of its more eccentric attractions is a huge safe in one of the two dining rooms. The owners are chef Jean-Marc Baup and his wife Therese Servant. They bought the house in 2007, moving here from Paris, to fulfill their dream of running an inn. Baup, a burly bearded man, modestly claims that he is not a technical genius in the kitchen, but that he “has a passion for food.” His passion is evident at dinner. The food is delicious. You would definitely run the risk of putting on a few pounds if you ate here every night. The menu employs local products (lamb, duck, game, fish, seafood), organic vegetables from their garden, wild mushrooms and wild edibles picked along the St. Lawrence and home-smoked salmon. 

Maybe it’s the wine talking, but I find that some of my old high school French is slowly emerging from hibernation. Eager to try some new phrases, I take a stab at ”I’m full.” When Therese comes by our table and offers us more coffee, I pipe up. “No merci, je suis plein.” This causes Suzie to convulse in giggles. Evidently “plein” means full for everything but the stomach. Says Suzie, ”What you said, was ‘No thanks, I’m pregnant.’”

(To be continued …)

Photo Credits:

1. Pointe Ouest
2. BBCanada.com

Ah, the life of a travel writer. I leave Vancouver on a spectacular day, the city bathed in brilliant sunshine and nary a cloud in the sky. I’m catching a plane to the La Belle Province to take a tour of the Quebec Maritime region and to attend a tourism conference in Quebec City, which is celebrating its 400th anniversary. My guide for the regional tour has emailed me a lengthy list of items to bring along. The agenda includes a windbreaker, fleece, sweater, gloves and an umbrella. Since I’m arriving at the beginning of July, I dismiss these suggestions as overly pessimistic. My mistake becomes all too evident after we land in Quebec City and I find myself sprinting across the tarmac from the plane to the airport terminal through a violent, bone-chilling rainstorm.

Amazingly, some of the other passengers have umbrellas. How they were able to get an umbrella through security when my nail clippers are routinely confiscated is a mystery to me. Splattered with rain, I enter the baggage zone and stare in dismay into the waiting area. Every single person is decked out in winter gear. Mon Dieu! Luggage in hand, I stagger outside into a mini-hurricane. The rain is coming down like machine-gun fire. The airport employee who summons a cab for me is dressed in what appears to be a hazmat suit. Enroute to my hotel, the taxi driver tells me that it has rained 25 of the last 30 days. The weather forecast for the next few days is “bad,” he says. “Very bad.” With my mood sinking fast, we churn through the storm, geysers of water spraying from our wheels and the windshield wipers pounding out a ferocious rhythm.

After checking to my room, I put on most of the clothes I own, a hooded slicker and a baseball cap and then boldly head out into the deluge. The hotel restaurant is closed and I really need a drink. Around the corner I find a cobblestone street with some funky bars. I enter the first one I find that is still open–The Casbah. The place is deserted, save for a few young people. I walk up to a gorgeous blonde waitress and ask her if she speaks English. “Of course,” she says, looking at me strangely.

“Can I get a glass of wine?” I ask.

“What kind?” she says.

“Something dry,” I tell her.

Settling in at the bar with a glass of Italian red, I take stock of the situation. On the positive side, the weather can’t get any worse, I tell myself. 

Staring around the room at the French lettering, I am reminded of my only other two trips to Quebec, both occurring many years before. The first was in 1967, when our family drove to Expo from our home in Toronto. I can remember very little from that haphazard expedition. What stands out is the perception that my parents were edgy, even close to fearful, simply because they spoke no French. Neither of them had ever been overseas, so in a sense it was their first trip to a foreign country. My father had trouble deciphering the street signs and drove the wrong way down a one-way street one night, and my mother yelled at him a lot. As for myself, I recall being extremely impressed with the Quebecois girls. I was too young to articulate why, but they seemed different–more stylish and awfully sexy.

The other trip was to Quebec City for the Winter Carnival during my university days. I was travelling with my girlfriend on that occasion, so the French girls were not an option. I remember it was very cold and slushy, and that my halting French left much to be desired. We went out to a restaurant one evening and I gamely tried to order in French, but the scowling waitress kept answering me in English. Another diner leaned over and chastised her, saying, “He is trying to speak French. You are being very rude.”

The fact that my French is even worse now initially made me wonder if I made a wise choice by opting to take a tour in Quebec. The language barrier can be intimidating for English-speaking tourists, especially if you are convinced that French-Canadians dislike English-Canadians. However, over the years I have gotten used to being unable to communicate in the language of the place I am visiting. In fact, quite a few people, my own family included, often have trouble understanding me in English. 

The next morning I meet my travelling companions in the hotel dining room–Suzie Loiselle, who will be our guide for the journey, and three other journalists: Richard Pevny from Perpignan, France, Joanne Sasvari from Vancouver and Cinda Chavich from Calgary. I commit my first language gaffe by using the English form of Richard. “No,” he frowns. “It’s Richaaard.”

“You have the same name as a very famous Quebecer,” I say. “Maurice Richaaard. They called him the Rocket.” That statement draws a quizzical look, but Suzie quickly fills him in.

Suzie, who possesses an infectious laugh and a sharp sense of humour, wears a golden pin on her blouse–a figure holding two flags in a semaphore version of the letter Q. It’s the logo of her home region–Le Quebec Maritime. I immediately dub her “Suzie Q,” just like in the Credence Clearwater Revival song. I will cleverly use the nickname continuously throughout our trip, only to later discover that the word “cue” is French slang for ass. 

(To be continued …)

With many guides, this sort of request would be an exercise in futility. Programmed to show tourists only the safe and sanitized aspects of their country, they invariably escort you to some theme restaurant with costumed waiters and dancing girls. But Jacky is an original. A born raconteur with an impish sense of humour to match his tiny, pot-bellied frame, he seems bound by no conventional tour-guide code. Like some Asian Bob Hope, he has been bombarding me with anecdotes all morning, each story ending with a punch line and a mischevious chuckle. Authentic should be no problem for him.

“You like Malay food?” Jacky asks, cocking one eyebrow.

Minutes later, we pull up beside a fly-blown shack covered with tin siding. Inside are a few crude wooden benches and tables. No visible division exists between the kitchen and the dining area. In one corner, enveloped in clouds of steam, three women are stirring bubbling vats of curry over brazier fires, adding ingredients by the gallon drum. The back of the diner looks out onto a vacant lot where two goats are foraging in trash beside a wooden boat. Our waiter, naked to the waist, his skin streaked with dirt and grease, looks like he has just emerged from Vulcan’s forge.

“What do you want?” is his greeting.

Jacky orders two servings of curry and roti chani, a pancake-like dish made with eggs and flour and stuffed with onions, spices and meat. The meal arrives on pink plastic plates. There are no knives or forks. We eat with our fingers. The first bite ignites a series of phosphorous bombs inside my mouth. After a gulp of soda, I try again. More heat. Sweat erupts from my brow.

I catch Jacky studying me and he quickly launches into another one of his stories. Evidently I’m not the first tourist he has brought here. The last visitor was a big German. “His face went so red. Sweating everywhere. He said it was ‘like having a shower inside,’” says Jacky, giggling at the memory of it.

Before that, there was an Australian couple. “They said they liked spicy food,” says Jacky. “I tell them Malay food is very hot. But they didn’t listen. They ordered the spiciest food on the menu.”

“How did they like it?”

“One hour later they had to be rushed to the hospital.”

“It must have ruined their holiday.”

“Yes, very bad,” agrees Jacky, chuckling anew.

With a creeping sense of dread, I continue eating. Each new mouthful sends a seismic shock rippling down my intestinal tract. I’m now having trouble focussing my vision. Blinking furiously, I toss another perspiration-soaked napkin onto the table in front of me. The mound is beginning to resemble a soggy Everest. My mouth is totally numb, but my nasal passages have never been so clear. Every pore in my body is wide open. This is the ideal food for dieters–you sweat off the calories while you’re eating.

“What’s the name of this restaurant?” I ask.

“It doesn’t have a name,” replies Jacky.

“No name? That’s odd. You know I think the owner should put some money into the place. Fix it up a bit.”

“Why should he do that?”

“He would attract more customers.”

“He doesn’t need more customers,” says Jacky. “There is a lineup every morning and at noon. People drive up in their Mercedes and order take-out. If he fixed it up, he would have to put in plumbing. City inspectors would come and tell him to do things. Big problems. Now, he pays no taxes and has no overhead.” Jacky leans forward and whispers conspiratorily. “The man who owns this restaurant makes more money than the president of Malaysia.”

Chastened, I return to my roti chani. The taste, I must admit, sort of grows on you. The terrifying paralysis in my lips has slowly begun to fade. I finish lunch without bursting into flames and order my third soda. “Great food,” I say.

Jacky regards me with a new expression. For the first time today, he appears a little glum. “You did better than me,” he sighs, pushing his unfinished meal to the side.

“Where to next,” I ask.

Jacky pauses and scratches his chin. His face suddenly brightens. “Snake temple,” he says. “Very famous Chinese temple. Many pit vipers. Very, very poisonous.” He is grinning again. “If you’re brave, you can touch. You like to try?”

Many cities are defined by their famous landmarks (New York has the Empire State Building, Paris has the Eiffel Tower, Rome has the Coliseum), but Los Angeles’s most enduring icon is not a building, but a tree–the picturesque palm. As David Davin wrote in a 2006 article in Los Angeles CityBeat: “The palm tree signifies lots of things that Los Angeles likes about itself. They’re exotic, tropical, born of the desert, somehow at once a symbol of sun-baked survival and do-nothing opulence.” And true to the Tinseltown theme, they’re also not native to the area. The first palms were brought in by Spanish missionaries in 1769. Many more seedlings from the Middle East were planted in the early 1900s, and thousands more were planted in preparation for the 1932 Olympics. Of the estimated 75,000 palm trees in Los Angeles today, most are tall Mexican fan palms. Normally they grow to 40 to 60 feet, but in L.A., for reasons unknown, they reach an incredible 150 feet. This great height represents a long life span, but the trees are not immortal. They’re steadily vanishing from the landscape, the victims of age, disease and rising costs. To save money, civic officials are now replacing them with cheaper and shadier species: oaks, sycamores and jacarandas.

The Farmers Market proves to be a refreshing departure from the glitz and glamour that pervades so much of the city. This quaint market traces its origins back to 1934, when farmers began selling fresh produce from their back of their trucks on the site, which was then a derelict lot. Some of the stores here still sell fresh produce, but they are far outnumbered by the food stalls, over 30 in all, which offer a virtual round-the-world culinary road trip. I chow down on a blackened po’ boy Cajun catfish sandwich, while sitting in the balmy sunshine watching the passing parade.

From the market we walk to the city’s Craft and Folk Art Museum, where my wife makes several purchases in the museum’s funky and eclectic gift shop. From here, we proceed west down Wilshire and its luxury car showrooms, plastic surgery clinics and the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, whose facade is instantly recognisable from the film Pretty Woman. The top-end suites here go for a cool $8,000 a night.

Out of curiosity sake we stroll through Rodeo Drive, a three-block collection of shops and boutiques that are primarily known for being very expensive. In fact, the House of Bijan, at 420 Rodeo Drive, is said to be the single most expensive store in the world. Appointments have to be made to shop here and items range from $50 socks to $50,000 suits. Considering the concentration of wealth, it’s hard to believe that in the early 1950s the centre divide on the street was actually a horse path—hence the street’s name.

We conclude the day by dining at Da Vinci’s, an Italian restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard, where the décor, music and ambience are right of the 1960s Rat-Pack era. The iconic eatery has hosted a number of Hollywood legends including Barbara Streisand, Sean Connery, Frank Sinatra and its most loyal customer, Dean Martin. During the 1980s, Martin dined here almost every night, always at table 9, which is now known as the “Dean Martin Booth.”

When we arrive back at the Beverly Hilton, preparations are underway for another convention. This one is for Guess, the trend-setting California-based apparel company that is known for its sexualized advertising campaigns featuring black-and-white photographs of fashion models and actresses such as Claudia Schiffer, Anna Nicole Smith and Paris Hilton. Several posters in the hotel’s lobby depict what appears to be a young Sophia Loren. The model is actually a stunning Swede named Line Gost, and she was photographed by Canadian rocker Bryan Adams for the Guess spring 2008 campaign.

Guess banner are plastered everywhere, each one emblazoned with the company’s totalitarian fashion statement: “One world. One brand.” As I stand gazing at the buzz of activity, it becomes apparent that the convention has attracted more than simply Guess employees–there are also several hookers prowling the premises. One of them tries to pick me up. She’s a dead ringer for Anna Nicole Smith.

It’s time to say goodnight to Hollywood.

Simply navigating the room looks like it will be a major challenge. I have an illustrated floor plan in my packet of documents, but the numbers denoting the individual tables are tiny and blurry, and there is nothing to distinguish one from the other. Each journalist is allotted a mere 15 minutes with a partner. At the end of that time a bell will ring, signalling a sprint to the next destination. It’s like speed dating on steroids. Slacking off doesn’t appear to be an option. A sign at the front of the room states ominously, “Partners: Please report no-show journalists immediately to the registration desk.” 

After a couple of hours, my notebook is crammed with scrawl. I have learned that Moncton, New Brunswick, was recently voted the most polite city in Canada; that when sunlight penetrates the Canadian War Museum on November 11, it illuminates the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier; that Victoria has the oldest Buddhist temple in Canada; and contrary to popular belief, the Japanese do not journey to see the Northern Lights because they believe it will boost their fertility.

By the time lunch rolls around my head is buzzing. After we eat, Paul Raynor, director of corporate communication for VIA Rail, delivers a inspiring speech about Canada, and the 11th annual Northern Lights Awards for excellence in travel journalism are handed out. Some of the winners take home a cheque, others receive a piece of art. Afterwards, we return to the International Ballroom for more one-on-one interviews. As the day wears on, my note-taking begins to flag. By the end of the session, I’m seeing sparks.

At 5:30, I return to my hotel room. My window looks out over the Beverly Hills’ pool and the remains of Trader Vics. Opened in 1956, the Polynesian restaurant soon became a local landmark and a favourite hangout of Ronald Reagan when he was governor of California, but last year the hotel closed the restaurant to make way for a new development. As a gesture towards the many who protested the closing, the hotel made Trader Vics into a poolside lounge, where one can still order the restaurant’s signature drink—the Mai Tai. The refreshing rum cocktail was invented in 1944 by the restaurant chain’s owner, Victor Jules Bergeron, at his original outlet in Oakland. His first restaurant was a hamburger joint called Hinky Dinks and it had an Eskimo theme, but after Bergeron witnessed the success of a L.A. Tiki restaurant called Don the Beachcomber, he switched to a South Pacific look in 1937. Bergeron later introduced the Mai Tai to the Hawaiian islands in the 1950s. Eventually, his Polynesian empire would expand to 25 locations around the globe.

A Mai Tai would go down pretty good right now, but I have to get ready to attend another party, this one hosted by Tourism British Columbia at Paramount Studios. At 6:30, we begin boarding buses for the ride to the shindig. The route takes us along Santa Monica Boulevard through Beverly Hills and West Hollywood. We pass the former site of the Tropicana Motor Hotel, where I stayed in 1978. Torn down in 1987, it has been replaced by a hideous, pink Ramada Inn. 

When we unload at Paramount Studios we are greeted by the three official mascots of the 2010 Winter Olympics: Miga, a snowboarding sea bear, Quatchi, an ear-muff wearing sasquatch and Sumi, a “spirit animal” that wears the Coast Salish hat of an orca, has the powerful legs of a bear and the wings of a thunderbird. On the VANOC website, they look like cute, stuffed animals, but in person they are large and buffoonish and unusually fond of hugging women.

Inside a huge sound stage on the Paramount lot the party is in full swing, literally. A zip-line has been set up and guests are flying through the air. There is a full-service bar, tables stacked with food and a blonde, miniskirted D.J. spinning discs. Just so no one forgets what’s coming, VANOC screens its latest Olympic video, “Celebrate the Possible.” It strikes me as an awful title, devoid of meaning and virtually impossible to remember. Shouldn’t it be “Celebrate the Impossible” or “Imagine the Impossible”? But the footage is pretty good, especially the last clip, an overhead tracking shot of a lone skater cutting across a frozen lake at sunset. A guy standing behind me pipes up. “That shot was totally unplanned,” he says. “The film crew was coming home after a day of shooting and they spotted this kid skating. They landed and asked if he could do it again for the cameras.”

We are also treated to a performance by a troupe of Mongolian contortionists. Encased in skin-tight spandex, they stand on podiums and slowly twist themselves into pretzels. The male guests move closer, clearly transfixed by the spectacle. A photographer, who has been snapping shots of the elastic girls, says to me, “They are very aware that they are inspiring lust.”

Judging by the gales of laughter and the feverish pitch of the conversation on the bus ride back to the hotel, the party was a runaway success.

(To be continued …)

Walking to Century City reminded me that L.A. is not an easy place to navigate on foot. The scale is simply too vast. The metropolitan area covers 4,850 square miles and the streets are often choked with traffic. Incredibly, there are more automobiles in California than there are people in any of the other states of the U.S., and the Los Angeles freeway system handles over 12 million cars on a daily basis. The 6,000 tonnes of toxins that these vehicles spew into the air each day and frequent temperature inversions over the Los Angeles basin that prevent the smog from escaping, has helped make it the most polluted city in North America. However, thanks to clean air initiatives the situation is improving. The number of Stage 1 smog alerts has declined from over 100 per year in the 1970s to almost zero today.

Just to remind pedestrians that they are in hostile territory, the stop lights in L.A. are equipped with a timer. When the walk sign comes on, the seconds start ticking off: 15, 14, 13, 12 … If you are young and fit you might be able to hustle across the boulevards before your time runs out, but most of the people you see walking are the old, the mentally unhinged and the handicapped. For them, street crossings are a harrowing ordeal.

I make it to Century City unscathed and stagger around for awhile feeling like a flea amid the forest of skyscrapers. These glass towers house the offices of law firms and executives–many with ties to the film, television and music industries–once all belonged to 20th Century Fox, but the movie studio had to sell the land to developers after losing a fortune on the making of Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra in 1963. One of the area’s most striking skyscrapers, the 34-storey Fox Plaza on the Avenue of the Stars, is the building that was Nakotomi Plaza, the fictional setting of the first Die Hard film.

Los Angeles is often cited as the poster child of rampant, unplanned urban sprawl. It certainly defies many of the normal expectations of a city, such as its lack of any clearly defined centre. There is a downtown L.A., but I have never met anyone who has actually been there or wanted to go there. In their 1997 guide book Bizzaro LA., authors Anthony Lovett and Matt Maranian called the district as “a crumbling, putrefied, God-forsaken wasteland.” That’s quite an advertisement. American writer Dorothy Parker once observed, “Los Angeles is 72 suburbs in search of a city.” Of course, the suburbs that Parker was referring to–Burbank, West Hollywood, Pasadena, Covina, Malibu, Santa Monica, Redondo Beach–are actually incorporated cities. At last count, there were 89 of them in this humming swarm of electricity.

A few hours later, I’m on the sidewalk outside the Beverly Hilton watching a sleek parade of cars roll up to the entrance: Bentleys, BMWs, Mercedes, Jaguars, Porsches, Maseratis, Ferraris and the hotel’s stretch Hummer Limo, which looks large enough to carry an entire football team. The gleaming beast disgorges its cargo. A pot-bellied guy in a Hawaiian shirt stumbles out, sucking on a cigarette as though it’s his last one before he faces the firing squad. Even though it’s dark outside, he’s wearing sunglasses. His bosomy wife is next. She is jammed into a red cocktail dress and outrageous red platforms. It’s all about shoes and cars here, the more expensive and flamboyant the better.

The rich are arriving because the Beverly Hilton is hosting a charity fundraiser. “Some Israeli thing,” mutters Larry the doorman, a skinny, pale-skinned guy who looks lost in his uniform. Larry, it turns out, has worked here for 34 years.

“Wow, you must have seen some changes in the place over that time,” I say.

“Yeah, a lotta changes. Hell, I’ve changed a lot too. When I started this job I was black,” he jokes.

The Hilton stages 175 red-carpet events a year, including the Golden Globe Awards, the Jerry Lewis Muscular Dystrophy Telethon and the Academy Awards Governors’ Ball. “We have the biggest ballroom in Beverly Hills. So if you wanna throw a big party, you’re gonna want to have it here,” says Larry. 

It’s been that way from the beginning. The night before the hotel’s official opening on August 12, 1955, Conrad Hilton hired the Goodyear Blimp to float above the site and nearby communities with the lighted inscription “Welcome Golden Starburst—Gala Grand Opening—The Beverly Hilton” blazing from the sky. The blimp sprinkled small golden starbursts of confetti onto the community below. On the night of the opening gala, uniformed trumpeters greeted guests with a regal fanfare as pink-painted elephants, escorted by bathing suit beauties, circled the main entrance of the hotel. At the end of the evening, the staff tossed pink rose petals along the path of the departing guests. The next day, Esther Williams, film star and swimmer extraordinaire inaugurated the Beverly Hilton’s Aqua Star Pool by swimming through white gardenias with three of her swim students.

It is too cool for swimming tonight, but the Canadian Tourism Commission is holding an outdoor shindig to kick off Canada Media Marketplace 2008. The “Acadian Kitchen Party” in the Oasis Courtyard is sponsored by Tourism New Brunswick. Two Mounties welcome guests as they come through the doors. There are canapes, desserts, fiddle music and free beer and wine. The assembled throng is composed of more than 200 journalists and tourism industry players who will be meeting tomorrow in the hotel’s International Ballroom. “It’s an intense, brain-melting marathon,” one industry rep tells me. Hearing that, I decide I really could use another drink.

(To be continued …)

The venue for the conference is the Beverly Hilton, which, as the hotel’s name suggests, is located in Beverly Hills. Constructed in 1955 by Conrad Hilton, the Beverly Hilton became a glitzy gathering spot for Hollywood celebrities during its heyday in the 1960s. Today, it is sometimes confused with the Beverly Hills Hotel, an even more upscale sanctuary for the rich and famous, known as “the Pink Palace.” This hotel is owned by the Sultan of Brunei, who reportedly has more green than Bill Gates.

It was the Beverly Hills Hotel that was featured on the cover of the Eagles’ chart-topping 1976 album The Hotel California. That grainy and brooding photograph, captured by shooting into the fading light with high-speed Ektachrome film from the top of a cherry picker 20 metres above Sunset Boulevard, helped make the hotel a mythic destination. The title track’s arcane lyrics also spawned various theories about what exactly the Hotel California was supposed to represent. Many claimed the song was a metaphor for drug addiction, some said it was about a mental hospital, others were sure it was about devil worship, and a few insisted it was an account of a real hotel that was run by cannibals. In truth, the song was about the pitfalls of success and the corruption of impressionable rock stars by the decadent Southern California music industry in the early 1970s, when agents and studios controlled artists like puppets. The Hotel California was meant to represent Los Angeles itself.

The release of The Hotel California occurred just shortly before my only other trip to Los Angeles. That low-rent expedition, undertaken with my pal Hugh McEachern, did not include any stops in Beverly Hills. We drove down from Vancouver in Hugh’s battered Cutlass, chugging into the City of Angels during a nasty November rainstorm. Our initial impression of L.A. was far from the stuff of dreams. As cold liquid pelted down we grabbed a burger at a greasy spoon on Hollywood Boulevard and watched through the windows as bedraggled street urchins scurried past, their sneakers squishing across the hand and foot prints of long-dead movie stars.

We stayed at the Tropicana Motor Hotel. During the 1960s, it was owned by Sandy Koufax, the Los Angles Dodgers pitching great, but we chose the Tropicana because we had read that Tom Waits lived there. The gravel-voiced balladeer was one of our favourite recording artists. Because of its proximity to the clubs of West Hollywood, the Tropicana was a popular haunt for musicians. In his book Wild Years: The Music and Myth of Tom Waits, author Jay Jacobs calls the place a “funky, little fleabag” and a “rock-and-roll landmark.”

As Jacobs writes: “There, music-world banditos rubbed shoulders with groupies, rock-star wannabes, hard-luck cases and drunken salesmen. Record labels put up touring bands at the Tropicana. Andy Warhol filmed his cult film Heat at this atmospheric locale, and Jim Morrison lived there for years during the glory days of the Doors. Van Morrison wrote “T.B. Sheets” and several other songs while staying at the Tropicana. Fred Neil was registered there when he wrote “Everybody’s Talkin’. Big Brother and the Holding Company, Rhinocerous, Bob Marley and the Wailers, and Alice Cooper all made the Tropicana their base of operations at one time or another.” 

(Tom Waits)

By the time of our arrival in 1978, the Tropicana was playing host to a new, scattershot invasion of up-and-coming musical acts: Blondie, the Dead Boys, the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Cramps and Iggy Pop and the Stooges. When we checked in, we asked if any big names were about. The desk clerk informed us that the Ramones had just checked out. “Such nice boys,” she said.

The Tropicana had ugly gold bedspreads, shag carpets and cigarette holes in the furnishings, but it was actually a cut above most of the other places that Hugh and I stayed at during our U.S. journey. In San Francisco, we spent a memorable night at The Windsor Arms, in the city’s Tenderloin district. The hotel clerk was a skinny junkie who kept compulsively scratching himself. He sat perched in a metal cage at the end of a corridor that ran at a sharp angle from the hotel’s front hallway. From this vantage point he could check out new arrivals when they rang the buzzer without running the risk of being shot through the glass in the front door. Even so, the clerk may have been the least unusual thing about the Windsor. There were grizzled winos, transvestites in pantyhose and Doberman Pinschers with studded collars on our floor, and the roach powder was piled like snow drifts in the corners of the room.

During our brief sojourn at the Tropicana, we never did run into Waits, who lived here for nine years, a time in which he claimed he was never provided with clean sheets or towels, but never complained because “he didn’t want to make waves.” The motel’s location was ideal for our purposes. Not only was it right next door to Duke’s Coffee Shop, a diner with cheap but tasty food and an all-day breakfast, it was also within walking distance of all sorts of attractions. We went to the Comedy Club and a saw a stellar cast of rising, young comics including David Letterman, Howie Mandel and Franklin Ajae; took in a scorching concert by Dave Edmunds and his band Rockpile at the Roxy Theatre; and banged down beers at the Whisky A Go Go, the legendary joint where the miniskirted dancer-in-a-cage craze began in 1964, where Jimi Hendrix jammed with Sam & Dave, and where the Doors served as the house band in the summer of 1966, until Jim Morrison’s impromptu performance of the Oedipal section of the “The End,” got them fired.

We also nearly got arrested.

As we strolled down the Sunset Strip one night a police cruiser surged past, made a hard turn up over the curb and skidded to a stop across the sidewalk, directly in our path. Two muscular cops exited with their guns drawn. Spooked, we quickly thrust our arms into the air as though we were in some cowboy film. One of the officers asked to see some I.D.

After scanning our driver’s licenses, he turned to his partner and rolled his eyes. “They’re Canadians,” he said.

His next remark took me by surprise. “You guys speak English?”

“Yeah, of course,” I said. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Ahhh, I thought you might be a couple of those Frenchies,” he replied.

We admitted we were in L.A. on vacation, but the obvious question remained. “So, why did you stop us?”

The cop pointed behind us. “See that stop light. You walked through it when the light was red. You boys got to pay better attention. You don’t want to get hurt on your vacation, do you?”

They gave us back our I.D. and peeled rubber. We were both sure that we hadn’t walked through a red light. But even if we had, it didn’t seem like the sort of infraction that required them to launch into a Dirty Harry routine. “I think it was because those guys on the corner back there asked us if we wanted to score some coke,” said Hugh. “I think maybe the cops were hoping we’d make a run for it.”

That strange scene flickers through my mind as my wife and I drive up an immaculately landscaped driveway to the front of our hotel and a smiling doorman in a tailored beige uniform says, “Welcome to the Beverly Hilton, sir. Do you folks need any help with your bags?”I sensed that there would not be any cops with revolvers demanding to see some I.D. this time around.

(To be continued ….)        

The mysteries of the animal kingdom were front and centre during our two-week safari through Kenya and Tanzania. Our September visit, timed to coincide with the Great Migration–an annual cavalcade of 1.5 million wildebeests, 500,000 gazelles and 500,000 zebras, trailed by an entourage of hungry predators–was an eye-popping spectacle. In some places, the herds stretched all the way to the horizon. To get a detailed description of the adventure, you will have to check out my feature article in the spring issue of Westworld magazine, but I can mention a few things here that did not end up in the published version. One aspect of the trip that took some getting used to was the proximity of the wildlife. In Kenya, where guides are allowed to leave the trails and follow the animals, we got within spitting distance of lions. Evidently, the big cats don’t regard the land cruisers as a threat, or as anything edible either.

At many of the lodges we stayed at, the animals prowled the grounds. The Sykes monkeys were especially bold at the Serena Mountain Lodge in central Kenya. We were cautioned not to open our windows as they were apt to sneak in and steal stuff from our rooms. Humans did not scare them much. Before dinner, one monkey slipped into the lounge and snatched a couple of cookies off a plate before making a fast escape up a flight of stairs.

The river that bordered Kenya’s Samburu Lodge was infested with crocodiles. Presumably, the modest stone ledge that ran down the side of the grounds kept them at bay. There certainly was no attempt to discourage their presence–the staff fed them in the evenings for the guests’ entertainment. Baboons were everywhere. Shortly after arriving, I was startled by a large male, who arrogantly strutted past my back porch. He was just slightly smaller than a St. Bernard. One of the women in our safari group told us that as she was opening up the door to her bungalow, she felt a hand on the back of her bare leg. It was a baboon. What it wanted is anyone’s guess.

When we checked into the Serengeti Lodge in Tanzania, the desk clerk informed us that we were not permitted to leave our bungalows after dark, unless we first phoned the front desk to request an armed escort. It was the dry season and hyenas and buffalos and other animals were coming onto the property to search for water. However, the call-for-help system had a fatal flaw. After arriving in our rooms we found a note informing us that all the hotel’s phones were out of service. They remained that way for our entire stay. As you might guess, we spent little time in our quarters after nightfall.

During the game drives, our guides provided reams of information about the various African creatures. We learned, for example, that cheetahs can’t retract their claws and that they are born without a hunting instinct and must be taught to kill by their mothers. I filled several pages of my notebook with similar unusual facts. Did you know that hippos spend so much time in water because they have no sweat glands; or that giraffes drink once a week, ingesting up to 50 litres at a go; or that hyenas have the strongest jaws of any mammal?

We also learned that some of the world’s most venomous snakes are found in East Africa, including three species of mambas, five types of cobras and four varieties of giant vipers. Fortunately, we had no run-ins with any of these lethal reptiles. We did, however, have an intimate encounter with a bull elephant at Tanzania’s Tarangire National Park. We had come close to elephants before, but something about the demeanour of this one caused our normally laid-back guide to stiffen and order us to be quiet. The four-tonne giant strode deliberately toward our vehicle, then paused at the front door and looked inside, before plodding past within inches of the windows. I can still recall the crunching sound of his feet, which seemed unnaturally loud because everyone in the jeep had fallen into a deep and uneasy silence.

As the equatorial sun beats down, I thumb through a copy of Fodor’s African Safari, which provides an overview of the safari experience. My eye is immediately drawn to a chapter entitled “An Animal-Survival Guide.” Besides some common sense warnings, such as “Keep your hands to yourself” and “Never try to get a wild animal to pose with you.” (Don’t laugh; the book claims it’s the largest cause of death and injury on safaris), there are also “worst-case survival tips” in the event you are suddenly threatened by a dangerous beast.

Lion: “If a lion is coming at you stand your ground, shout or scream as loudly as you can, and even wave your arms and try to be menacing, if only to confuse or stop it for a moment. Never ever turn your back to a lion and try to run—that is your death warrant. If an attack presses on, you best bet is to play dead and to protect your neck with an arm or stick to prevent a paralyzing bite.”

Crocodile: “If a crocodile grabs you when you are swimming the best thing to do is to fight. The most successful defence is to actually thrust your arm right down the crocodile’s throat. It has a flap to stop taking in water and if you can open it, it will have to let go. But you’re going to get a sore arm in the process. ”

Buffalo: “If a buffalo charges you, run for the nearest cover. If it is too close, you must try to leap out of the way of its slashing horns. If it is upon you, your best bet is to lie flat on the ground. It will try to butt and gore you, but you can minimize the damage by playing dead.”

The playing dead option strikes me as likely prelude to the real thing, while the strategy of jamming an arm down a crocodile’s gullet sounds ludicrous. Well, I wasn’t intending to take a dip in the bush anyway.

As I read, the hotel staff is busily setting up banquet tables laden with steamers of food under a tented area at the far end of the patio. “For a wedding reception,” my waiter informs me. Before too long, the guests begin arriving. There is a long, steady stream of them. As they file in, the stereo system plays “The Girl from Ipanema.” The women are clad in colourful African garb—long dresses, scarves and festive hats. The men are not nearly so natty. Many of their clothes appear to be from second-hand shops. The most popular ensemble is a suit or sports jacket with a baseball cap and sneakers. Eventually, the bride and groom appear. She is a young, beaming Kenyan; he’s a grumpy middle-aged Dane. Besides myself, he is the only white person present.

My waiter says that I may have to share my table with members of the wedding party. There was supposed to be 170 guests, but 250 celebrants have shown up. He wonders how long the food will last. As the crowd thickens, I strike up a conversation with one of the female guests. “Where is the groom’s family?” I ask.

She shakes her head in disgust. “You people,” she says. “We bring all our family.”

“You people?” I repeat. “What do you mean by that? He’s from Denmark. I’m from Canada.”

Her expression softens. “Canadians are good people,” she says. It turns out that she has a sister who lives in Vancouver.

Shortly afterwards, I return to my room, where I discover that the hotel has left me an unexpected gift—a complimentary plate of fruit and a bottle of red wine. I don’t spend much time wondering why. The evening passes pleasantly.

I wheeled my gear outside and began scanning the mob of black faces, looking for someone with a sign that read “Kerry Banks” or “Trek Adventures.” As I walked back and forth some drummers began laying down a rhythmic beat. After a few minutes of fruitless searching, I got a sinking feeling. There did not appear to be anyone waiting to greet me and deliver me to my hotel. The hotel’s name—the Jacaranda—was all the information I had. I didn’t even know its location. Terrific preparation, Banks. As I pondered my options, the terminal doors opened behind me and the crowd let a whoop as guy in a white Stetson appeared. The drummers picked up the pace and people began singing as the man and his entourage moved into the surging throng. I later discovered that the character in the cowboy hat was political candidate Raila Odinga, leader of the Orange Democratic Movement. He had just returned from the U.S., to mount his campaign to unseat Kenya’s reigning president, Mwai Kibaki. Three months later, the election, and its disputed result, would spark an outbreak of tribal violence in Kenya. It’s strange how one can descend out of the skies, jet-lagged and bleary brained, and stumble into the storm of world events.

At any rate, my ride was definitely a now-show. A guy with a shaved head and gold earring asked me if I needed transportation. I followed him over to a booth marked “Government Tourist Information.” The woman behind the desk said that she could hail a cab to take me to my hotel. She told me it would cost US$25 and I had to pay up front. I didn’t like the sound of that, but she assured me she would give me a receipt. The receipt was written on Planet Safari stationery–evidently a guiding outfit was masquerading as a tourist information bureau. A couple of young guys led me around to the side of the building where the cab—a bombed out van—was waiting. The vehicle looked like it had been in a demolition derby. I piled in the back with my luggage close at hand. My driver said his name was Isaac, an old biblical name, yet somehow I was not reassured. We accelerated out into a swirl of traffic. I figured if this was going to go bad, it would happen fast. After about 15 minutes, I started to relax. Isaac wasn’t going to waste precious fuel taking me this far if he was planning some sort of shakedown. Eventually, we rolled up to the front doors of the Jacaranda. The day was bright and the air was cool and soothing. For the first time since my arrival, it felt good to be in Africa.