Poor neglected blog. I have thought of you many times in the last month or so, but only in the fleeting, abstract sense with which one thinks about filing one's taxes, rather than any kind of productive way.
Which is not to say that there hasn't been anything to write about. I have, in the fashion to which you may be accustomed, done all manner of stupid things in the last few weeks. It's actually hard to believe that the last post was a mere four weeks ago. It's a long time for a pokey little interwub blog, but it felt like much longer. In the last few weeks I have crashed a car, missed a flight, driven until 2 in the morning twice, scraped roadkill off the highway with a broken piece of a reflector post, been on a relationship building boot-pack, received an awesome haircut, mailed someone a box containing exactly three pine cones and played a one-time-only acoustic cover of "Call Me Maybe". But not only has the moment for blogging about those escapades passed, if I put those stories in the internet I'll have nothing to talk about with anyone who sees me in person.
In fact, I'm only writing this post to explain an even longer break in posting which is about to begin. I am now back in Canberra where I will settle down to something that approximates a real life in what many people think of as the real world. Many people have said that I've been living the dream. While it's true that my time in the hills has been generally awesome, coming back to Canberra feels more like going to sleep than waking up. But if I am going to sleep here it's just a peaceful beauty sleep. So when I eventually leave town again, with my complexion clear and composed, hopefully the blog will spring back to life. The alternative is to regularly email my parents, which I have not been very good at so far.
Thanks to all the folks I met along the way. In Rossland there's my winter family, Robbi, Fleur and Maud, plus the rest of the folks I skied and hiked and hung out with; my artistic collaborator, Brad, and my wealthy patron German Anna; my unnaturally patient boss Brian, as well as Chris, Colin and Vickie at Powderhound. Thanks also to the generous and always motivated Ward in Penticton and all the other folks who shared some rope time with me at Skaha - it was vastly better than soloing. In New Zealand there's Barrett, Lindsay, Caroline, Dan, Doug and Irene (who aren't actually in NZ anymore), Dee, Eric, and Lee. Sorry I had to leave early - I hope you're slaying the pow for me in this latest storm and saving the best for last at Broken River. Thanks also to Joe for showing me around some new terrain at BR and Olympus, and for taking some cool photos. I'll see most of you guys again early in the new year. Stay in touch.
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label travel. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Monday, July 9, 2012
Next Stop
Like a skipping stone bouncing across a cess pool, I will be dropping into Canberra on my way from Canada to New Zealand. If you would like to catch up, or introduce your attractive single friends to a man who has burst through the crotch of 60% of his pants, contacting me via the internets is probably more reliable than trying my mobile, which will surely have run out of credit.
I'll be in town from the 11th until the 23rd. My interests include skiing, short unromantic walks with a heavy pack, living in squalor and telling stories that make me sound more adventurous and capable than I really am.
To my regular reader(s?) in NZ, fear not. I'll be back in your country to endure your gentle discrimination, excellent skiing and affordable "meat" products soon.
I'll be in town from the 11th until the 23rd. My interests include skiing, short unromantic walks with a heavy pack, living in squalor and telling stories that make me sound more adventurous and capable than I really am.
To my regular reader(s?) in NZ, fear not. I'll be back in your country to endure your gentle discrimination, excellent skiing and affordable "meat" products soon.
Monday, April 2, 2012
And Then What Happened?
Life as I know it will end on the 8th of April, which is just days from now. On that day, the ski hill will close, and the fixed point that centres my existence will disappear. In typical fashion, I don't really know what will happen after that.
My rent is paid up to the 15th of April, so I'll be based in Rossland for at least that long. After that I might be able to house sit for a few more days, but it will be time to move on shortly after that. There should still be plenty of good ski touring around until the end of April, but to take advantage of that I need to co-ordinate transport and other people to ski with. After that, I don't so much have plans as a list of things I'd like to achieve, with no real plan as to how to make that occur.
The biggest feature in the barren landscape of my future is climbing. I'm going climbing with Rohan, my brother-in-law, from mid June to early July. This is a daunting prospect because I'm woefully out of shape for climbing. Over the last few months I can studiously neglected any form of exercise that isn't directly related to skiing. It will be a rude shock to the system to encourage my body to do something else.
While I'm looking forward to hitting the road again, I need a way of transporting myself, my stuff and eventually my climbing partner around Canada for three months. Hitchhiking is fine if you're not too picky about where you go, and you don't really care how long it takes to get around. Sadly, I think I'll fail both those criteria, so it's probably time to invest in another fine automobile. Given the fate of my last vehicle, this is a task I'm approaching with some trepidation.
Buying a car also precipitates a decision that I would, in normal circumstances, put off until the last minute: Whether or not to return to Canada. Eventually, the next winter in New Zealand will end and I will have to decide whether to head north for another winter or stay in the southern hemisphere and be hot and uncomfortable. And if I do head north to continue skiing, I will need to decide where to go. If I return to Canada, the best option is for me to buy a decent car now and store it somewhere over the summer. If I don't return to Canada, buying a car that's worth selling will just add more hassle to the end of my trip.
Canada is a good option because I have a work visa for here, I can probably work at Powderhound for another season, and folks speak english. I'm quite tempted to go somewhere outrageous like Kashmir or Europe, but getting work in those places would be pretty much impossible and eventually the money I have saved from my old desk job will run out.
My rent is paid up to the 15th of April, so I'll be based in Rossland for at least that long. After that I might be able to house sit for a few more days, but it will be time to move on shortly after that. There should still be plenty of good ski touring around until the end of April, but to take advantage of that I need to co-ordinate transport and other people to ski with. After that, I don't so much have plans as a list of things I'd like to achieve, with no real plan as to how to make that occur.
The biggest feature in the barren landscape of my future is climbing. I'm going climbing with Rohan, my brother-in-law, from mid June to early July. This is a daunting prospect because I'm woefully out of shape for climbing. Over the last few months I can studiously neglected any form of exercise that isn't directly related to skiing. It will be a rude shock to the system to encourage my body to do something else.
While I'm looking forward to hitting the road again, I need a way of transporting myself, my stuff and eventually my climbing partner around Canada for three months. Hitchhiking is fine if you're not too picky about where you go, and you don't really care how long it takes to get around. Sadly, I think I'll fail both those criteria, so it's probably time to invest in another fine automobile. Given the fate of my last vehicle, this is a task I'm approaching with some trepidation.
Buying a car also precipitates a decision that I would, in normal circumstances, put off until the last minute: Whether or not to return to Canada. Eventually, the next winter in New Zealand will end and I will have to decide whether to head north for another winter or stay in the southern hemisphere and be hot and uncomfortable. And if I do head north to continue skiing, I will need to decide where to go. If I return to Canada, the best option is for me to buy a decent car now and store it somewhere over the summer. If I don't return to Canada, buying a car that's worth selling will just add more hassle to the end of my trip.
Canada is a good option because I have a work visa for here, I can probably work at Powderhound for another season, and folks speak english. I'm quite tempted to go somewhere outrageous like Kashmir or Europe, but getting work in those places would be pretty much impossible and eventually the money I have saved from my old desk job will run out.
Friday, December 30, 2011
New things make me angry
One constant in my bourgeois, progressive middle class life has been the imperative to travel. Throughout my childhood and adult life, family, friends and society at large have all been absolutely clear that my life will be shallow and meaningless unless I obtain a number and variety of stamps in my passport. The mechanism by which travel is supposed to enrich and fulfil me is unclear, as are the exact prescriptions about what kind of travel and what sorts of destinations are desirable for whatever travel is supposed to acheive.
I have always been deeply sceptical about this insistence on going overseas. It may be awesome, but is it really culturally or personally enriching to trek in Nepal? I would argue that it's equally foreign and novel for eastern-seaboard dwelling middle class Australian to trek in central Australia. Given that everyone else you know has already gone dancing in Latin America, does a quick twirl on the dancefloors of Chile really make you different, or just another member of the crowd? And as for the people who rave about the museums and historical sites of Europe - have you been to the cultural institutions in your own country? There's nothing inherently authentic about trying to cram a lifetime's worth of capital A Art into the stops on your Kontiki tour if you're just going to ignore that stuff for the rest of your life. I would argue that the really enriching journeys are the ones we take within ourselves - where we take an emotional or psychological risk, where we challenge ourselves and learn and strive and succeed and fail. Perhaps these journeys can happen on the other side of a plane trip, but for lots of people they don't. And these experiences are readily accessible in our own lives and landscapes if we're willing to take them on.
In my case, overseas travel (which I haven't done much of) has a fairly predictable pattern. My reaction to a new environment has four distinct phases, and my impression of a place once I have left is not related to how deeply the plight of its noble peasant people has touched my sensitive soul. Rather, it is determined by what stage I am in when I leave the new environment for somewhere else. It is at once helpful and slightly frustrating that I recognise these phases as I pass through them, but I seem to be somewhat powerless to alter their progression. The first phase is:
Bewilderment:
At first I am confused. This can extend from simple mistakes with public transport systems, or difficulty finding the part of town where food is sold in large quantities at low prices, all the way through to complete geographical and temporal discombobulation. In Vancouver, I walked the wrong way down the street every time I left my hostel for three days. No matter how much I consulted the map, after a few blocks I had to turn around and head back the way I'd come.
Fortunately, this phase is usually over quickly. It's a pretty debilitating - there's a temptation to stay inside and hide until the world makes sense again, but it actually helps to go outside and get lost a few times, and at least I know that in advance. And within a couple of days I've moved to phase two.
False Familiarity:
Eventually the fog of bewilderment lifts, and the whole world is illuminated in the crisp sharp light of understanding. The weight of uncertainty is lifted from my brow and a sense of confidence and certainty is restored in the world. I know where the grocery store is. I know how the public transport system works. I may not have actually been there, but I know the names of the important nightlife venues and can readily recommend them to newcomers. Indeed, I am a competent and well functioning member of the local community. People start asking "Do you work here?"
Of course, all this confidence and clarity is complete bollocks. In fact I'm just some Johnny-come-lately and all the "local knowledge" I've got is readily available from a tourist brochure. It's only a matter of time until my status as a complete tourist is exposed. Which brings us to stage three:
Inchoate Rage:
Eventually, the facade of false familiarity has to break down, and when it does I am left disillusioned, confused, and most of all angry. It becomes immediately obvious that the place I'm in is a worthless hole, vastly inferior to everywhere else I've been, and the people who live in and love this place are ignorant or arrogant dupes. I can find nothing worthwhile in my new home, I consider leaving, I rage and rail against the injustice of being stuck in such a terrible, I swear at my ski boots, I bitch about Czech people. The list goes on.
Of course, this anger is both temporary and absurd. I will later be deeply embarrased about this phase and the petulant and childish things I have said and thought. In the depths of this phase in Chamonix I swore I would never return to that valley. Now, in the midst of this phase in Rossland, I yearn to be in Chamonix which is in fact one of the greatest places in the known universe. Now that I am accustomed to this pattern I find the rage less overwhelming. I think about slowly tortuting a small cute animal to death, but I don't actually start looking for an appropriately fluffy bunny. Unfortunately, being aware that this is just the third phase of being in a new place doesn't allow me to bypass it altogether, but with luck it will make it less intense and shorter lived.
One day, however, the rage will pass. I will ski, or hike, or eat something delicious, or generally roll around in my own filth and suddenly my new home will be wonderful place. Thus begins the fourth and final stage.
Acceptance:
Acceptance goes both ways. I accept my location and it accepts me. Not only do I know where the grocery store is, but I no longer assume that its staff hate me. I continue to tell terrible jokes, but people actually recognise that they're jokes rather than completely inappropriate comments that I mean sincerely. They don't necessarily laugh, but provided they understand that I'm being facetious that's good enough. This is the stage you want to be in. Life is good, you're more than just a bumbling tourist and people no longer want to drown you in the nearest river.
So for now I'm waiting for my ski boots to stop hurting, the snow to fill in the gaps between the rocks and logs at the ski field, and the visibility to be good enough for long enough that I can actually work out where I'm skiing. Roll on phase four.
I have always been deeply sceptical about this insistence on going overseas. It may be awesome, but is it really culturally or personally enriching to trek in Nepal? I would argue that it's equally foreign and novel for eastern-seaboard dwelling middle class Australian to trek in central Australia. Given that everyone else you know has already gone dancing in Latin America, does a quick twirl on the dancefloors of Chile really make you different, or just another member of the crowd? And as for the people who rave about the museums and historical sites of Europe - have you been to the cultural institutions in your own country? There's nothing inherently authentic about trying to cram a lifetime's worth of capital A Art into the stops on your Kontiki tour if you're just going to ignore that stuff for the rest of your life. I would argue that the really enriching journeys are the ones we take within ourselves - where we take an emotional or psychological risk, where we challenge ourselves and learn and strive and succeed and fail. Perhaps these journeys can happen on the other side of a plane trip, but for lots of people they don't. And these experiences are readily accessible in our own lives and landscapes if we're willing to take them on.
In my case, overseas travel (which I haven't done much of) has a fairly predictable pattern. My reaction to a new environment has four distinct phases, and my impression of a place once I have left is not related to how deeply the plight of its noble peasant people has touched my sensitive soul. Rather, it is determined by what stage I am in when I leave the new environment for somewhere else. It is at once helpful and slightly frustrating that I recognise these phases as I pass through them, but I seem to be somewhat powerless to alter their progression. The first phase is:
Bewilderment:
At first I am confused. This can extend from simple mistakes with public transport systems, or difficulty finding the part of town where food is sold in large quantities at low prices, all the way through to complete geographical and temporal discombobulation. In Vancouver, I walked the wrong way down the street every time I left my hostel for three days. No matter how much I consulted the map, after a few blocks I had to turn around and head back the way I'd come.
Fortunately, this phase is usually over quickly. It's a pretty debilitating - there's a temptation to stay inside and hide until the world makes sense again, but it actually helps to go outside and get lost a few times, and at least I know that in advance. And within a couple of days I've moved to phase two.
False Familiarity:
Eventually the fog of bewilderment lifts, and the whole world is illuminated in the crisp sharp light of understanding. The weight of uncertainty is lifted from my brow and a sense of confidence and certainty is restored in the world. I know where the grocery store is. I know how the public transport system works. I may not have actually been there, but I know the names of the important nightlife venues and can readily recommend them to newcomers. Indeed, I am a competent and well functioning member of the local community. People start asking "Do you work here?"
Of course, all this confidence and clarity is complete bollocks. In fact I'm just some Johnny-come-lately and all the "local knowledge" I've got is readily available from a tourist brochure. It's only a matter of time until my status as a complete tourist is exposed. Which brings us to stage three:
Inchoate Rage:
Eventually, the facade of false familiarity has to break down, and when it does I am left disillusioned, confused, and most of all angry. It becomes immediately obvious that the place I'm in is a worthless hole, vastly inferior to everywhere else I've been, and the people who live in and love this place are ignorant or arrogant dupes. I can find nothing worthwhile in my new home, I consider leaving, I rage and rail against the injustice of being stuck in such a terrible, I swear at my ski boots, I bitch about Czech people. The list goes on.
Of course, this anger is both temporary and absurd. I will later be deeply embarrased about this phase and the petulant and childish things I have said and thought. In the depths of this phase in Chamonix I swore I would never return to that valley. Now, in the midst of this phase in Rossland, I yearn to be in Chamonix which is in fact one of the greatest places in the known universe. Now that I am accustomed to this pattern I find the rage less overwhelming. I think about slowly tortuting a small cute animal to death, but I don't actually start looking for an appropriately fluffy bunny. Unfortunately, being aware that this is just the third phase of being in a new place doesn't allow me to bypass it altogether, but with luck it will make it less intense and shorter lived.
One day, however, the rage will pass. I will ski, or hike, or eat something delicious, or generally roll around in my own filth and suddenly my new home will be wonderful place. Thus begins the fourth and final stage.
Acceptance:
Acceptance goes both ways. I accept my location and it accepts me. Not only do I know where the grocery store is, but I no longer assume that its staff hate me. I continue to tell terrible jokes, but people actually recognise that they're jokes rather than completely inappropriate comments that I mean sincerely. They don't necessarily laugh, but provided they understand that I'm being facetious that's good enough. This is the stage you want to be in. Life is good, you're more than just a bumbling tourist and people no longer want to drown you in the nearest river.
So for now I'm waiting for my ski boots to stop hurting, the snow to fill in the gaps between the rocks and logs at the ski field, and the visibility to be good enough for long enough that I can actually work out where I'm skiing. Roll on phase four.
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