The Moveable Feast

Nancy November 8th, 2009

After leaving our rolling home in the capable hands of Larry Fox in Middlebury, Indiana, we flew to Port of Spain on October 28th.  After three uneventful, on-time flights (thanks Continental!), we landed in Trinidad at about 8pm.  Customs was efficient and we were at a nearby hotel by 9pm.  We settled in, checked our emails and called it a night.

Moved downtown to the Hyatt Regency Hotel next morning and kept busy for the next few days in some business meetings and activities in and around the hotel.  Trinidad has a very high crime rate including kidnappings for ransom so we did not feel comfortable wandering in the downtown area.  Sadly, we learned that the crime sprees have spread also to Tobago where we felt so safe less than two years ago.

We enjoyed the hotel’s infinity pool and various restaurants which offered live music every night.  We hired a driver to take us out to a mall area on Saturday and on Tuesday, our friend Kevin drove us to the north coast of Trinidad for a tour and to see the popular Maravel Beach.   Wednesday was spent preparing for our departure, and 4am Thursday found us at the airport waiting for our LIAT flight to Dominica.

The four hour flight was all ups and downs - Trinidad to Grenada, then to St. Vincent, then to Antigua and finally to Melville Hall airport in eastern Dominica.  Customs was actually welcoming and the taxi authority friendly.  Jumped into a taxi and spent the next hour and a half driving southwest across the island.  The island is incredibly gorgeous – lush rainforest and very mountainous.  The roads are narrow and windy as they travel up and down the mountains that make up Dominica.

The taxi driver helped us locate Pepper’s B&B where we were to stay for two nights until our rental house became available.  It was quite a shock walking into the little apartment – at first we thought it was a furniture storeroom. Two double beds, one with a bare mattress and the other with only a bottom sheet, jammed up against a musty wardrobe plus small fridge, unplugged and wobbly in a corner kitchen area.

Fortunately, the apartment was clean so we settled in and almost immediately were ready for a nap.  By the way, B&B does not mean bed & breakfast provided – at least not at Pepper’s B&B.  We think that the breakfast part means that you can make your own breakfast in the room.  We still aren’t sure about that.  Another surprise was no hot water heater – Darryl braved the cold shower but I just washed my hair.

When Pepper, the host and resident taxi driver, arrived, he was quite pleasant.  In the evening, he took us to a great Rastafarian take-out where we picked up delicious vegetarian food and a tasty hot cocoa tea.  The restaurant owner with his 2 foot high wrapped dreads is a government auditor during the day and chef by night.  The meal was comprised of a buriyani-like stew, a mixed vegetable and soy dish, and two different fried veggie patties.  I couldn’t recognize many of the ingredients but everything sure tasted good.

On Friday morning, Pepper drove us into the capital city of Roseau as we needed to find breakfast and also to finalize arrangements to move into the house.  While I finished up with the real estate company, Darryl and Pepper went off to purchase us a cell phone that we can use locally.  We then made plans to meet Pepper later in the afternoon after we explored downtown Roseau for awhile.  A gigantic Carnival cruise ship was docked so we just blended in with all the other tourists.

We stopped at the official Tourist office first but they didn’t seem to have any brochures or advice on things to do on the island.  There is a large outdoor market behind the tourist office so I picked up a pretty straw hat to keep off the hot sun.  Then we went upstairs to the Dominica museum which is small but quite informative.  It was put together mainly by a local historian, Lennox Honychurch and is located in the old post office, built in 1810.  We also purchased his book and hope that Dr. Honychurch will be lecturing somewhere on the island while we are here.

Looked through a number of shops but our only purchase was a CD of a Creole band that was playing on the sidewalk.  I’m hoping that we’ll be able to find some authentic Dominican handcrafts – most of the stuff in the shops and kiosks are “Dominican” souvenirs made in China.

Did some grocery shopping and then Pepper picked us up.  Our last stop of the day was to a local bakery which was tucked in someone’s back yard.  We walked into a smoky, dark room consisting of an enormous wood-burning concrete oven and rough wooden racks loaded with small loaves of bread.  The baker still had a few loaves that weren’t spoken for so we picked up six – enough to last us for several days.

We spent  a quiet evening – well, sort of quiet – except for the traffic on the busy road and the stray dogs barking their heads off.  Oh, and the roosters too – that start at 4am and quit about 3am.  Hard workers those roosters, ensuring everybody is up, no matter if it is light or dark!

Saturday we moved to Emerald Cottage in a residential area called Canefield East, about 10 minutes outside of Roseau.  The house is airy and pretty and the landlady, Elizabeth, most pleasant.  She is accommodating and brought us a coffee maker and helped Darryl get the internet setup.

The small house is one floor fronting onto the road and up on 18’ concrete stilts at the back.  The master bedroom balcony overlooks the valley with a beautiful view of the Caribbean Sea.  We are enjoying sea breezes again!

It does get very still at times so we will locate a couple of fans when the stores open tomorrow.  Being up on a mountainside seems to moderate the temperature and when the air is moving, we are quite comfortable.

We will make plans to start exploring the island next week.  Portsmouth in the north and the Carib Country in the east look especially intriguing!

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Darryl February 17th, 2009

In the vehicle by 9 in the morning, we were headed back north for the wrap-up of some dental work started in January before moving south to Florida.

Georgetown South Carolina, about four hours down the road from was our first destination, a short stop-over on the six hour trip. The town is one of the oldest in South Carolina, and we wanted to experience some of its history.

Like most of the older settlements along the east coast of the US, Georgetown was a river town. After checking in at the visitor centre, we started by walking in the cold wind along the shops of Front Street, running parallel to the wide river.

It didn’t take long to become apparent that the town is somewhat ravaged by the recent changes in the economy, with every third or fourth storefront closed. Further upstream along the River that backdrops Georgetown, the steel mill still operates, rail cars from Canada and other iron ore production areas lining the plant.

A museum shop revealed some rice measures from the mid nineteenth century, a reminder that rice built Georgetown. Another gallery held the remaining works of Alvin Outlaw, barber and artist, who worked in wood-carvings, oil, and pencil. He had passed on a few years previous, and his wife told his story with great affection.

The historic area of sixty or so pre-1800 homes revealed the beginnings of the town, the guide map giving a terse one-line description of each. We toured the original neighbourhood before heading off down Highway 17 for the last hour or so of our trip.

When Nancy and I were living at Longs, just west of the beaches area, it had taken us the longest time to get to the shoreline. Whether it was the fact that we had lived on an island with arguably the best beaches in the world, or whether it was the spectre of seeing hordes of tourists, our feelings had kept us away.

Finally some two months after settling in the area, we finally made it to Cherry Grove Beach, to find a wonderful wide expanse of sand, with almost no others on it.

Now we were back, and this time, staying at Avista, a North Myrtle Beach condo hotel overlooking the Atlantic and a broad expanse of ocean.

It seems we have discovered a bit of a gem, very comfortable, and well-priced, both the room and the restaurant services.

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Darryl February 16th, 2009

We are ensconced for the month of February in Jacksonville Florida at a pleasant little resort, Flamingo Lake.

Our site is right on the lake, with the pleasure of seeing the lake about twelve feet from our home. With such a pleasant and private view, for the first time we have been keeping our window shades open. In the morning from the top of the step to our bedroom, we cannot see the other shoreline.  It is reminiscent of the great water views we had on our island home of Eleuthera, and the longing for a more permanent water view of our own has reached a higher level since coming here.

The land around Jacksonville is covered with southern pine, towering 50 to 60 feet before spreading into a luxuriant green top.

Yesterday we drove across a most beautiful bridge, the Napolean Bonaparte Broward, stretched from side-to-side of the Nassau River to the east of Jacksonville.  A suspension bridge hanging on silver strands from two gigantic towers mid-river, we soared a hundred and fifty feet above the deep waters.

Today is President’s Day in the US, after a busy weekend of campers with harleys, kids, fluffy little white dogs in sweaters, and tvs with ballgames. The park is quiet today though, as most temporaries have pulled out to make the journey back to wherever they came from last Friday.

We have met our friends John and Donn here who have come from cold Ontario for February to get away from record snow drifts and dreary winter days.  The month seems to have gone very quickly, and it will soon be time to see them off home, and make our own preparations to move west.

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Darryl August 24th, 2008

The Rideau Canal is a winding water thread, connecting a series of lakes and rivers between Ottawa and Lake Ontario. Every lock on the canal is a photo opportunity. While staying at Sand Lake after our son’s wedding, we took several driving trips to see several.

The most striking was the Lock at Jones Falls, just a few miles from our location. Parking on a high cliff above the lockworks, we walked across the top of a 60 foot high convex dam constructed around 1831 and still holding back a 40 foot head of water, despite being built entirely without mortar.  Built like a huge Roman arch lying on its side, the structure was pressed tight by the water pressure from the lake behind ity.

The water compartments of the lock system were flooded and released through large swinging gates on either end, opened and closed manually by a crew of three National Park officers.

The story of the Rideau Canal system goes back to when the British in Canada were at odds with the new country of the United States.  Between 1826 and 1832,the course was chopped, blasted, and pickaxed through the untracked wilderness of eastern Ontario. Its construction gave gave birth to the city of Bytown, named after Lieutenant Colonel John By of the Royal Engineers, the supervising engineer of the system.  Bytown is now Ottawa, and the Capital of Canada.

At the southern end, the system enters lake Ontario at Kingston, just before Thousand Islands.

We watched while boats entered the locks, tied off, and waited for the flooding to lift them the 14 feet to the next level.

All in all, the Rideau Canal system is an engineering marvel, with a total of forty-five locks in twenty-three lock stations along its 125 miles. It is the oldest continuously operating canal in North America, and since 2007, is a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Our plan is to live on the Canal this upcoming summer, most definitely traversing its length at least once, and perhaps getting our houseboat onto some of the other canal systems of Eastern Canada.

For more information about the Rideau Canal, have a look at its website, at http://www.rideau-info.com/.

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Nancy May 15th, 2008

One of our favourite spots in Texas is the Hill Country, in central Texas.  After departing from the very south of the state, we settled in a park near San Marcos, midway between San Antonio and Austin.  The park was very nice - situated by a river and there are lots of big pecan trees ( pronounced peCAHN, as we were soon corrected by the park maintenance man), squirrels running around, lots of birds and kids.  We set up our canvas patio room and loved sitting outside after finally leaving the winds of the Rio Grande behind.

We explored San Antonio, Austin and many of the small towns surrounding San Marcos.  We are so impressed with the Riverwalk in San Antonio – the city has developed their river valley into a walking area with many restaurants, neat shops, a tour boat ride, all lining the river. What a wonderful spot  for exploring, dining and relaxing in the downtown.  It’s really amazing and every city should consider doing it.  Because we were there during their annual Fiesta, there were several bands set up at different locations and an art/craft sale.  One of the craft exhibitors had beautiful woodwork using mesquite wood and truquoise so we treated ourselves to a small decorative dish.

San Antonio is very historical with the Alamo right in the middle of the business section and all the streets are named after the famous figures of that era – Crockett, Bowie etc.  We were tempted to get faux coonskin hats for the grandsons but remembered that this memorabilia was from our childhood, not theirs.

We also toured several small towns in the region which have revitalized themselves as artistic areas. Gruene (pronounced Green) has the oldest dance hall in Texas and there was a band playing so we stopped and listened for awhile.  One of the players turned out to be a very well-respected session steel and dobro player, Cindy Cashdollar.  We also wandered all the interesting shops and purchased the best salsa we’ve ever tasted.

Another interesting town is Wimberley which hosts a large art, craft & farmer’s market almost every Saturday.  There is a resident glassblower there who is originally from Saskatchewan.

San Marcos is a college town and we were there during the end of term and graduation season.  There were always students tubing down the river so that’s on our “to do” list for next time.

We didn’t spend too much time in Austin - it’s a musician’s city so most of what we wanted to see happened at night and we felt we were staying too far away to travel so late.  Gives us a good excuse to return to this area to take in the many live bands.

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Darryl April 25th, 2008

One of the secret treasures of the Texas Tropics has to be the La Joya High School for the Performing Arts, set in a small community west of McAllan.  Taking in an early evening performance, we were enthralled with the energy and talent of these 16 to 18 year olds.

We had dropped by the high school office earlier in the afternoon to pick up our tickets, and had seen the kids, all of them very ordinary looking in their day-to-day wear. Now they were transformed into storytellers and artists in the stage lights and the mood of the evening.

Having seen posters over the last few months all over the Rio Grande Valley area for performances in other schools and public places, we had been long been anticipating this performance. Costumes and choreography were completely the work of the students and their teachers, and the work put into the performance and its lead up by the teachers and students was huge.

We were in the audience of the fourth of five full performances in their home base theatre, surprisingly developed with its scenery fly visible above the community for miles. By this show, it was obvious that the kids had worked out any kinks and together that evening, they created a great experience.

Traditional dance, singing and costumes, the program took the audience of 600 appreciative locals and snowbirds on a journey through the culture of a dozen areas of the Americas colonized by people of Hispanic origin.

From the viewpoint of a musician, the diverse roots of each different music and dance form were astounding. Ancient native cultures in the South American songs mixed with the range of the provinces of Spain through the Mexican and Baja performances.

The audience - moms, grandfathers, friends, locals and visitors - whistled and yelled at the high points of a song poured out of the heart of girl with an incredible voice, full of expression and soul.

A four piece Tex-Mex band led by a blazing fast accordionist played out complex polka-based dance rhythms. We could not make out the actual text of the Spanish lyrics set into pleading melodies, but judging from the reaction of the young girls in the audience, seemed to be about young restless love.

Dance after dance, song after song, the evening was a journey through every Spanish-influenced culture from 18th century Colombia to Zacatecas Mexico to zoot-suited LA of the forties.

After the performance came to an end, the audience pressed into the lobby of the theatre parents and relatives mingled with their kids, still dressed in whatever their last costume had been. Every father and mother’s heart swelled with pride. The young men strutted in their handsome flamenco and native dress. The girls in their stage makeup and brilliant dresses, bubbled with excitement. School chums milled around them, in awe and respect for the new vitality and sensuousness cast upon their friends by the traditional costumes.

The crowd pushed me into some of the performers and their fans. A young caballero looked to see who had brushed up against him, I said, “What a great performance you gave. Thank you very much. We will always remember it”.

He was very proud of being part of showing how three hundred years of Hispanic culture had maintained a vibrant exciting presence. Casting his eyes down, he was just a young boy again, humbled by the power of what he had just partaken. “Thank you, sir”, he said. A beat passed, then regaining his elation, he turned back to his group.

For a ticket price of $5.00, this incredible high school generated what to us was easily the best entertainment value in Texas, bar none. With no small sense of relief, it also gave us an unforgettable first-hand experience of the rich culture still flowing beneath the fast-food veneer of South Texas.

***

Watch a short video of the Foklorico Group of La Joya ISD performing dance, mariachi and conjunto in south Texas:

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Darryl February 14th, 2008

Buccoo Bay

Buccoo, Tobago… We had arrived by sea in the rain yesterday, and this day was awash in brilliant tropical light, just as though the sun had never stopped shining.

After the usual obligatory Tuesday online work that Nancy does, and a breakfast in the Enchanted Waters dining room shared with Bananaquits, Blue Grey Tanagers and a 14″ roving spotted lizard, our rental car arrived.

I jumped in with Gus, the owner of the family company who was renting us a Nissan Sunny for a few days, and off we drove through south Tobago back roads to his house for the paperwork.

After watching Bahamian rental families for several years do their business on a promise, I was surprised by how professional this family was. Their daughter, seemingly in her early days as a family administrative assistant, did the paperwork and card clearing, coached by her mom.

Driving on the left again after a few months on the Canadian/US roads, the return to our hotel was a refresher for me. With twelve years of driving in the Bahamas, I was fine in about two blocks.

Our first driving destination was Crown Point, a resort and support community about three miles to the south.

The shops were small but we managed to find interesting things in a few - Mighty Sparrow’s first recording done by Verve/Folkways/Smithsonian, plus locally made trinkets and small clothing articles.

Fort Milfort

We stopped at Fort Milfort, a fortification from the late 1700’s at the end of the point.

About five miles down the road from Crown Point lay Scarborough, the island’s capital and largest community.

The port area was a buzz of people. Our survey from the car as we passed showed that the shops were pretty well all the same, geared to quick souvenir sales to tourists in transit looking for the typical stuff.

Then we began to see sign for a historic site we had been wanting to tour, Fort King George.

Winding through the narrow streets, we found ourselves climbing a very steep hill.

Floored, our Sunny crept slower and slower. Winding our way slowly up and up the one-way street, the line of traffic behind us remained polite, apparently used to tourists in under-powered vehicles trying to get to the top of that particular hill.

When we crested, a hospital ambulance entry was all that we could see. Thinking we had lost the trail, I was looking for a way to turn around when we saw a little road at the end of the lane.

Fort King George

It was the entrance to Fort King George, a one-lane road that wound around a precipitous drop-off. Rounding the corner, the fort was in front of us surrounded by beautifully kept gardens and grounds that overlooked two harbours and 40 miles of open ocean.

The barracks of the fort, a late addition in 1814, had been restored in 2004 as the Tobago Museum.

We were certainly not prepared for what we were to see in this building.

A range of artifacts from Pre-Columbian times to modern mid-twentieth century was on display in five rooms.

The Funerary contained a pair of early skeletons in burial position, dating from before Columbus, excellently displayed.

Early ceramics from ancient civilizations depicted their creation myth, fertility beliefs and cosmology.

One room told the story of migration, forced and voluntary, from diverse places in Latvia, Africa, Holland, and Germany, along with the usual Caribbean influences of Britain, Spain, and France.

The halls were lined with douhos from Africa, wonderful carvings showing the importance of family life, and many masks and costumes.

Cannon Stamp

The museum at Fort King George in Scarborough, Tobago is a gem, one of the better community museums we have seen.

One the way back, we found the location the Tobago Botanical Gardens, a note for tomorrow’s more naturally-oriented tour.

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Darryl February 12th, 2008

With sun streaming, we rounded a bend in the Claude Noel Highway above Scarborough shortly before ten in the morning. The green expanse of the Tobago Botanical Garden lay below us, stretching down the north side of the circular valley that contained the port city.

The roadside pull-off marked the high entrance to the gardens.

Just inside the gate, two of the resident dogs were still asleep shaded from the rising warmth, one under a poinciana, the other between two buttress roots of a 100 foot seiba, or Silk Cotton tree.

The resident parks dogs looked healthy. Obviously visitors to this garden were of the well-feeding variety.

One, a Corgi/terrier female between puppy batches, stirred as we walked by, picking up as only dogs can, Nancy’s gift as a soft touch for a generous hand-out. She fell in behind us, offering - without asking - a gentle accompaniment to our walk.

Yellow Poui

As we walked down the long path, dozens of trees and ornamental plants dotted either side of the neatly kept grounds. Some were familiar from our Bahamas home - agave americana, casuarina, yellow elder, and others new - Casalpina, balsam, neem, poui.

Sounds of light hammering and sawing echoed from across a small valley coursing one side of the gardens from top to bottom. The construction mixed with the morning chorus of a dozen small warblers and distant traffic winding endlessly around the port area below us.

Botanical Gardens, Scarborough Tobago

We descended a stone staircase lined on either side with twin rows of Royal Palms, a magnificent hallway.

At the bottom of the staircase, the source of the garden’s man-made noises came into sight.

A new six-sided pergola with a pagoda roof was under construction, with the main beams up and the decorative work underway. I noticed that the carpenters were working steady but comfortable, a pace of which I had grown very appreciative of while working on several of our houses in Eleuthera’s constant heat.

A carpenter was bent over a beam on a set of horses, working a high-performance circular saw through the gentle arcs of a finely decorative rib. I asked him what wood he was shaping. A Guyanese wood called ‘Mora’, he told me.

While we talked, I saw that the grain was tight and straight like pine, but with a hue similar to dark cedar. The scent of the sawdust was pleasant, something that would not get to be too much if you had to smell it all day in a furniture shop.

As we continued north on the island’s main highway, the road dwindled quickly from a four-lane to two, to a narrow twisting road etching the coast line.

Several historic forts dotted the coast - Fort Grandby, Fort Milfort- good for half hour walk-throughs on well-kept grounds, with enough interpretive signs to keep interest.

Coming over a high pass, we entered into a cluster of old-time wooden structures. A hillside full of beautiful landscaping pulled our eye to its sign, and we turned in.

It was Michael Sterling’s ‘Genesis Park’, a small zoo, gardens and artshop in Goodwood. Michael is a one-man dynamo giving us an energetic tour, telling us with great pride that he was the recipient of Tobago’s best Tourist Service and Entrepreneur awards for this year.

Abandoned truck on the road to the falls, covered in orchids

Back on the road for a few miles, we came to the turnoff for Rainbow Falls. The road wound around the base of a wide valley for two miles or so through small farms and homes. These were subsistence farms for the most part. On the road were remnants of small business attempts. A yellow truck had been parked so long that a vibrant colony of orchids had established on its roof.

The valley around us quickly narrowed. We arrived at the end of the road, the doorstep of the Rainbow Falls Guest House and Tour.

Ginger Lady

As we parked beside a Lady Ginger in full bloom, a ten-minute shower was just ending. Hearing the car, the proprietor came out to his gate and beckoned us to come out of the rain into a lean-to shelter attached to his house.

After a few pleasantries, our host looked down at our shoes. “Your’s won’t do”, he said. “Your’s won’t either”. We would have to exchange our running shoes for his ‘Wellies’- calf-high rubber boots. While he gave us directions to the falls, we pulled the boots on and tucked our pants into the tall tops. I slung our packsack with our lunch onto my back, and we were off on the two mile trail to the cascade.

We walked further on the road we had driven in on until it came to a small river. We picked our way across to the other side, the bottom of the river solid with grey stones. The falls were upstream on this river, and the head of the path to them appeared on our right as we waded out.

Immediately climbing a steep grade, masses of Heliconia Caribea dwarfed us on one side rising up the valley wall, and giant bamboo on the other, lining the slope down to the river about thirty feet below.

One of Nancy’s giant boots was making sloshing noises, meaning that at least one of our four feet was now wet. Somehow it seemed that likely this was to be insignificant compared to what was possible in the Tobago jungle ahead.

The tall grass on the path-side rustled, startling us. Then the grass parted. Two small friendly dogs belonging to our host poked their heads onto the path, bright eyes glancing back and forth between us and the knapsack, punctuating the obvious basis for our new friendship with some doggy grins and nose-up sniffing.

With the understanding that they would be our local guides in return for a bit of shared lunch at some indeterminate point along our trek, the four of us fell into line on the trail.

The path had not been cleared for several years, and the fresh rain made for wet going. Old machete cuts on the rough slashing looked to have been made at least a few years ago. Our host’s explanation at check-in was that help was hard to get and he was advancing in years. I missed my own machete, something that was normally always attached to my arm in bush like this.

Nancy on the Rainbow Falls path

Our path wound through the floor of the valley, a clay gumbo covered with a mat of bamboo leaves. Our over-size boots broke through in the wetter patches, sucking our boots in about three or four inches. When this happened, all we could do was stop and slowly extract each foot each at a time until finally working our way to the other side of each mud hole.

The trail crossed the river several times. With the path in the condition it was, there were times when the day’s previous rain obliterated the path. When this happened, I scouted through each possibility out of the seemingly blind end to see if I could find some kind of sign as to where we were to go next.

We could see that the land in the valley where the river had looped to create a floodplain had been cultivated by previous generations.

In one clearing, there were bananas and pigeon peas in a casually kept area of tall grass. Adding a further dimension to what our host had said about finding labourers, if this was ever to be productive farming land again, it would require the full energies of a younger man than the present owner.

Along a high part of the path, the jungle’s canopy suddenly started to roar. A rain had started, and the noise was the sound of the drops on the leaves of the high bamboo. Amazingly, even in a strong downpour, very little made it to the jungle floor, and we stayed dry as we waited a few minutes for it to stop.

The rain shower slowed then stopped, but the roaring sound seemed to continue. It was the falls, ahead.

Dropping down the bank, we waded up stream, walking where we could on the tallus bars of grey-green limestone created by the moving waters of the small river.

Rainbow Falls

Rounding a bend, the water in the Rainbow Falls splayed in a wide fan across the wall of the valley where the water fell, tumbling about 100 feet into a pool.

As we stood watching, the sun broke through the clouds, bathing the wet cliff side and cascading water of the falls in bright light. The canyon’s dark moist walls shone with a thousand sparkles.

While Nancy waited below, I climbed a few extra feet over the wet mossy boulders at the bottom of the falls to get a better view of the pool.

Along the sides of the high valley stretching up on either side, constant moisture supported a green mat of ferns, orchids, bromeliads, and heliconia.

We stood in awe while the falls filled the canyon with sound and mist. Behind us, the retreating light of the afternoon played through the tall bamboo onto the river’s bed as it left the fall’s basin.

Turning, we started back reluctantly.

On the way down, we stopped at the edge of one of the banana groves to eat our lunch, finally rewarding the dogs with pieces of french bread for their companionship.

As the sun dropped into the long golden part of the Tobago afternoon, we lingered on the last mile back to our car to store some lasting memories of this unforgettable natural spot.

The Rainbow Falls are above Goldsborough Bay on the Atlantic side of Tobago, approximately 15 miles north of Scarborough.

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Darryl October 9th, 2007

Goodlands, Manitoba, Canada… I hunched over the console of the four-wheeler bundled in thick winter gloves, coveralls, and toque against the cold rainy air.

Dan fiddled with the ignition key.

‘Ok, now press the starter button.’

The four-wheel came to life under me. A few pumps on the thumb throttle showed that this little machine was ready to go.

Dan on his Polaris, me on a Honda borrowed from the neighbours, we gunned up, made a tight circle in the turning area in front of the big horse barn, then rumbled through the pasture gate.

It was a grey fall late afternoon in Southern Manitoba, just about two miles from the Goodlands crossing into the US.

Nancy and I had arrived the day previous at the farm of her cousin Heather and her husband Dan, after a three day trek across the Canadian prairies from Edmonton.

We were now parked, plugged, and leveled in the driveway beside their farmhouse. The current view from our fifth wheel’s bay of windows was a brown grass coulee to the north peeking through hundred year oaks, now bare.

Nancy’s great-ancestors had come to Canada in 1885, all four arriving in this little corner of Manitoba after crossing the Atlantic from England on the same ship. Now they lay head-to-head about six miles away in the oldest cemetery in the area, forever together in the timeless rhythm of snows, crocuses, and switchgrass of the Turtle Mountains.

We were home it seemed.

Our preoccupation while visiting was to catch up with the family news before moving on; the new babies, the health of the older people, and the most recent chapters in the farmer’s story, the endless wrestle with omnipotent soil, beast, weather, and marketing boards.

Dan and I snaked steadily up the pasture as our noisy machines climbed Dan’s home section of the western rise of the Mountain. Up the hill and away from our sudden disturbance, fifty magnificent horses broke into a gallop, disappearing over the crest.

At the top of the open pasture, we halted at a gate of three-strand barbed wire. A dropped marionette, its strings and arms suddenly losing all articulation, the wire gate collapsed into the brown grass and gravel ruts. Single file, we pulled our machines into the next pasture and stopped.

Still showing the effects of a protective mare’s kick the previous week, Dan hobbled over to close the gate behind us, then yelled our destination over the idling machines. We were going to take the trail ride path back through the hills, up through a couple of valleys, then run down the north-south fenceline to the border.

Just before the start of the woods at the top of the pasture, we broke over a summit to a panorama over some 500 square miles that lay below us.

Dim light of an unseen sun behind glowing clouds turned far-scattered metal grain bins and distant villages into dull highlights on the vast checkerboard spread before us, as the west escarpment of the Turtle Mountains surrendered back into flat prairie.

The terrain changed abruptly as we turned off the stubble onto a deer trail parting dense bush. Our machines wove between oak and white poplar trees rising from the forest’s mat of tall dry grass, naked of their leaves in the wet grey of late fall.

At the first valley we drew up to the edge of a precipice about seventy-five feet above the creek bottom. In the distance, wet black branches scribbled on a fiery yellow carpet of fallen leaves damply stuck to the steep slope of the opposing valley wall.

A bald eagle dropped from the tallest tree and flew across our view, long powerful strokes pulling him up the valley.

“This is Eagle’s Nest Hill,” Dan shouted. “Usually two pair here”.

I asked if they wintered, and what they ate. Yes, they stay through. Roadkill and deer carcasses.

Dan throttled up and roared over the hummock. For a few seconds, I stayed behind, watching the eagle bank around the last bend at the top of the valley, then I gunned over the hill myself.

Loosely following the north-south fence line, we wound our way down the trail through the leafless bush, breaking out now and then to cross hidden glens of tall dry grass.

The air was crisp and biting against my face. As it bumped me over the uneven ground, controlling the four-wheeler was intensely physical. Under my coveralls, my body radiated a constant supply of heat.

We paused in a clearing surrounded by forty-foot bare white poplar trunks standing upright against deep green spruce.

Dan pointed to an almost indescernible rise in the meadow.

The mound was where a house had once stood. A man had lived there hermit-like for many years, finally dying alone one winter. Waiting peacefully, it was some time before he was discovered by the neighbours.

The small wood house, barn and outbuildings were long gone, traces of his lane all but erased by grass now ruffling in sunset’s gusts across the meadow.

I stood up on my machine looking over this one man’s place of solitude. Not a trace remained of the man, just his story. His time here, and his end to a time on earth seemed fitting, and perfect.

We emerged from the end of the draw about where the hermit’s road must have, then rounded a thick bush. Sitting into its edge was an old trailer.

A large dead tree had fallen midpoint into its roof. Poplar and scrub oak were well along as they reclaimed the yard area.

Hauled in many years ago, the trailer was the lodge of urban hunters who had been coming every fall for moose and deer. They would be back this year, and likely for a few more years after that. In the larger scheme of these hills, it would not be long before the trailer itself would rejoin the land, and this meadow too would have only a story for a few generations.

We broke through an open pasture gate onto a road running perpendicular to our general direction of travel. This was Boundary Road, the last road before the US border.

There was one more field to the south, and we followed a set of ruts a short distance to its edge and then stopped.

We had arrived.

After our journey through the valleys, it was an uneventful place.

An uneven rill of gravel had been piled up on one side of the cut by a grader or caterpillar, now serving as a ceremonial wall between us and the United States of America.

It was strange to me that trees and rocks and seasons in a land just a few feet away were somehow perceived by the larger world to be so much different than the trees and rocks and seasons I was standing among in this country. I looked to see if I could see something different. I could not. It seemed the same.

Dan pulled his watch from his pocket. We had just enough time to get back for dinner.

Motivated by a hunger about to be satisfied by some good home cooking and needing to stay on a schedule promised to wives, we would take the fast route home down Boundary Road to the main highway, then back north along a path in the main highway’s ditch.

The highway to and from America was as bare as the fall’s trees, empty as we made our way along its sloped ditch.

Turning, we bumped over the field road leading up to the barns, approaching from the south.

We rolled into the farmyard and shut down the machines. The expedition had chilled Dan’s hands, arthritic from years of work and cold, and he was anxious to get into the warm. The day’s light was almost gone as we walked to the house.

Nancy and I had been coming to the Turtle Mountains for close to forty years. For the first time, I had just become part of something I thought I knew well.

I felt somehow more completed.

Suddenly, I thought of my brother who had four-wheeled for thirty years as he surveyed the prairies. We had been around him and his machines constantly. How was it that I had never even been on one before?

I realized what had just happened, what had changed to make it possible.

A life too busy with pursuit had left neither time nor attitude for seeing rather than looking, doing rather than dreaming.

Before I could protest out of habit, a cool fall afternoon with no plan and a four-wheeler had effortlessly taken me right into the hills. They had gently forced me into enjoyments that, over all those years for reasoning I no longer laboured under, I had found reasons not to partake.

In the house, the smell of fresh buns hot out of the oven overtook all other thoughts. I quickly peeled off my outer layer and washed up.

Four-wheeling, the Turtle Mountains of southern Manitoba, and simple participation in the here-and-now, these would be invitations that I would not pass up on again.

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Darryl August 20th, 2007

Spruce Grove, Alberta, Canada… It seemed like a long push-off from the shores of the island of Eleuthera in the quiet Bahamas Family Islands, to sitting in a fifth wheel in Central Alberta Canada looking over a deep black field, moist and rich from this morning’s turn of the fall cultivator. Dozens of raucous crows foraged the rows for food to sustain their long flight back south - the path we had just come.

I fell into a muse about what had happened to us.

Nancy and I had owned a large property on Eleuthera for several years, twelve to be exact. It was a simple life on the surface. The constant sunshine and balmy Trade Winds kept us generally buoyant. However, Gordian complications only island people could know served up with enough regularity to be more than just distractions. Attention to passions and work habits kept us planted firmly between the native community and the itinerant foreign winter residents. We knew we could never truly belong to either group. Plus the strainings of our quiet island to join the so-called developed world was making us uneasy about what would inevitably be given up.

We were both getting restless. When the opportunity came up to pass the estate to a nice couple, it was not a hard decision.

For the first time in our lives, we actually owned very little. My shop, all the contents of the three houses on the property, Nancy’s crafts materials, furniture we had made, vehicles, tools … we left them all, keeping a few Rubbermaid containers of keepsakes and shells, a few of my musical instruments, and our art collection.

When we left, we were naked newborns. A few clothes and a coin collection accompanied us to Canada.

For the first month our conversations drifted through unresolved things about our last home and about what we had talked out with our friends and relatives that day, but eventually each would turn to how we should be thinking about getting a plan.

It was not as though we had never arrived at transition points before. We are parents and grandparents, veterans of business successful and failed, cancer survivors, career leapers, home gypsies, intentional critics. The difference this time was that this transition was gentle and pleasant, and of our own volition.

In the lightness of suddenly possessing nothing, we were confronted with a great breadth of choices. Would we find another home (where would that be) … would we travel… would we increase our activities in our software and consulting businesses… would we retire… would we start something new… how about doing nothing?

So after a party with our dearest friends, we shoved off. Just as we had washed up on Eleuthera those years ago, we were once more adrift.

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