Steinbeck's Ghost - Scary!

December 2


In a craggy valley in the Sierra de la Giganta, much like this one, the trackers killed Coyotito, shot his poor one year old head off.

Bill on Rocky n' Brew started it all - giving me Steinbeck's "The Pearl"to reread. I got all metaphysical when I realized that it was about La Paz and Loreto, the connecting marvellous sea coast and the spinal montana range backing it. I had to go see what Steinbeck and Ricketts saw and felt in 1940. While doing that I might hike, bird, commune with nature. That was my fantasy.


One serene morning, long before dawn, I departed Le Paz to follow the flight of Kino, Jauna, Coyotito and the spoor of those evil tracker-hunters that wanted to kill them and steal the 'Pearl of the World'. Just before taking to the mountains I stopped at Puerto Escondido to scope the anchorage. Pure and blissful.


Then it was off on my quiet pilgrimage into the mountains. Twisting and winding up the one lane path was a bumpy, dirty undertaking but scenic and quiet, at least for a while. Before long traffic mounted, far beyond what one might expect on such a road in such a place. Unbeknowst to me another pilgrimage was under way. The once a year festival at the Mission of San Javier high on the divide.



Traffic climbed, slowed, then jamned, finally turning to a 'Mexican stand-off' high in the mountains. Policia funneled the traffic, including me, into the parking lot which, as it turns out, was an intermitant river that runs under the Mission. There they deposited me while the parade passed and the river flowed.




There was no going back against the flood of happy humanity so once the parade passed I descended the range on the western slope, the Pacific side, fording streams about 50 times while avoiding Godzilla spiders.


Steinbeck abandoned me long before. My holy quest entirely failed on this one day of the year when people were in the mountains. I toddled back to La Paz in the middle of the night. Content for it all.

Set a bit of sail!

November 24th


Waiting for stuff! And it doesn't come. Finding La Paz entirely too 'sticky' in the nice sense of the word? What to do? Go for a less ambitious sail!




While my mind wanders a friendly dolphin escorts Anya through the shallows and out into the Bay.



Once underway my mission will be to: conduct a sea trial, dive and scub the barnacles off the bottom, sail, all the while looking for the several humpback whales and whale sharks reported in the Bahai de la Paz.



When no sharks or whales present themselves I drop anchor near Playa Balandra. Such a pretty beach. That is another Canadian boat at anchor over by mushroom rock. I did the bottom and snorkled about in four fathoms for a bit.


The good life! And this is a great place. Off in the distance lies Espiritu Santo, an old friend from last year.



Closer by paddles my more recent friend, a brown Pelican.

Sergio!

November 16



On my left is the 5 day bubble for Sergio, now a level 2 Hurricane, now headed in Anya's general direction. Reportedly this is a month after Hurricane season finishes here so the weather soothsayers- dudes are surprised. I am not leaving La Paz safe harbour until Sergio makes his move. So it looks like another week of lassitude, then off to San Carlos and the future.

Sloth and Heathen Folly!

November 13 th - La Paz


Anya has been afloat now 10 days and nights. She is happy. While happy myself, I have suffered a bad back from packing a 100 lb battery around and then throwing its 100 lb replacement away. And a tinsy tropical cold hangs on. But for these modest whines, life is wonderful and I am embracing indolence with my natural flair.




Already I can tell that La Paz will be 'sticky', a hard place to detach from. So each day I plan my escape to secluded anchorages higher up in the Sea, each night I put it off to another day.



I have made several day trips in this last bit, one to Todo Santos where I actually strolled about Hotel California, famously subject of the song. Another day I went to Los Barriles, home of winter wind surfing. Each time I stopped to pick my way into the mysterious and rich desert, to see the flowers, the birds and these exotic plants.



Each step along the way it seems the vultures keep watching, perhaps waiting for me to run out of water, to lurch and stumble, ultimately to provide them a meal.




Othertimes along the way, the cows or the goats show up to inquire about my passage.





And a snake stopped by for a little visit once, a serpent I wanted to name Harper , honouring Canada's Prime Minister, the man who has single-handedly pruned my children's future well-being with his precipitous tax law changes. Then I remembered. I like and respect snakes.

Ravages of Hurricane John

November 1

Some did not do as well but Anya suffered little. In preparing for the Hurricane I neglected to take down the Canadian flag. As well I thought it might be rude to take down the Mexican courtesy flag.

Here are the remains. Canada on the left, Mexico on the right. These tattered remnants are even worse than the flag that got decimated in that nasty storm off-coast of Oregon on my way down last year.

Take me to the Sea of Cortez

How weird? After dining with Jeff, Sue and their sweet friend, Anne, at wonderful Wilcuma lodge on Wednesday night, who do I find on the ferry to Port Angeles Monday afternoon (Oct 23rd), the day I started Mexicoward? Jeff and his delightful father Paul! While crossing, a pod of humpback whales passed, then a nuclear submarine. Except for the submarine I took all these as good omens.




By next day noon Mt Shasta welcomes me to California and the run into San Francisco. A couple of days with sister Carolyn, and a wonderful dinner party with a Morrocan theme, eased the driving blues.


Then I drive off into the Sausalito sunrise, well, almost, then over the Golden Gate and on to LA.




By nightfall I have had it with California driving. Bleery-eyed, nearly hypnotized by piercing beams of light, somewhat delirious from the jostle and perhaps drugged by fumes and life in the fastlane, I yearn for Mexico. LA is a great big freeway! And that sucks!




Next day I do my San Diego shopping, cross the border and loll along slowly to familiar old Ensenada where I overnight. Then it is south, crossing the great Baja Desert, a marvel of nature and geology, mostly vulcanism, on to Scammon's Lagoon. Alas the Gray whales do not return until December.


Next morning I continue through pristine desert dodging burros. But things, things they are a changin'. Greening!




Baja has hundreds of species of xeroscopic plants and when the rains come they react instantly, with green vehemence. They must flower and go to seed before relentless dessication resumes control once more. Insects must find mates and reproduce, and quickly reproduce again, multiplying their seed, as it were. So brilliant butterflies are everywhere. This is all a consequence of the three hurricanes that harassed the Sea of Cortez and sweet Anya earlier on. So cactus, chaparral, yucca, mesquite and all their kinds erupt into lushness. And the aroma!




Finally down off the plateau and mountain passes to the sea, to La Paz and to Anya.

John, Paul and I hope like hell No Peter!

Victoria, Monday morning, October 23rd

I am doing clean up before heading south, later today, to Baja and sweet Anya so this morning my good friend Denton calls in an alert. Seems that I have a late season hurricane to worry about. First it was John, then Lane and now Paul. Hope there is no Peter.


Anya is just below the "W" in Wed and it ain't looking pretty two days out. Hang on to your hats. It was precisely this time last year that I sailed down the Baja coast on the outside, thinking it was safe out there.

Tale of two cities

September 26th



Being a liberal but ever vigilant parent is contradictory I suppose. But necessary. Let them go but not too far from sight and never beyond reach of the wisdom of the papa.


So first I am off to Toronto to see Verity. Then Montreal to see Felicity. And while spooking around I might as well stop at a few graveyards and vigil the ancestors.

My flight arrives long after Verity's bedtime, so in the wee, dark hours I launch out north of Toronto to ancestral grounds, such splendid places as Coe Hill, Hastings Road and, of course, Ormsby.



With its present population a mere twenty souls, Ormsby was founded upon indomitable granite. Little wonder my grandparents headed west to places where dynamite was not the preferred soil-turning technology. In Coe Hill Cemetery I touch my great-Grandfather's headstone.


Back in Toronto Verity provides me the young urban sophisticate's turn. Dinner parties, then late night movies in VIP lounges with her friend from Sienna, Italy, Fabia, and early autumn rain showers at midnight.




Another day we are off to the Royal Ontario Museum where I dress the armed churl and Verity the chainmail warrior princess.



After four days of Toronto glamour I head off, by train, to Montreal. It is near full moon and while walking at the foot of Mont-Royal one sparkling evening I made a most disturbing discovery. There is no moon! It is merely an apparition projected upon the sky by some Montreal weirdo. The accompanying picture presents incontrovertible evidence.


Felicity and I dine in Vieux-Montreal on such delicacy as wild boar and then stroll the Latin Quarter. While she is in class I jog Mont-Royal and walk and do touristy things like go to the Cathedral. Montreal is a grand city.

Some days later I attend to the ancestors and drive just over the Ontario border to Vankleek Hill. It was there that my grandfather's grandfather lived. While I could only find graves of near kin, I felt that my ancestors might have had a hand in the founding of the Presbyterian church, in 1825, so I cop a picture of it.




Later I return to Calgary, then an autumn drive through the Rockies and down to Victoria and the sea. There I will clean up my affairs before heading to the Sea of Cortez.

Hurricane Lane?

September 14 - Hurricane John is just finished and who shows up on the southern horizon but (get this!) Hurricane Lane. Following the same path as John. So it will be hurricane watch again this weekend. And I was getting all happy and excited about heading south.

John

Phew! John turned into a breeze. Last report from La Paz was little boat damage. Others suffered some damage at Marina Palmira but not Anya. So Anya will sail again. And soon I hope, the turn of season here in Victoria makes me anxious.

So here is the situation at 2:pm MDT on Friday, John is slowly moving north and west. The nasty guy is fine tuning its aim for La Paz, home of Anya, so that she is now directly on its projected path. They think tomorrow morning it may be over La Paz while John is expected to make landfall tonight very close to Cabo San Lucas. Oh woe! If you look at the graphic, John is the menacing green and yellow swirling thingie and the sitting duck in the very upper left hand corner is La Paz. For once I wish I had a television.

Hurricane John

August 31st

For friends and fans of Anya, notice John's path. Notice also just below the "m" in the second 5 am. That is where wee Anya is. La Paz. She is on the hard so relatively safe. I am in Victoria presently so I am even safer. But this John fellow threatens to be the biggest hurricane experience on the west coast so Saturday morning will be a tense time.

Rome and the denouement

August 20 - exquisite Roman ruinations!


It is the exceptional morning that I leap from bed and say 'get thee to church'. This morning is one such morning. It is off to the Vatican. In the distance Michelangelo's dome rises over 100 meters above the buses and the tourist bustle.

We dive into the fray, first through the museums. Pio Clemente's museum holds the Lacoon, the ancient Greek sculpture which, along with the Apollo Belvedere, is said to have inspired Michelangelo's robust treatment of the male form (and decidedly more robust treatment of the female form).




The occasional portal allows a glimpse of the papal grounds. Very nice! swank!




We march down galleries so laden, no overburdened, with priceless art and religious artifact; our wee profane brains numb out from the grandeur. But then the genius that surrounds us shouts to us to pay attention, even from the gallery ceilings, and so we gape on.



Raphael commands attention with, among others, his iconic The School of Athens. Felicity now has a print of it hanging from her wall at McGill.



In the distance we see Michelangelo's Pieta. Its genius shines distinctly through the dimness and the distance.


We traverse the Sistine Chapel, eyes glued heavenward to those frescos first seen in childhood picture books: the Creation, the Fall, the Last Judgment and all of the other themes and representations commencing long before the time of Abraham.


Then we pass into St Peter's Basilica, shrinking to insignificance, along with all the others, under Michelangelo's supreme dome. Here I profane the holy place by taking a picture of my daughter. Humans! will they never get it right?


Later we explore the ruins of Rome's Republican and Imperial days, starting, where else?, at the Colesseum. From there one can wander to the seven hills of Rome but the one I head for is Capitoline Hill.





Climbing higher I pass under the Arch of Septimius Severius, one of only three arches surviving time's erosion and the frequent looting and destruction by invading tribes.




As I top the hill the neo-classical corners of the Vittorio Emanuele II Monument and Palazzo Venezia abruptly bring me back to ersatz and recent history. Perhaps a fitting enough place to end this walk in antiquity.





Several days later Felicity and I return to Toronto full of stories of our adventures and keen to share them with Verity. While we played in Italy Verity slaved away at her summer job inToronto. Doesn't seem fair. Oh well! We'll make it up another day.