The Wilds of Canada, from British Columbia to Nova Scotia via New Brunswick.

When I was eight years old my family drove north from California and entered the wilds of Canada. British Columbia came first, and I was amazed at the lush beauty of the country. So much greenery, bright blue lakes, and tall, elegant pines. The wooden totem poles with their carved, scary faces, and the fact I had to wear a sweater in August. 

We took a huge ferry over to Vancouver Island and visited a botanical garden. A mock-up of Ann Hathaway’s thatched-roof cottage was there. My mother said she was Shakespeare’s wife. I don’t remember if I knew who he was at the time, but I vowed to see the original cottage in England when I grew up—and I have.

We dallied so long on the island, that we missed the ferry and had to stay the night. My father wasn’t happy because the inn was expensive, but my brother and I thought it a great adventure. The hotel we stayed in resembled an old English castle, with dark paneled walls and suits of armor lining the front hall.

Back on shore we traveled through Alberta and Saskatchewan, visited Banff and the magnificent Banff hotel. Even at the age of eight, that place impressed me. But British Columbia will forever have a place in my heart.

My next foray into Canada was many years later when I attended a writers’ workshop in Liverpool, Nova Scotia. We visited a nearby lighthouse where we climbed up into the wooden dome and watched a recording of a man who’d grown up in the lighthouse.

My husband and I drove around the island and looked at other lighthouses, one a bright red, watching out on a windy, pristine shore. We saw an ancient rampart in Halifax.

We visited pretty wooden villages, ate lunch at Indian Falls in Lunenburg and had the best haddock ever. To get to Nova Scotia, we drove the entire length of New Brunswick. The main road cuts a swath through towering pines, a wilderness I wish we’d had more time to explore, but we were late for the workshop.

This coming May I plan a trip to Saint John, New Brunswick where I’ll delve into its history in depth, watch the famous tides that can drop forty feet in the Bay of Fundy, and stand on the knoll of Fort Howe—unfortunately this fortress no longer exists—where some of my upcoming story on the settlement of New Brunswick takes place.

Coming in February 2018

 

 

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Diane Scott Lewis

The Beauty of Canada by Victoria Chatham

 As a child living in England, Canada to me was that big country across the North Atlantic. My earliest recollections of references to it were of the Rocky Mountains and canoeing on crystal-clear lakes. Later, I learned about the Calgary Stampede, never imagining that I would eventually make Calgary my home.

On my first trip to Canada, the flight followed the northern route over the north pole and, as we flew across Hudson Bay, my very first impression was of the abundance of water. The surface of the Bay shimmered in the morning sunlight, but it was the lakes, rivers, creeks and tributaries which sparkled in diamond-bright links through the land that made me catch my breath in wonder.

From the air, Saskatchewan looked like a patchwork quilt, and the passenger beside me explained that each patch was a section of six hundred and forty acres, give or take. I was pretty good at mental arithmetic, but I

quickly gave up trying to calculate the total number of acres beneath me. I've always liked a window seat so I can see whatever there is to see, but I had no idea that the chain of the Rocky Mountains, many of their peaks still capped with snow even though it was July, would be in full view all the way into Calgary. Since that first trip, I've traveled to many places in Alberta and British Columbia but no further east than Moose Jaw, in Saskatchewan.

That might not sound very exciting, but I loved Moose Jaw for its history. Murals depicting that history decorate the sides of buildings and then there are the stories of the tunnels which were first dug by Chinese immigrants and later became notorious for their connection with prohibition and bootlegging.

I've wandered through farmer's markets in many small towns, appreciating the produce and people, sampling artisan bread and cheese, organic wine, and home cured meats. I've had chocolate tea and wood smoked coffee and only in a market would you hear snippets of conversation about a bear chasing alpacas around the yard or geese stripping the lower branches of hazelnut trees.

Wherever I go, I see new vistas and have new experiences, each one building a new memory for me. It might be a memory of one of those iconic crystal-clear lakes or majestic mountains. It might be the gentle rise and fall of the foothills or the patterns of breeze-blown prairie grass. It can be river courses and deep, scarred canyons cradling dinosaur remains. It can be fantastic cloud formations carrying a rainstorm or winter frost and always above it that big, big sky.

I’ve hiked trails in ancient forests, rode horseback across mountain meadows and heard stories of the land from First Nations people. I've seen killer whales in the Juan de Fuca Straits, buffalo in southern Alberta and finally, after twenty-six years and where I'd least expected to see them, moose.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder but Canada's beauty can be found wherever you choose to look.

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