August 20 - posted from Smithers, B.C.

Morning mountain view from our campground on the way to Houston, B.C.


At the Duncan Garage on Lynn's birthday


At the Whistlestop, Courtenay, B.C.


At the Whistlestop, Courtenay, B.C.



Seeking an endorsement from Myoflex, topical analgesic (for Lynn's carpal tunnel and my cellbow, i.e. tennis elbow caused by cello playing).


Through a glass darkly -- Happy Jack's, Houston, B.C.

August 20
Trans-Canada Highway, en route to Houston, B.C.

How can one not be awed and enjoy a sense of power when surrounded by these magnificent mountains? Two parallel rainbows graced a chunk of our drive yesterday. We camped last night next to the Thompson River. The pines seem to cling tenuously to the rugged, sandy range. Besides the highway, there are few signs of human activity save the odd farm or hillbilly shack. I had a brisk hike up a switchback path this morning and felt a certain pride in being a part of all this. Found a spot with an incredible vista and enjoyed a few quiet moments of just breathing and being. Appreciating this time out from my usual load of responsibilities. Steamed two farm-fresh cobs of corn in their husks over the fire last night. With only a sprinkling of salt, 'twas as satisfying to my palate as any gourmet concoction.





While I tend to keep to myself between sets at shows -- reading or writing -- I had two very interesting conversations at the Whistlestop Pub in Courtenay. The first was with Laurie, a woman from Toronto in her late forties who has been out of the Pen for just 3 weeks since having served 10 years. She'd killed the person who violated her 2-year-old daughter in a crack craze. (That daughter is now a lawyer!) She told me all about her life in prison including the surprising fact that they distil liquor from both banana and potato peels. Seems one can obtain almost anything in there if willing to offer sexual favours to the guards. But sometimes the sex isn't given but taken. Laurie was raped by a male guard and was forced give up the resulting child. Blind eyes cast away from the crime despite such irrefutable evidence.

Later I spoke with Jerry, a 40-year-old treaty negotiator for the local First Nation. We had an amazing conversation all about the history of colonialism and the ensuing plight of his people. He told me about his mother's experience in a residential school and how he was taken from her when she birthed him at the age of 16. He acknowledges that he was one of the lucky ones, having been brought up well by a loving white couple. And now he's dedicating his life to fighting to secure land rights and the culture of his people. While this was an emotional conversation, he did not seem bitter or self-pitying. I was happy to find I could feel comfortable asking him anything about his experience and expressing my own thoughts and feelings on the subject of aboriginal genocide.