Yes, another trip to Pinery with just as much snow as before, which is none. Well, maybe not exactly none. There was some white dust mixed in with brown leaves along the trails and sand on the beach. But not nearly enough for traditional winter pursuits. Not that it mattered, though. We were looking for an escape from the growing avalanche of quite often depressing news and a trip into the woods away from Facebook feeds and news reports, with or without snow, was all we needed. So when I stumbled across a last minute yurt cancellation at Pinery, I didn’t think twice and booked it.
I love snow. I love it when it falls softly, inaudibly, in large cottony blobs and blankets the whole world. I love how the world slows down almost to a halt, spellbound, as if trapped in a giant snow globe. I love how it muffles all sounds, softens sharp edges and turns even the ugliest urban landscapes into works of art. I love how the snow cover sparkles and squeaks under my feet on a crisp sunny day. I love to walk through a fresh layer of snow, testing its depth, drowning in its soft whiteness.
When I was growing up in the Soviet Union, New Year’s celebration was a big deal. Christmas, like all religious holidays, was if not prohibited then strongly discouraged and was only celebrated quietly, behind closed doors. That put all the spotlight on New Year’s. Christmas tree was known as New Year tree, presents were delivered by Father Frost on New Year’s night, and all big gatherings were on December 31st. Most of the day was spent cooking and preparing for a big feast, which usually featured way more food than anyone could consume, mainly because all the feasts of my childhood were like that, but also because of the belief that New Year’s celebration set the tone for the whole year so lots of food on that night meant abundance throughout the year. Sometime before midnight, we would sit down to a table laden with food waiting for the big Kremlin clock to announce the arrival of a new year, nurturing that deepest wish which had to be whispered at the exact moment the clock struck 12. What followed was a night of eating, drinking and TV watching. Staying up all night was like a badge of honour, and on our first day back to school we would brag about who managed to “survive” the longest.
When we moved to Canada, we kept those traditions going for a few years but without all the hoopla around it got old pretty fast. So we decided to create our own traditions, and headed into the woods, of course. Continue reading
It’s hard to believe 2016 is drawing to a close. And it was quite a year when it comes to outdoor adventures, both close and far. With a three-week road trip all the way to Los Angeles, lots of camping with family and friends, my first solo trip and endless microadventures, it is next to impossible to narrow down ten best. But I’ll still try.
Our latest microadventures had three things in common: snow, Bruce Trail and lime (as in construction material, not fruit). Why lime? Well, with easily accessible deposits of limestone in the Niagara Escarpment, the Halton Hills area not far from Toronto became a hotspot of industrial development in the 1800s. At the beginning of the century, the land was surrendered by the Mississaugas Nation (now known as the Mississaugas of the New Credit), and the lime production boom began. It was the remnants of the lime industry that we got to explore during our trip to Limehouse Conservation Area and Hoffmann Lime Kiln Ruins near Devil’s Pulpit.
The end of November and beginning of December is a festive time in our family complete with two birthdays and a wedding anniversary. This year we decided to celebrate the way we enjoy most – by going camping, or should I say glamping.
As someone very accurately pointed out in their comment to one of my previous posts, November is not the prettiest of months. Devoid of colour, without any kind of cover, be it foliage or snow, November landscapes stand with all their sharp edges and irregularities exposed, looking vulnerable and lackluster. While this year we’ve been extremely lucky (the planet not so much) with warm weather and fall colours lasting longer than usual, November inevitably arrived undressing the trees and injecting notes of melancholy into the air. Determined not to give in to its mournful call, we set out in search of beauty.
People sometimes ask me how we choose locations for our microadventures. Well, there are a number of considerations: closeness to Toronto, whether we’ve been to the place before (although we do like to go back to the same places, especially in different seasons), the number and length of hiking trails, etc. The decisive factor, however, is the number of geocaches hidden around.
There is a mural along Lawrence Avenue in Toronto that I pass on my way home. It depicts human impact on the planet culminating in apocalyptic vision of the future.
Gone Camping 