The End of the Trail: Seaside, Oregon

I had thought to go to Portland, Oregon. It had been named one of the top destinations to visit in the US for a number of years, but when I looked at its must see attractions, I hesitated. There were the highly rated Japanese Gardens, but I had just seen Japanese gardens at the Devonian Gardens in Edmonton. Portland also boasted Chinese Gardens, but, well, I had been to China. It had great hiking trails, but I had hiked in Jasper and Lake Louise a few days prior. Good food proclaimed Trip Advisor, but I was coming from Vancouver. My son said it was all about Hipsters, which held little appeal and even less so when I suffered through the first episode of Portlandia. When Rose, a new found friend, said the shopping was great in Portland, that sealed it. I was not going near there.

But I still wanted to drive down the Pacific Coast, so I headed to Seaside, Oregon down the Pacific Coast Highway, US101. It was a fabulous drive, except for the occasional logging truck bullying its way onto the highway, confident that all the cars would slow down to avoid hitting them. US101 is a gentle winding road,  covered in canopies of massive trees,  hills rich in forests and, on the right side (going south), the Pacific Ocean. Mile long bridges cross the Columbia River and quaint towns with white clapboard shacks announcing sales of freshly caught Chinook salmon dot the highway.

After entering Oregon near Astoria and making the now welcome stop at a Walmart for a rotisserie chicken and wine, I meandered 15 miles south to the town of Seaside. Its primary claim to fame is that it was the last stop on the 4,000 mile trek across the US in 1805 by Lewis & Clark. A statue proudly standing at the edge of the town commemorates this achievement.


Today, Seaside is a pretty beach town, acting as a magnet for families spending a few days on the coast. The expansive beach is sandy with tall grass marking its boundaries. Kids make sand castles and fly kites and seniors walk barefoot in the surf, dipping their toes in the waves. Swimmers were scarce today;  the water was cold and the weather cool.


The town itself, all 8 blocks of it, is a throwback to those idealized 1950’s resorts with Art Deco buildings housing an arcade called Funland and a bumper car track. Stores sell salt water taffy (150 varieties) and homemade fudge and ice cream cones. Restaurants are named  the Crabby Oyster and Finn’s Fish House and Sam’s Seaside Café.


Along the mile and ½ promenade, toddlers ride their training bikes, little boys skateboard, moms push strollers. No one wears suits or talks into their cell phones or totters in high heels. People said “hi” just because and smile a lot. Everyone is relaxing by the beach in a perfect little beach town. With apologies to Portland, I am glad I came here instead.

O Canada: Two Scenic Drives

Despite living in Edmonton for 7 years, I had never visited Jasper National Park or driven the Icefields Parkway between Jasper and Banff. It is rated as the most scenic drives in Canada (according to My last memory of driving through the Rockies was an 8 year old, being bundled into a car with my brother and sister, a cousin, a babysitter and our two dogs while my mother drove us to Kelowna for a month long holiday. It was time to remedy these omissions in my travels.

Jasper National Park: First stop in Jasper was at the tourist information center , inquiring about the bear temperament that day (use normal precautions) and Lake Louise (parking lot was already full).  I drove to the first suggested hike at Athabasca Falls. If I was doing an assignment for a creative writing course, I would wax poetic about the blue grey river, the powerful swirls of water hitting rocks, etc., but I am not. It was pretty. The mist acted as a natural air conditioner, much appreciated on this 30+ degree day. I took a pleasant walk down the Athabasca river, observing the falls from different angles. A large placard reminded us not to go over the fence. If so, it warned, hypothermia (these were glacial waters) would happen in seconds and one would be pulled quickly to the falls where death would happen instantly. A few feet away was a memorial to “Justin”, where a wreath of flowers, a smurf doll and other items lay,  but his relationship to the falls was not apparent.


The next hike was at the Sunwapta Falls. They, too, were pretty and provided a cooling mist.


From there, I drove the Icefields Parkway. It was two hours of spectacular scenery-mountains, glaciers, trees, a herd of goats, but no bears or moose or elk. I stopped to climb the Athabasca Glacier, described as “a unique Canadian experience” on the welcoming sign. After a slightly strenuous 10 minute climb, I arrived at the toe of the glacier. There were lots of small rocks, dirt, some pieces of ice and snow. Call me cynical, but I had seen much the same in Antarctica and that isn’t in Canada. I left and continued on the Parkway to the entryway to Lake Louise.


Lake Louise: A sign on the highway echoed the warning that the parking lot was full, but it was 6:00PM, so I decided to see for myself. At the entrance to the parking lot, a traffic attendant (something the US parks would be well to adopt) ushered me to the second parking lot where there was a spot. Congratulating myself on my luck, I parked and walked toward the lake..….

Where I was met with hordes of tourists, all crowding around the boardwalk posing for pictures, eating ice-cream and swimming in the lake.


The throng of tourists was disappointing (although what was I expecting with everyone telling me the parking lot was full), but Lake Louise has 2 redeeming qualities. First, it is really, really, really pretty. The water sparkles a turquoise blue green, it is surrounded by verdant cedar trees and the Chateau Lake Louise set against the backdrop of the Rockies is majestic.

Second, there is a packed dirt path that winds along one side of the lake. It is only 2 kilometres long (both the path and the lake). I started along the path away from the immediate vicinity of the Chateau Lake Louise.  Soon the sound of the wind, the cool breeze from the lake, the rays of sunshine shimmering bright reflections removed all thoughts of the crowds. It was a worthy highlight of a lovely day.


Scenic Drive Number 2:

I had been cautioned that the drive along the southern TransCanada Highway from Calgary to Vancouver would be frustrating, being single lane a lot of the way with plenty of truck traffic. It was, and there was endless construction, two separate traffic jams caused by herds of goats and obsolete odes to Stephen Harper’s “Economic Action Plan” teasingly promising to turn the 2 lane highway into 4. There was little evidence of that; only the rare passing lanes gave respite to the thousands of trucks laboring to ascend the mountains.

The state of the roadway aside, it lived up to its reputation as one of the most scenic drives in Canada (again by and my waiter at the Canmore hotel where I stayed). My words cannot do it justice; I will try with the picture I took shortly after Salmon Arms where I stopped to picnic (more rotisserie chicken from Walmart).


The parks and drives were fantastic. Every Canadian should do them at least once in their lifetime.

How (not) to travel: The Reverse Bucket List

Lately, I have been visiting friends and family in Saskatoon and Edmonton and doing very little sightseeing or much else of interest. Since Saskatoon’s newest art gallery was recently the subject of a complimentary New York Times article and Edmonton’s West Edmonton Mall is just another oversized shopping center, I will resist discussing either. Rather,  I will share one of my most important guides on how and where I travel: my reverse bucket list.

Like most people I have a travel bucket list. It is simple, but extensive. I want to go everywhere I haven’t been and return to every place I have already visited. Which makes choosing where to go next a challenge. For many years now, my first step in picking a destination is not deciding what I want to see, but rather to consult my reverse bucket list to figure out what and where I don’t want to go.

I started it about 15 years ago and have added, but never subtracted, from it. The concept is straightforward. List all the things I will not regret never having done as I lie on my deathbed (hopefully decades away). It is short, but here it is:

  1. Eat no living food. Do not get me wrong. I am not a vegan and can be quite adventurous in trying different foods, especially animal products. Rattlesnake, kangaroo, ostrich, crocodile, fried caterpillars, grasshoppers, frogs and probably a lot of animals I cannot name have all graced my lips. But they all have one thing in common. They are dead before they hit my mouth. That’s where I draw the line. I am a happy meat eater so long as someone else does the killing.
  2. Do not fly on Russian built airplanes. They crash a lot. Enough said.
  3. Avoid going to the top of tall buildings or any other high structure. I have vertigo and looking down from the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building is a guaranteed way for me to get dizzy.
  4. No overnight accommodation without an attached bathroom. Simply stated, I do not like roughing it. However ignoble or princess-like this characteristic, I accept and travel accordingly. Thus, through hiking the Appalachian Trail (5-7 months of camping without facilities) or wilderness treks in the Borneo rainforest are not adventures I will try until there are nightly options with en suite bathrooms.
  5. No bungee jumping. Some people may relish the thrill of paying a lot of money to leap off a high perch and, if all goes well, swing upside down on a long rope. I am not one of them. I feel the same way about most roller coasters, zip lines and  other endeavors that go from high to low at breakneck speed without an airplane encapsulating me.
  6. Mountains are for viewing, not climbing.  I like mountains and am quite happy to look at them from the ground, or, like Mount Everest, from a plane. But climbing them gives me a combination of potential vertigo and too much vigorous physical exercise. I come by this dislike with practice, having climbed halfway up Mount Sinai in Egypt, halfway up Bird’s Nest Mountain in Bhutan and halfway up Uluru in Australia. Every time, midway up, something inside me says I am not having fun and I quit. Recognizing this tendency, hiking Mount Kilamanjaroo or even Mount Fuji, are not heights I aspire to.
  7. No changing tires. If I was driving along a deserted highway and blew a tire, I would try a lot of things: call the Automobile Association, hitchhike to the nearest service station, or pull out my fold-up chair and sit and wait for help. But the one thing I would absolutely never, in a million years, contemplate is to change the tire myself. I have many skills – I can make a tasty risotto, navigate through major cities with GPS or maps and calculate my taxes manually. But changing tires is something I have never tried to learn and have no desire to do so. Thus, off-road jaunts or extended drives through sparely populated areas will not figure into my travel plans unless I have a companion who can change tires.
  8. Avoid war zones. The potential to be shot at or kidnapped is not a lifelong goal, so, sadly, countries like Syria and the Congo are on my no go list.
  9. Stay away from Rat Temples. I love animals and have happily gone alligator hunting on the Amazon and tracked rhinos in Namibia. But I put my foot down at seeing rats. After a long drive to Bikaner, in Rajasthan, India, our driver and tour guide tried to usher us into the car for another  drive to the Karni Mata Temple. We were tired, road weary and all the temples were starting to look the same. “No”, insisted the driver, “this one is very different. It is the rat temple, home to 25,000 rats.” Rats are not particularly bothersome to me, unless they are in my hotel room. I frequently see them by the sewers and think they are kind of cute. But to go out of my way to spend three hours looking at rats is not something I am inclined to do. So I didn’t and have not spent a moment of regret about missing the rat temple.

If I stick to this list, I will be very gruntled. Does anyone else have a reverse travel bucket list?

Dallying in the Dakotas

Mount Rushmore, South Dakota

If I have learned anything from my Yellowstone National Park foray, it is get to the park as early as possible. So it was that I found myself at Mount Rushmore at 6:00AM. No need to play parking lot bingo and another bonus, parking is free before 7:00AM.

I parked and made my way to the monument, along with the other 12 people early enough to beat the crowds. Since Mount Rushmore is a giant mountain with the heads of four presidents (Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln, Teddy Roosevelt) carved on it, it is very hard to miss. It stares straight at you from the parking lot.

I walked past the columns identifying when each state entered the Union and passed the (closed) restaurant that featured ice cream made with the same recipe used by Thomas Jefferson. Mount Rushmore looked the same, just a little closer.

I looked at it some more. No stirring renditions of the Star-Spangled Banner blared from loudspeakers, no boy scouts recited the Pledge of Allegiance. Not even a costumed Uncle Sam offering photos for $5.00 a shot. I looked around for a booth where someone would take my picture as the 5th head on the mountain, but if there was one, it was closed.

After 5 minutes, I asked a lady to take my picture. She did. I took hers. Then I left.


North Dakota

The drive from Mount Rushmore to Saskatoon, Canada takes 11 to 12 hours and goes the length of North Dakota. It is mostly a single lane highway, basically flat, straight and completely lacking in anything I find remotely interesting.


For those of you (like me) that seek to make border entries as quick and painless as possible, the border crossing at Fortuna, North Dakota/Oungre, Saskatchewan doesn’t have a Nexus line. Good thing there was only one other vehicle there.

All things West: Cody, Wyoming

Since leaving Salt Lake City for Yellowstone National Park, everything became more “West”; there were ranches and signs warning “watch out for horseback riders,” stores ceased and instead trading posts and emporiums lined the small town main streets.

So, too, in Cody, Wyoming, chosen by me for an overnight stop because of its hour proximity to Yellowstone. As I entered the town (population 9,836), I passed its grandstand where the Cody rodeo was in full swing. Two fellows on horseback wearing cowboy hats sauntered towards the rodeo and a covered wagon being pulled by two horses appeared. A few blocks further, the Buffalo Bill Center of the West museum appeared, sporting a large statue of Buffalo Bill along with 3 tipis. Hmmm….. I thought, Buffalo Bill, Bill Cody, Cody, Wyoming….was there a connection?


Or course there was, as I learned surfing the internet. William Cody, aka the showman Buffalo Bill Cody and star of the Buffalo Bill Wild West show, was also the founder of the town. Hence, its name, Cody, Wyoming.

So, when in Rome…..I made my way to the Buffalo Bill Center of the West, advertised as 5 museums in 1, to learn all things Buffalo Bill and the West.

The Buffalo Bill Museum traces the life and accomplishments of Buffalo Bill (except his stint living in Mississauga as a youth). He was a scout, although whether this was for the Pony Express, is debated, fervently anti-slave and served for the Union army during the civil war. Post war, he hunted buffalo to provide meat for the railroad workers, fought in the Indian Wars and became friends with another Western icon, Wild Bill Hickok.


In the 1870’s, he was bit by the acting bug and over the years, developed and starred in the show that would become synonymous with him, Buffalo Bill’s Wild West. A combination of PT Barnum meets the Wild West, it was the predecessor to today’s rodeos and featured glorified visions of the Wild West to Easterners and Europeans anxious for a romanticized glimpse into the settling of the West. Extraordinary feats of horsemanship were performed alongside the marksmanship (markswomanship?) of ladies such as Calamity Jane and Annie Oakley.

Numerous Indians and their families traveled with the show, performing in mock battles of the Indian Wars, which they always seemed to lose. Mention was made in the museum of Custer and his defeat at Little Big Horn, but the focus was oddly on his widow’s attempts to keep his memory alive. The highlight of the Buffalo Bill Wild West show was the reenactment of the robbery of the Deadwood Stagecoach using the real Deadwood Stagecoach. The audiences always cheered loudly when the attackers were repelled and the stagecoach carried on its way.

Video footage of the show was available throughout the museum, alongside locations of its performances (Europe, Chicago) and some of its famous viewers (the Pope, Queen Victoria).

He also founded Cody, an old trail town, in 1895 where he dabbled in mining, architecture (the Irma hotel in downtown Cody is named after his daughter) and irrigation (the nearby dam is the Buffalo Bill dam). The Irma hotel still stands:


I toured, quickly, the Natural History Museum, mostly a shrine to the art of taxidermy. The Plains Indian museum was next, where the traditional Plains Indians’ lifestyle was portrayed, followed by a muted description of the European settlers’ arrival and the upheaval caused by them and finally, a look at the current revival of Indian customs and teachings. I passed on the Cody Firearms Museum and the Western Art Museum and decided to go for breakfast at the grill at the Irma hotel.


The décor was stereotypical West with a giant wooden bar backed by a long mirror, thick red carpet and more taxidermy. IMG_0432(1)

The offerings were decidedly unWesternlike: a breakfast buffet and the diners were, like me, tourists. I ate and set off for my next destination.

Following the Faithful: Yellowstone National Park


Visiting Yellowstone National Park should never be done when it is cold, raining or crowded. It was all of the foregoing the afternoon I arrived. The ranger’s qarning it could take up to 25 minutes to get between sites was hopelessly optimistic. It took me nearly an hour and 45 minutes to arrive at my first destination, inching along the main highway in bumper to bumper traffic. Running parallel to the highway was the Madison River, offering iconic views of a Montana wilderness scene. The only thing missing was the fisherman standing waist high in the water (they came later):


Fountain Paint Pot

Steam billowed in the foreground, announcing the beginning of the thermal or volcanic area of Yellowstone. I began the game of parking lot bingo, finally grabbing a spot in the lot near Fountain Paint Pot, an area with each of  four thermal features (hot springs, fumeroles (steam vents), mud pots and geysers). A boardwalk circling the features shouted out this warning:


Notwithstanding, I saw 3 people dip their fingers into the water, then quickly pull them out, exclaiming “it’s hot!” Perhaps I am being presumptuous, but did they not think that boiling water would be hot?

People aside, the Fountain Pain Pot sent my senses into overload. The stench of sulfur, the hissing of the vents and the bubbling caldron of mud baths and the magnificent streams of water shooting forth from the geysers made the area a joy to behold. The colours of the mini–lakes, shades of turquoise and terracotta swirls from the algae greeted my eyes.

Grand Prismatic Spring

The Grand Prismatic Spring is the largest hot spring in the US. Viewed on a hot, sunny day, it offers a vivid rainbow of colours – blues, greens, yellows and oranges. Unfortunately, it was cold and rainy, making the spring less grand and not at all prismatic. The cold weather creates a roof of steam, covering the spring and obscuring the rainbow effect.



Old Faithful

Another slow car ride and a frustrating 30 minute search in the parking lots ensued before I finally emerged victorious with a parking spot. I thought about giving up; after all, I had seen plenty of geysers before and what was so special about seeing another geyser spout water. But it was tantalizing close and I couldn’t bear the thought of hearing “you mean you didn’t see Old Faithful?”

I walked onto the Boardwalk. Helpful signs provided the time of the next eruption: 5:18 PM +/- 10 minutes. An hour and a half later. Displays in the Visitor’s Center explains that Old Faithful is one of 5 geysers in the park for which eruptions can be reliably predicted. It all depends on the prior eruption and how much water was expelled. The more water that is shot out, the longer it takes to replenish the spring and obtain the necessary pressure to gush forward again and vice versa. But in general, Old Faithful erupts about every hour and a half.

I took my seat at one of dozens of benches encircling Old Faithful. By 5PM, hundreds of other tourists had joined me, all of us waiting for the 5:18 spray. By 5:15, the anticipation was growing, the excitement palpable and Old Faithful teased us with mini-spouts, only a few feet high, before the wisps of steam trailed away. 5:18 came and nothing happened. Then 5:19, 5:20 and another tease, but no blast. 5:22…would this be the time when Old Faithful wasn’t so faithful? Tremors, earthquakes deep below could all destroy the delicate forces of nature that make Old Faithful so predictable. 5:23 and more water bubbled forth, then quickly receded. 5:24 and the kids in front of me asked their mother if they could go. 5:25….and finally, swoosh and thar she blows-a gusher 120 to 150 feet in the sky, majestically tossing water high into the sky before cascading back to earth:


The show lasted nearly 5 minutes. Then I (and the other hundreds) left, feeling quite satisfied that I had persevered to see the spectacle and it did not disappoint.



Salt Lake City: All things Mormon Part II

I returned to Temple Square the following day, anxious to learn more about the LDS, and to walk through the gardens.




In the North Visitors’ Center, two films are shown on demand. The Testaments of One Fold and One Shepherd sounded a tad too religious for me, but Legacy, about the westward trek of the Mormons in the mid-19th century, appealed. I sat down in the private viewing room (8 chairs) and began watching the hour long docudrama.

Legacy focuses on Eliza, a young Mormon girl whose family joins Joseph Smith in his quest to find Zion, or the New Jerusalem. Attempts to establish Mormon settlements in Missouri, Ohio and Illinois were met with persecution from the locals, culminating in the murder of Joseph Smith by a mob in a jail in Carthage, Illinois in 1844. A fellow Mormon, Brigham Young, assumed leadership of the sect and led them to Salt Lake City.

Along the way, Eliza found love with Peter, a convert from Britian  with a decidedly American accent, two miracles were performed (Joseph Smith curing Eliza of malaria and Eliza saving a dying cow), there was a dance and two songs, but more hymnlike than Bollywoodesque. In the end, Eliza remained true to her faith, had children and lived happily ever after.

Family History Library:

Feeling uplifted by the positive messages in Legacy, I proceeded to the Family History Library. It is a 5 story building housing the largest Genealogical collection in the world and is open to the public.

The Mormons have long been champions of genealogical research, all the better to find out which ancestors might be in need of post-mortem proxy baptisms. This interest in maintaining information about one’s ancestors also fueled the scrapbooking craze which began in Utah. But I digress.

After indicating I would like to research my family history, I was introduced to Sister W., a widow from Denver doing a mission in Salt Lake City for a year. She sat down with me at one of the many computer consoles and we prepared my family tree, first on paper and then on the computer after showing me how to open an account on Family Search, the Mormon website. We located my maternal grandmother’s information going back  6 generations (which I had already known), but hit a wall trying to find out when my paternal grandfather emigrated to Canada from Poland.

After an hour of helping me search, Sister W. took me the Canada/US floor where I was introduced to her cousin, Brother R. He, too, could not locate the immigration record, but established my grandfather’s passing date by bringing up a photograph of his headstone in Winnipeg. Ironically, I had been there just the week before. I admit it was disconcerting to realize that people go around photographing headstones (the photographer’s name and date are listed) for uploading to genealogical sites. But Brother R. was not able to find out any more.

Thus, he took me down to the International Floor, where Sister L. specialized in Polish research. But she was not able to assist too much since, as she explained, all the Polish records between about 1850 and 1930 were in Russian. We did look through some Russian marriage records, but in vain. Sister L suggested I find a Russian speaking friend to assist me.

I spent over 3 hours in the Library, being helped by lovely people trying to discover more about my ancestors. The advantage of doing the search at the Family History Library is the free access to numerous other genealogical websites. I now have my on-line account,  but will have to pay to search other sites. And, just a note, I don’t think God or Joseph Smith was mentioned once during my time at the Family History Library.

The Beehive House:

Not so at my next stop. The Beehive House is where Brigham Young lived after settling in Salt Lake City. It is a large two story house with a library, dining room, parlor, bedrooms and bathroom.


The tour was led by Sister S. from Mississauga, Canada and Sister P. from Brazil. Joining me was a Mormon mother and her 5 year old twins. Sister S. pointed to a picture of Joseph Smith and asked if we had heard of him. The girl twin (they were fraternal; the other was a boy) piped up that she knew him from church and he was her uncle. Mormon mom explained he was an uncle, 7 or 8 generations removed.

We moved through the house with the Sisters identifying some of the significant items. There were wood carvings of Beehives (hence the name Beehive House) because beehives and bees symbolize everyone working together. I asked whether I could visit the Temple. “No,” said Sister W, “Only those who are spiritually prepared may enter the temple.” How she knew I was not spiritually prepared was not proffered.

I commented that the house was quite luxurious for a carpenter, Brigham Young’s profession.  Mormon mom volunteered he was also governor of Utah and therefore in receipt of a salary. I asked, out of earshot of the 5 year old twins, whether Messieurs Smith and Young had more than 1 wife. “Yes,” Sister P., admitted. “How many?” I queried. “56 for Brigham, but most didn’t live in the Beehive House.” The twins rejoined us and the conversation ended.

As did the tour, with another offer of a free Book of Mormon.

The End of Temple Square

 I left the Temple Square and searched in vain for a nearby Starbucks or bar. I did find the Deseret bookstore, devoted to Mormon books , where I was warmly welcomed by a cheery cashier. Deseret (Brigham Young’s obscure phonetic language) was stocked with such tantalizing titles as More than the Tattooed Mormon and No Apology, Mitt Romney’s autobiography. I didn’t buy anything.

However, I had achieved my goal of learning about the LDS, its philosophy and its struggles without succumbing to the subtle but omnipresent (except in the Family History Library) proselytizing. But after two days of this curious mixture of religious Disneyland and Stepford Wives’ smiles and sweetness, I had had enough. I retreated to the suburbs for Mexican fajitas and a Margherita.