On the Pursuit of Boats and Happiness

The theme of this week has centered around chasing large boats and as always, climbing the heights of mountains. I'll begin with my first yoga class in three months at the newly renovated studio, One Yoga for the People in Gastown. That day eight of us found each other unexpectedly reunited along with our teacher Ryan. We had all taken the same yoga teacher training the previous summer, and for the first time in almost a year were under the same roof again, but now at the foothills of the coastal mountains, near the bed of the sea, and far from the prairies where we had first become acquainted.

Playing one afternoon during our teacher training.

Our teacher Ryan giving a lesson outside, wearing his signature hat that reads 'Sat Nam'

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At the end of our class we stood around visiting in the newly finished studio. It was 8:15pm when Ryan mentioned that he was bound for Tsawwassen to give Dina a ride to the ferries.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Can I ride with you? I'm headed that way too, and it would save me a trip on the bus."

"Sure," they agreed, bustling around the studio, still chatting with the others and rummaging for their things.

"So... you're catching the nine o'clock ferry in Tsawwassen?" I asked, looking at the time. The drive would take at least forty minutes, with the cut-off for ticket sales in thirty-five, and we were still in downtown Vancouver.

"We need to go right now!" I said urgently. But is it any surprise that urgency is lost on yogis? Let's just say it took a while to round them up.

Britt sat next to me in the back while Dina sat in the passenger seat, yelling at Ryan to slow down as he weaved in and out of traffic at high speed, fidgeting with the music on his stereo and laughing good-naturedly on the phone with a friend.

"No! We have to hurry!" I implored Ryan, "or we'll never make it!"

"I would rather miss my ferry and live to see another day!" Dina insisted, not so calm now as she had been in the studio.

Ryan was tearing down Knight street, at one point screaming "FUCK YOU, GPS!" while ripping the automated voice out of its socket. It was dawning on everyone that we would likely miss the ferry, and for the first time I was experiencing a stressful situation among yogis, but I for one was loving it.

The rush was glorious and I relished the frenzy in the vehicle. Who cares about large boats and being on time?! We always had the option of throwing Dina into the sea and making her swim to the boat. Or we could have careened our vehicle right off the platform, flying through time and space to land on the stern and then all four of us could have gone to Victoria together! Say they had sailed away before we were able to propel Dina's body or Ryan's car at the ferry, we could have had such fun cursing them from the dock and shaking our fists in their direction, hurling insults at the ferry workers for not having loitered, protesting forever and ever the tardiness of just a few minutes until we got hauled off kicking and screaming, never allowed to return to BC Ferries again. Fuck the island! We'd be legends! Our story would immortalize us and be told to myriads of island-goers on how not to behave.

We felt alive, and almost died many times. Poor Dina sat white-faced holding onto the side of the door, Ryan was in his prime, brimming with excitement. Surely he must have been a taxi driver from India in a past life. Britt sat perched with a little smile on her face, quietly enjoying every minute of our wild race against the clock.

"This is our exit!" I shouted, "Right lane, right lane!!" and Ryan executed a California lane change perfectly.

We were on the last stretch approaching Tsawwassen with ten minutes to go. We were making miraculous time. Ryan was bouncing around in the driver's seat like a five year old, vibrating to the beat of the music, zig-zagging in his own lane just for the hell of it, and maybe to get a rise out of Dina.

"We're so close!" I exclaimed gleefully. "We're going to make it!"

And then horror of horrors, the obnoxiously slow driver in the fast lane. We were trapped and losing precious minutes that we didn't have to spare.

"Flash the stupid bastard with your high beams!" I screamed. Ryan flashed. But the driver wouldn't change lanes despite our tailing his slow-as-molasses ass. Expletives resounded. Obscene gestures were made eloquent. 

"Honk your horn!" I cried. Ryan didn't just honk, he blared his horn for twenty straight seconds. No response from the ferry-blocker in front of us.

"Old, privileged, good-for-nothing -- " one of us yelled out the window.

"Oh my god!" Dina said, putting her head in her hands. "This is so embarrassing."

With Ryan and I nigh road-rage, Dina beside herself at the both of us (though I'm convinced she was secretly delighted), and Britt enjoying herself thoroughly, the car next to us noticed the calamity and wisely let us into the right lane before we caused an accident. We went tearing past the oblivious driver to our left (I glared at him meanly), hastening once more towards ferry terminal.

I can't even say if we were all speaking English, the four of us were shouting at each other as we drove into the terminal and parked the car in the drop-off section. Dina had two minutes to buy her ticket.

"No time for hugs!" one of us made obvious, as Dina haphazardly jumped from the car, waving a hurried farewell, looking for her wallet, grinning wildly and running to catch her ferry all at the same time.

Britt and I waited in the car nervously, while Ryan ran inside with Dina. They looked like two pinballs toting bags, laughing, scolding each other happily for their part in our most recent debacle.

"THEY'RE NOT LETTING DINA ON BECAUSE THEY THINK SHE'S STONED!" Britt read to me from a text Ryan had just sent to her phone.

"But this is BC!" I lamented in disbelief. "Everyone here is stoned."

Ryan came back to the car a minute later. Alone. Yet another of his many pranks. Dina had made her ferry, signs and wonders.

From the terminal we set off, blaring music, and recounting our adventure to each other joyously, laughing and savouring the last bit of our adrenaline rush. Ryan opened his glove compartment and took out what looked like one enormous doobie. Oh boy, I thought. As if this night could get any crazier. But it was some sort of fragrant grass a friend of his had brought back from Africa. He lit it while driving at exorbitant speeds, and put it to our noses to smell until we gave him some nod of affirmation to indicate that indeed the thing smoked and lived among us, and he waved it around the car like a mad-man, our friend and teacher.

Practicing in the Garden

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On a more serious note, I spent two days in Victoria framing a garage. 

My friend Ben (brawn, beard, bad language, views our friendship as community service -- that Ben) invited me to tag along to help him with the renovations he's doing on his house there. I have always wanted to build something, but never had the skills, though I agreed to go more because I had absolutely no idea what would happen if I spent two days alone with this man. I didn't really believe he would have the patience to let me help him with anything. 

My guess was that I would get thrown out of his house after a long and enthusiastic screaming match for sawing off a finger or swinging a 2X4 into his head, as I have never used a saw or carried lumber before, and that I would end up having to find my own way back to the mainland after a visit to the hospital. For the most part I liked this idea, because I have an appreciation for situations that involve unpredictability and putting to good use my independent nature, that and I think I'm intrigued by his frank disdain of me.

We had planned to meet at the McDonald's in Tsawwassen at 8pm, at which time I called to see how far away he was; Ben was still in Vancouver and running late. The ferry was scheduled to depart at 9pm. For some reason this situation felt all too familiar.

"I'll walk on," I said to Ben, "but not before hearing from you first that you were able to buy a ticket." 

My mother who was in the car listening to all of this, and already suspicious of the situation as I have also never used a hammer for anything in my life, began arguing with me before I'd even ended the call, attempting to make it clear that I absolutely would not be getting on that ferry.

I eventually convinced her that all would be well, lying through my teeth the whole time, and we made our way to the ferry terminal. We were parked at the drop-off section and I had five minutes to buy a ticket, but I still hadn't heard from Ben, nor was he answering his phone. Suddenly my mother and I could see a great lumbering man running in our direction from the other side of the fence where driving passengers were waiting to board, and Ben could be heard not just by us, but everyone else bound for Victoria, swearing at me to "go buy a fucking ticket or they won't let you on!" So on, and so forth.

Realizing his phone had likely died, hence the reason for not hearing from him, I purposely avoided the look on my mother's face as I am her only daughter and it would appear that a large bear of a man, whom she now refers to as Grizzly Adams, was yelling and gesturing at me to board a vessel that might very likely take me away from her for all time.

"Love you, mom!" I yelled, running towards the terminal.

Grizzly and I both made the ferry. We sat outside on one of the boat's blocks as it sailed away, the sky softly glowing orange and pink.

"This would be romantic if it was with anyone else," Ben snapped at me. I smiled contentedly and said nothing.

The story of constructing a garage is one I'll have to finish another time, as it includes a night of heavy drinking followed by weeping myself to sleep. Don't worry -- no limbs were lost, and I even got a ride back to the ferry. Framing a garage is the most hard work I've ever done for a man without any sort of recompense. I've been accused many times for having trouble with commitment, also for never pursuing anyone, but I have to say if putting up my own money to be voluntarily ordered around for two long-labouring days to build a garage in a garden full of brambles, complete with what we agreed must be a dead body liquefying in its very own garbage bin -- well if that isn't pursuit, I swear on my honour I'll never know what it is, and don't care to either.

Here are some photos from the latest trek I made into the mountains. I summitted Zupjok, Llama, Alpaca and Ottomite in the Coquihalla region; four peaks in one day, 20 kilometers, 1600 meters elevation gain, and it certainly made for one tired, happy gal.

Courtesy of Ryan, our exact trek to ZLA and Ottomite

First three peaks in the distance, it didn't take us long to get above the tree-line

Summit of Alpaca

One of the bumps between Alpaca and Llama

Needle Peak and Flat Iron to the top left, Zupjok in the foreground

Beautiful cornices

Large snow pack breaking away

Anderson River Group

View of Coquihalla from Ottomite

View of Zupjok from Ottomite

View of Yak from the trailhead

We shall not cease from exploration. And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time ~ Eliot

I feel like a vagrant and I’m starting to look like one too. I always prided myself on being an attractive traveler, but it appears I’ll have to start letting go of this too. My mane of hair is growing wild and this strange Albertan climate is making it crazy. These cold, hard mountains that frighten me so much, their winds pull at me and my hair is electric listening to their call.



My last day in the prairies a flock of sea birds were circling my car where I sat listening to music, missing the mountains and writing:

The yogis are still crying. It’s something they do well aside from stretching. I’m not sure I’m a yogi anymore, though I still want to be upside down, especially on grass where I can watch insects doing their creepy little thing. It’s trippy, man. There’s so much life out there, little forms of life and instead we’re crushing on men who aren’t good for us and wishing we were better people. There are higher beings chilling in the grass. I don’t know. Stop stressing and keep a move on.

And I’m ready to keep moving. I want to drive these lonely roads through the desolate towns and back into the hills. I’m going to my family, but not before stepping into trees and water and listening to music from morning until night. Not before I weep for my lost loves and the people I’ve grown to love and the hardness in me still that desires nothing from those who have so much to offer.

How astonishing that we are all so alone and yet so desirous to be one with all. For a long time I’ve carried the bodies of dead dreams and lost loves and failures and yet I cross paths with people still willing to love me. And there are people here who do not want to know my name or my face or give me a second thought. How incredibly heartbreaking that nothing lasts.

My last day in the prairies I imagined those sea birds flying above my car must feel very lost too. I thought all animals away from the mountains must feel very lonely and out of place and I daydreamed of finding the cougar that had killed a sheep that day and bringing it to some high crag in the Rockies. A rightful throne. I smiled to myself, imagining how it would rip up my leather seats and make it hard to chill for the long drive...

It isn’t silly to be inspired by the animals. They've always struck me as magical beings, visions of our higher selves and if we stop talking to them, the natives warn, they will stop talking to us.

Listen here -- In the Dirt by Sean Carey

oh man oh man oh man, let's talk cellar doors and beautiful beards and let's talk big sky forever and ever amen

Jesus, this is a strange time in my life. I’m at this yoga teacher training and it’s insane. I don’t even know what’s insane about it, but it’s pretty out there. Here we are, adults, trying to get all bendy and spiritual. Man, the people here are just nuts. They’re lovely and and they’re dear and they’re trying ever so hard to find something delicious and benevolent and elevating. And that’s all good. But they’re fucking crazy. We’re all crazy. Every single one of us. And not just the ones who signed up for this crazy shit. The ones who run the show, the ones that cook for us, the ones that work at the Safeway, the ones I’ll meet down the road. Man, we’re all fucking nuts. We’re all off our rockers. And none of anything we say makes any sense at all and I just don’t know if I can handle uttering another word for as long as I live. Maybe what I ought to do is live in the woods. With a canoe or something and some solar energy of some sort. Probably the solar sort.

I just don’t know what’s what anymore and that’s a fact. No big answers over here. Don’t even ask me, not a goddamn thing because I just don’t know and I don’t want to pretend that it’s the case that I do because I absolutely do not and I refuse to and that’s all you’ll be getting out of me forevermore.

We keep waking up fucking early in the morning and walking in silence for oh, about an hour. We pass sheep and stuff and found a hill to walk up and down. We meditated in the grass for a while and my teacher, he looked so grounded to the earth and I got all jealous on him for it. Well, all I could think was that my bum felt wet with the grass and I was wondering what that noise in the bushes was or what it could possibly be. It was a cougar. I kid you not. A fucking cougar, man. There we were, all sitting around all docile like and trying to be one with our higher selves and each other I suppose and the grass and mother earth and there was some big cat looking at us, probably hungry, maybe just curious. I wonder who saw the cat. I would have liked to have seen that cat.

I thought I’d come back all yogic from this, but I don’t think that will be the case. I think what will probably be more likely is that I’ll drive back home a thousand kilometers with a very sore neck. Sore everything is what’s more likely than the sore neck. God, my body feels full of pain. And I’m just dying for a lay. That’s not very yogic, is it? I was feeling more yogic and hopeful and spacey before I got to this crazy yogi gathering. Maybe I am not a yogi. Maybe I am a big faker. Sore neck because I keep trying all day to get into this one pose for a few breaths, it’s the one where you plant your forearms firmly to the earth and you look straight ahead and your neck is screaming for you to just fuck off and what the hell it’s saying, and then you kick your leg into the air and the other follows if all is going well and then you’re just up there sort of rocking out for a bit like yo, this is a different thing to do than the every day. Well, that’s the pose and that’s what I try to get into every chance I get. I don’t know, once you can get this shit into your flow, you sort of do go off and you sort of spiral into this bendy, emotional, spacey plain and when you come back down that experience sort of kicks you on your ass and tells you to smarten up. That’s why I do it. That’s why I came to this crazy place with the sheep and the cougars stalking us in the grass as we sit in a circle trying to be children.

I can’t believe I paid for this shit. It’s not that it’s not great. I don’t really know what it is. Maybe it’s great. Maybe it’s my quarter life crisis. After our morning walk around the hilly part and the animals out there, and our breakfast in silence still, I laid down on this couch where I am now in this strange old room. This whole building is just absolutely bizarre. Feral cats that piss all over and create a mess in a stairway next to the room we get all vertical and weepy and crazy in for the whole goddamn day. Man, I must be exhausted to be writing like this. It’s all the inversions. The inversions! The crazy backbending. This girl was sobbing next to me on her mat today. Why are we doing this?! Why did I travel so far to be doing this with these absolutely perfect strangers? Anyways, I laid on this couch and I listened to this song Val Jester. And I took off again. Dreams and gooseflesh swooping over my skin and I was just the fuck out of here, out of this bizarre room with cacti and big gold framed corny prints and empty bookcases and several uncomfortable chairs and odd coffee tables and two tiny televisions side by side.

What’s more, I’m pretty sure my teacher thinks he’s a lion. And I got so caught up in this whole yoga salvation thing, I started thinking I’d like to be a lion too. Well, I still sort of think I’m a lion and I think my teacher thinks I’m one too and he sure behaves like one. I’ll be talking to him and he’ll just stare at me intently and not really respond to anything I’m saying and I think this is part of being a lion. He makes his eyes really big and stares. And once I saw him yawn and his neck went round in a circle and it appeared to be more of a breathy roar and less like a man’s yawn. Next thing you know I’ll be stalking mice on all fours with the feral cats that piss everywhere. The management of this crazy building lets the cats in for fear that the cougar outside will find them and eat them. To that I say, Circle of Life. I know all about the circle of life. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. I’ve heard it in the wind. Does that sound yogic? Can you hear the circle of life in the wind or do you have to get eaten by something that is hierarchically superior to you to really grasp the concept ‘circle of life’ instead of just sounding like an arrogant fuckin know-it-all asshole all the time? Not that I want to get eaten by anything. I guess I’m saying I don’t get this whole circle of life idea, I’m going a little nuts over here in this mountainless wilderness and I’m really not terribly impressed that wild cats are just pissing everywhere and no-one’s too concerned we’re sweating down our asses and junk onto the carpet that’s already rank with the worst smell ever which would be cat piss.

So, it’s going really well.

Listen here: Val Jester by the National