Sunday Stories

Part one of this story is here: Drive to Crater Lake.

I thought I was seeing it all that day, as I drove through the afternoon. Mountains, rivers and hills. I left the Columbia River behind at The Dalles, and carried on south. I still had a ways to go before reaching Klamath Falls.

I drove the remainder of the afternoon, stopping twice to grab quick shots of green gorges opening up beneath the highway. The rate I was going, I’d be checked into the Best Western in Klamath Falls with time to spare before an early dinner.

Just before 4pm I was greeted with another unexpected sign. It pointed to a right turn off the highway. It was big. It was brown. It read “Crater Lake National Park.” I pulled off on the shoulder of 97, the road that had not steered me wrong since leaving home.

It had been 2 years since my trip to Zion, Bryce and Capitol Reef National Parks in Utah, and I knew one thing. If it’s a National Park, it’s worth seeing. If I kept my current pace, I’d have a relaxing evening and be able to get some rest and work the kinks of two long days of driving out of my body. But a National Park had just appeared on my path. My head and my heart wrangled with each other.

The beat of my heart tugged towards the National Park. My head answered with objections. The two opposing forces inside me negotiated a long list: would I have enough gas, food, and daylight? I remembered a trip to New York so very long ago. I was reminded that I’d never know when I’d be back or if what I wanted to see would be there.

There was a Mini-Mart and liquor store in what looked to be an old gas station across from the turnoff. Old signs for beer, Mountain Dew and Jelly Babies covered the exterior wooden walls and columns of what used to be gas pumps. I needed a pit stop.

I got out of the car, stretched out my back, and walked across the red dusty parking lot towards the front door. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust from the blazing June sun to the darker interior. There was plenty of beer and liquor to choose from. Glancing around for food, my eyes spotted the snack aisle. There wasn’t a broad selection, but I found two of my favorites – Pringles and Nestle Crunch. Those – and a bottle of water – and I should be OK. I was just going to see the lake, and then on to Klamath Falls.

I asked the shopkeeper if they had a washroom I could use. He directed me back outside, where I would find a red outhouse. I had walked past it on my way in from the car, hoping it was for after hour use. No such luck, but it would do. Supplied and emptied, I took a few photos of the quaint building and got back in the car. I plugged in my Blackberry to charge and checked my maps. It looked to be about 30 miles to the lake.

“Let’s do this,” I said to no one in particular, and pulled out of the parking lot.

The road to Crater Lake led northwest into woods filled with many of the same Ponderosa and Lodgepole pines we had at home in Kelowna. At just past four, the sun was still high in the sky. The sunlight glistening on their branches gave me a sense of ease as I whizzed past.

In my mind’s eye, Crater Lake would be a water filled depression in the earth. When my ears eventually told me I was driving uphill, it came as a surprise. The sun had begun to lower in the sky behind me to the left. I hadn’t realized it, but the crater I was headed towards is 8000 feet above sea level. As the road continued skywards, I wondered if my estimated my fuel situation might be a little off. Still, I was on a timeline and floored it until I hit the switchbacks.

I’ve learned since that Crater Lake was formed approximately 7700 years ago when Mount Mazama, a 12,000 foot volcano erupted and collapsed. Nothing could have prepared me for what greeted my eyes were about to see. I marveled that despite being early June, snow still covered much of the ground on either side of the road. I had been gazing at snow topped mountains all the way down the interior, but had no idea that I was on one of them. Then, a blazing blue gap appeared in the hillside to my right. It was the lake.

I continued driving the road that lines the rim of Crater Lake, exclaiming “Oh, my God!” over and over again. My mind could hardly take in what was unfolding in front of me.

The crater is enormous, lined with what looks like mountains in their own right. Subtle red layers in the earth alternate with green trees and black volcanic silt, all dotted with snow. But it’s the blue of every shade and luminance that blew my mind. I began to understand I was gazing into a water filled volcano. A small conical island rose up near the west. I drove towards it, spellbound.

I pulled off whenever I could to try to record what I was seeing. The wind blew and I braced against the unexpected cold by dancing and jumping in place while I figured out how to photograph.

There was no lens wide enough to include it all in from this close distance. I clambered up the rocky slopes and shot into the basin. Gnarled remnants of old pines dotted the perimeter, and off in the distance, peaks made by the blast of the volcano as it erupted then collapsed caught the remnants of remaining direct sunlight. Eventually the entire lake was cast in shadow, and I reluctantly moved along.

Shortly after getting back in the car, I noticed signs for Crater Lake Lodge. By that point I had lost track of time and had no idea how long it would take me to get back to 97, let alone Klamath Falls. The signs had served me well to that point, so I decided to check it out. It was almost 7:30 pm. I had blown my driving schedule, but so far it had been worth it.

I drove up to the lodge. I hadn’t seen anyone out on the road, so I was surprised at the cars in the parking lot. I stood in line at the front desk, wondering how much a room would be. As I waited, I started to feel woozy. I wrote it off to hunger coming in to the warm lobby from the unexpected cold.

They had an available room. The concierge made it clear I was lucky to get it as the Park had just opened that week. It was triple the rate of the motel down in Klamath Falls, but by then I was dreaming about what sunrise in this spectacular place. Pink hues streaming in the windows from the now setting sun confirmed my belief. Knowing I’d be up in the dark to take photos before hitting the road, I paid for the room up front.

By the time I got to my room it was after 8pm. It was small and had no view to speak of, but it was clean and comfortable. The nausea hit me as I started to unpack to wash up before going to the dining room. I began to realize what was happening. After all my running around outdoors at 8000 ft, it was the altitude. And based on past experience, it was only going to get worse.

I jammed everything back into my bags and dizzy-ran for the lobby. My announcement I could not stay was initially met with disapproval. The manager was called and a refund eventually issued. By the time it was all done, their disdain had turned to concern. I must have turned shades of grey while fighting the urge to throw up.

Everything I didn’t want in a drive waited for me – the dark, risk of wildlife, and a gas tank that was nearing empty. But this time gravity was on my side. My body and brain settled as oxygen returned to my system. An experienced mountain driver, I laid off the accelerator and used the brakes sparingly all the way down to Klamath Falls, as the mileage count dwindled towards zero.

It was close to 11 pm when I glided into the Best Western parking lot on fumes. I was exactly where I had originally intended to be. I leaned back on the headrest to take stock. Looking across another unfamiliar road I was greeted by a sight for sore eyes – a working gas station where they sold sandwiches.

On Friday I shared a link to an episode of The Daily podcast called The Sunday Read. The Daily is published by The New York Times. If they think Sunday, with its different pace for many, is a good day for stories, I’ll forego years of my own research and start the Sunday Stories category of this Daily Letter.

About this particular story:

When I started memoir writing last year I discovered that many of my childhood memories were intertwined with memories of my best friend Louise Gonsalves.

Today would have been Louise’s 54th birthday. For one month of each, she was the eldest of our lot.

Louise died of cancer in 2005. Mining my memory for this story was bittersweet, but mostly sweet.

Happy Birthday, Louise!

Along with twenty-six other St Richard’s students born in 1967, Louise and I were subjects in a Canadian social experiment. We became students in the first year of the “bilingual program.” Starting in grade 5, half our day was taught in English, and half our day in French. The structure of the program had many results. The main mission was accomplished. We became functionally bilingual by the time we left Grade 8.

There were some other possibly unexpected results. Once registration in the program closed, new students in the classroom were rare. Because the prerequisite became “must speak French,” only two new students joined our group in grades five through eight, and no one ever left. We got to know each other very well. In time we made the most of our tribal instincts and learned to operate like a well oiled machine.

That’s not to say the usual classroom hierarchy didn’t exist. Within “the twenty-eight” there were the the cute kids, the athletic kids, the smart kids, the rebellious kids, and so on. But conflict was rare.

Within the social hierarchy of the twenty-eight, Louise and I received another somewhat more dubious distinction. Educators were innovating at institutional lightning speed in 1977. They introduced not one, but two new programs starting in Grade 5. We had barely settled into “here you go, half your day is in a second language,” when they rolled out testing for The Gifted Program.

I don’t remember there being any doubt around our kitchen table that Louise and I would be dubbed “gifted.” My mom was a teacher, so there was plenty of school talk at home. I wanted it, but didn’t want it, if you know what I mean. It was one thing to be in a group of twenty eight. It was quite another to be singled out as having some kind of superpower. I dreaded leaving our cohesive unit every Wednesday. My discomfort was heightened by where the program was located. It was right in our school.

When there weren’t kids from the “normal classroom” trying to take a peek in through the windows, it was OK enough when we were there. Sometimes they taught us practical things like how to fill out tax forms. We were more often given creative and scientific pursuits.

Time has memorialized the day of the paper airplane competition. We were to work with a partner and build a plane out of four materials: construction paper, popsicle sticks, paper clips and plasticine. Then, we would go out in the school yard and see which plane would fly the furthest. It was meant to be fun, but unlike our schoolroom home, we had divided along an unmistakable line. Competition between the boys and girls was fierce.

Louise and I were partners. Obviously. The only rule was we had to use some quantity of all four materials. We reasoned it out, evidence it was me who took the lead. Louise and I constructed a giant plane using the full sheet of paper, supported by a carefully constructed exoskeleton of popsicle sticks. We added a tiny bit of plasticine to to the nose to help give it direction. We admired our handiwork, but kept it hidden from our arch rivals, Stuart and Joel.

When it was time to go outdoors and assemble at the starting line, it became apparent our strategy was flawed. The wings of our plane lofted in the breeze as we held it between us. The boys’ plane was much smaller. Stuart and Joel had glued several popsicle sticks together side by side and end to end to use as the main body of the plane. Paper wings protruded from the sides. Plasticine and a paper clip held the the tail in place. One look and Louise and I knew we were done. Their invention was sleek and more dense. It was even elegant looking.

With our soon to be squashed pride gathering as lumps in our throats, Louise and I hoisted our plane into the air. It traveled upward well enough, but then it failed to fill its wings with air and spiraled to the ground. Stuart and Joel doubled over, laughing loudly.

Then it was their turn. All arms and legs, and nearly six feet tall, Stuart was part of their strategy. He stepped up to the start line and used his whole body to catapult their plane into the air. It flew efficiently for what felt like an eternity, landing multiple distances beyond ours.

I conceded defeat, but Louise was having none of it. She sprinted back into the school, yelling “I’ll be right back!”

When she emerged a few minutes later, she had something in her right hand. It was a ball of all our leftover plasticine, stabbed with one popsicle stick and a paper clip. In her left hand , she held a scrap of construction paper.

“Help me with this!” Louise thrust the ball into my waiting hands. It was still warm from furious rolling. Working quickly, she folded the paper into a tiny triangle. Using a long pinkie fingernail, she sliced into the plasticine and inserted the paper triangle.

Before the teacher could stop her, Louise grabbed our new contraption and ran back up to the start line. She used her compact frame and well-practiced baseball arm to her advantage and threw the “plane” as far as she could.

The measly popsicle stick and scrap of paper were no hindrance to Louise’s new understanding and cunning use of Newtonian physics. It shot through the air like a meteor before landing with a thud, eventually rolling to a stop.

We all stood there with mouths gaping. Louise had literally thrown a home run.

The boys erupted in protest, and an epic argument broke out. They had a strong and simple argument – a second attempt was not in the rules. The teacher had no choice but to side with the boys, but everyone knew who the real winner was that day. It was Louise. The spark and smile in our exhausted teacher’s eyes was all anyone needed for confirmation.

“She knew we won, didn’t she?” Louise asked me under her breath to avoid further chaos. As if I had anything to do with it.

I learned a couple of things about my best friend that day. She never fought back like that when we the competition was between her and me, which was often. And it was possible that at least some of the time, she was letting me win.

I thought I would hate a quiet Christmas.

My first quiet Christmas happened in 2005. In the space of twelve months of that year, I set the intention to relocate from Toronto, Ontario to Kelowna, British Columbia. I made two trips in the spring to create the clients I needed to relocate my consulting business. In May, I watched Louise, my best friend since kindergarten, die of a cruel and excruciating cancer.  In June, I sold or packed up everything I owned, and hit the road.

Hopped up on Iced Cappuccinos with Coldplay’s Fix You on repeat, I drove 4061 km across Canada with my dog Brandy and my photography equipment packed into my CR-V.  All my other possessions followed me in a moving truck. After arriving in Kelowna, I got my consulting business up and running, found a place to board my dog, and flew east beyond Toronto to the Maritimes to attend a photography workshop, planned before the thought of moving to Kelowna came out of the ethers.

On my return “home” from that trip, I became aware the real estate market in Kelowna was about to race beyond my grasp;  just like it had in Toronto. I responded by scrambling together my first mortgage and bought the most house I could afford –  a dated three bedroom rancher. I took possession the evening of November 25th.

Up until that night, Christmas was the furthest thing from my mind – and that suited me just fine. Christmas in Toronto was always a hustling, bustling time, full of friend and family gatherings, culminating on Christmas Day. The fact that Brandy would be my only company stayed in the recesses of my mind, obscured by busy-ness.

Until I took possession of the house.

My realtor handed me the keys early in the evening, exactly a month before Christmas. I had hoped to get in while it was still light outside, but less than a month before the solstice, daylight is short in Kelowna. Given the hour, and that it had snowed that day, I didn’t bring much with me. Just Brandy, a bottle of water, a shovel, and a folding lawn chair in case I wanted somewhere to sit.

It was unexpectedly cold in the house when I arrived. In a final display of frugality, the departing owners had turned off the furnace. Astonished at being able to see my breath indoors, I found all the light switches and got the furnace and the gas fireplace going.

Brandy wandered through the house, taking it all in. It had a very different vibe than on the sunny September days when I had first seen it. It was built in 1967.  Just like me. It was solid, and as I was discovering, much more pleasant in the daylight.

One by one, I took in each room,  painted a different – and very bright – colour. In the absence of natural light, the high gloss wood doors and trim, floor to ceiling drapes, pink sinks, tub and toilet in the main bathroom, and the purple sink and toilet off the master bedroom were jarring. An ocean of ill-fitted shag carpet rippled on and on forever. It was a  far cry from the welcoming castle I envisioned.  I was the owner of a purple toilet. And I was becoming overwhelmed.

I sought relief from the multi-colored chaos in the lawn chair. Unfolding it the relatively muted living room, I plunked myself down and closed my eyes. When I finally dared to reopened them, all I could see was the pattern stitched into the white shag carpet and the gold floor to ceiling curtains. I closed my eyes again and visions of the purple toilet danced through my head.

What the hell have I done?

A once familiar and very unwelcome tightness was developing in my chest. The previous owners had a cat and a dog. Brandy was frothing at the mouth as she searched high and low, unable to find them. My lungs, on the other hand, had detected their remnants. Dander was awakening my long dormant asthma.

It had been years since I carried an inhaler, and I was having none of it. I sprang out of the chair and started opening windows.   As the cold fresh air blew in, I silently hoped – and knew – the utilities hadn’t changed over yet. When I got to the giant picture window concealed by the drapes in the living room, I pulled them open the entire way.

That was the moment it hit me that Christmas was on the horizon.

Almost every house on my new street was lit up by colorful strings of light.  Combined with the fresh snow, my neighbours’ festive display was both a pleasant and conflicting sight.

It dawned on me that for the first time in my life, I would have a quiet Christmas. More than that, I would be alone.

The strength of the emotions that welled up from deep inside took me by surprise. It wasn’t that I dreaded being on my own. Being in high gear all year, I hadn’t been able see past the next moment, let alone ahead to Christmas.

2005 was a year that had everything: adventure, creativity, dread,  grief, goodbyes, loss, new relationships, the stress of restarting a business, and the uncertainty of whether or not I would make a satisfying life thousands of miles away from everyone I loved. All accompanied by a great big mortality check courtesy of Louise.

I don’t remember much about the time in between that night and Christmas, but it must have been busy getting set up in the new house and seeing clients.  But I do remember Christmas Day very clearly. Not realizing things didn’t close at Christmas to the same extent they do in Ontario, I had stocked up to stay home. I had enough food and DVDs in the house to last through to the other side of Boxing Day and beyond.

On Christmas morning, I woke up earlier than anticipated and took stock. It was cold in the house because of the open windows, but I could breathe easily.  Since I had nowhere to go, I was grateful for that. Instead of my usual rushed smoothie for breakfast and obligatory yanking of Brandy around the street, I made French toast.  Then, to her’s delight, I packed Brandy up in the CR-V and took her to Knox Mountain for for a long leisurely walk.

At some point I decided in advance how I would experience my day. Instead of pining for what and who I couldn’t have or do, I kept my focus small. I felt the crunch of the fresh snow under my boots. I smiled and wished Merry Christmas to the cheery strangers passing on the trail. My eyes took in the pristine snow and how it piled up on the benches along the trail.  Upon my returned home, I experienced the reward of shoveling my own driveway, feeling an unfamiliar sense of pride in the effort. I made phone calls to my family, three hours deeper into their day, and after a satisfying dinner, I sat on the couch and took out my journal.

I wrote about all of the places I had been that year, and the people I had met. I articulated how, six months into my journey, I was still afraid and somehow still moving forward. A description spilled onto the page of how the sun had burst through the clouds on the last morning of my drive across the country, when I had stopped at Lake Louise and sent a silent prayer for support to my friend. I wrote about how much I missed my family, how grateful I was for my health, and for the new life I had just begun.

I captured how I was able to experience ease and fulfillment on my long walk with Brandy, and being present to what was good in this day.

I wrote those things, and sent gratitude to a sense of the divine I was beginning to experience as a sovereign adult living in an uncertain world. Unknowingly, I wrote so that fifteen years later, I could look back on my first quiet Christmas from a different vantage point.  From my desk in my home office in Toronto, I can look back into a time capsule. This time it’s a pandemic creating distance between me, my friends, and family.  Much of what I experienced solo in 2005 resonates with what many of us are experiencing this year. A first quiet Christmas.

If you had asked before it happened, I would have told you I would hate a quiet Christmas. I couldn’t foresee how I would grow to love and cherish the stillness, time for reflection, and opportunity to process the year.

Christmas 2005 was more than a quiet one. It was my first Christmas alone. And while I was separated by distance, I was not separate from love.

——

Merry Quiet Christmas – Happy Hannukah – Joyous Kwanzaa – Happy Solstice and Happy New Year.  May your focus be exactly what you need it to be to move through it with grace.