Cougar Prints in the Snow February 1 2007

Cougar Prints in the Snow February 1, 07

Late that night, we heard a thumping on the door. I looked up at Bob. Susan, Alan, Max and Kai were in Vancouver for New Year. Bob and I were guarding the fort in Nelson. The next-door neighbour said, “I just wanted to let you know that there are cougar prints in the snow in front of our house.” I raised my eyebrows. “I know they aren’t bear prints,” he said, “because the front paw prints cross over each other. Bear’s front feet don’t cross when walking.”
“Thanks,” I said – a little shaken.
“I wanted to let you know because of Susan’s kids,” the neighbour said.
Bob and I immediately logged onto the Internet for info on cougars – because it’s not an animal we see sniffing around the lawn in Caledon. “Almost six feet from head to tail. Male reaches 80 kilograms. Rarely eats children,” – yes, that’s what the site read.
The cougar was one of the surprises during our four weeks over Christmas and New Year in Nelson. The other was the snow. It just kept falling. We skied both downhill and X country at Whitewater Ski Resort, about thirty minutes from Nelson where the base was three-meters deep, no snowmaking equipment – just fresh powder almost every day and green grass at home. In the middle section of one long X Country trail, we looked up in amazement at a sign. “Avalanche Area,” it read. “No Stopping.”
“Why is this trail even open?” we asked each other racing ahead like mad. We looked off to our right following the whoops of backcountry skiers as they hurtled down treed slopes, plumes of snow in their wakes. From time to time the crashing boom of canons and dynamite charges startled us. It was reassuring to hear the avalanche initiators with their explosives hard at work. We were excited to be in the mountains again.
Bob, often with Alan and sometimes Susan, the kids and I completed much of the electrical wiring in the new house over the holidays, shivering in the –5 C. air. But there’s a fantastic coffee house in town for long Java warm ups, Oso Negro (Black Bear). It serves coffee and gourmet lunches in an upscale funky atmosphere that beats Starbucks any day. Bear prints are etched in the floor, and art exhibitions rotate regularly. The surroundings are electric with activity. One day a fellow on a table to our left mounted his silver jewellery for display, on our right a composer with mounds of hand written music entered scores into his laptop. At another table, two women mulled over marketing strategies. I did a lot of eavesdropping during those escapes to Oso Negro.
Last week we skied at Mt. Tremblant – a little snow and lots of biting cold. For two days the temperature plummeted to –29 C. -- at the bottom of the ski hill -- without the wind chill factored in. Down the road from Mt. Tremblant village there’s a fantastic Finnish spa, Le Scandinave, with thermal pools, steam baths, saunas – all that good stuff and then the sequels – dips under outdoor ice cold showers with icicles dripping from the shower heads or dunks in a cold pool or Le Diable (well named) river. There’s also a similar spa in Collingwood, I think. It felt so weird showering in that frigid air. The lake was frozen over.
Now we’re home to stay for a while. I’ll post more blogs after I pass my flight test. It’s been a long time in coming. Forty lessons cancelled because of bad weather in the fall and now cold and snow has settled in. Sigh. Before leaving for Nelson, I squeezed in one winter flight – December 6. My flight instructor cleared me to practise manoeuvres in the Shelburne area -- my first solo away from the Brampton circuit. Snow blanketed everything that day – roads, rooftops, trees, rivers and lakes. Distinguishing landmarks blurred. There was wind and turbulence.
I had no problem flying north but on the way home I was royally blown off course. I flew around in circles for a while looking for the familiar bright orange rooftops of the Brampton Flying Club, at one point passing over the water tower in Erin. It’s a horrible feeling not knowing where you are up there where the air is clear. I finally swallowed my pride and radioed Pearson for a bearing, learning a good navigation lesson in the bargain – keep a clear head, use your maps and compass and be extra vigilant when the ground is blanketed with snow.

If you are a ski bunny, I hope more snow falls before spring.

The photos are from Whitewater and Nelson.

Warm thoughts,
Lynda -- and Bob

Home in Caledon

Caledon, ON
August 6, 2006-08-04


A Tangled Garden

Hi Everyone:

The owners of The Garden Path B&B in Gore Bay recommended the Rocky Raccoon Café for a bite to eat. I thought, with a name like that, who could resist? Then they said that the owner and chef was Nepali, from Kathmandu. That is how we ended up last Thursday evening enjoying a gourmet dish of Dahl Baht in the unlikely hamlet of Gore Bay, Manitoulin Island. We had found the owner in the kitchen earlier that afternoon. We bowed and said in our best Nepali accents, “Namaste.”

Robin, (the name he goes by) asked, with raised eyebrows, “Where are you from?” We told him where we’d travelled in Nepal and jokingly mentioned how much we enjoyed Dahl Baht, which of course wasn’t on the menu. After all, who’d eat lentil soup and rice on a sweltering summer evening? Robin, a charming, gregarious man, who has won many awards for his restaurant and entrepreneurship said, “You’d like Dahl Baht? Wonderful!”

Last Thursday, we flew from Ashland, WI on the western tip of Lake Superior, cleared customs and were looking forward to sipping a glass of wine on our Caledon deck that evening. But the weather gods intervened and, just as during other bad weather days, we gained an exciting experience in a wonderful new place as a result. So, if there were any changes we’d make to our future flight plans, it would to plan more browsing time at the end of each day and a few more days of relaxing. As it was, Bob usually checked with Weather Briefing around 6:00 a.m., filed a Flight Plan and we were in the air by 8:00 a.m. In retrospect, we both wish we’d been less rushed.

Over dinner at the Rocky Raccoon, I asked Bob what he liked most about the trip. He said, “It was the journey, to have been able to get all the way to Dawson City. But it was a lot harder than I thought it would be – the turbulence, the mountains and the weather were tough.”

From my perspective, I liked the mountains most. At one point in the middle of a lovely mountain valley, I remember thinking, I wish we could fly around in here for days. I felt as though we’d been transported into another world. We had, actually. Then we got lost and I said to myself. Be careful what you wish for! I also loved seeing so much of Canada, catching the flavour of all the little communities we passed through. You seemed to languish through the prairies forever, just as by car. But the people also have that slow attitude towards time – at least in the small towns. They go out of their way to help and have lots of time to chat, qualities I wish we had more of. I was surprised this year to hear so many female voices through our headphones, some flying jets, some air traffic controllers, especially in the States. The US is an easier place to fly in than I had expected – especially as the States continues to tighten security. The Americans we met were very friendly -- they know our political stripes, our general attitudes towards the war and Bush. Many share our perspectives.

We were only home an hour, looking at the garden and remembering our wonderful adventure when the CBC reported the horrible mid-air crash of two planes just west of our house. Two of the pilots who died were from the Brampton Flying Club, an instructor and his student, whom we didn't know: the third a man from the Burlington area. We had flown over the site of the debris only 45 minutes beforehand on our way home from Gore Bay. We felt so shaken by the accident and sad for the pilots and their families. The day after we arrived home from our last flight west two years ago, an ultra light plane crashed into the trees on the edge of our property (with no pilot injuries). I can’t help but feel skittish about flying.

On a happier note, I’m attaching the photos I mentioned sending in an earlier blog and some images (they’re like abstract paintings) of the beautiful waters of Georgian Bay. In one photo you’ll see the wheel of our plane in the lower right hand corner. I’ll post more blogs and photos in the future.

For a number of years, my sister, Janet, has dreamed of flying down the west coast of South America on a 14,700 mile journey from her home in San Diego, through Mexico, Guatemala, San Salvador, Nicaragua, Panama City, Columbia, Ecuador, Peru and Argentina, to Punta Areanas, Chile, the southern most city on earth. Yesterday, Janet emailed her itinerary to us. She is planning to leave in November -- her single engine, Bonanza has oxygen, which will help her stay alert through the Andes!

I can’t imagine such an exciting and daunting adventure. But then, only a few months ago, I couldn’t imagine myself as a pilot. Life takes unexpected twists and turns, doesn’t it? Some are strange, others sad, fearful, glorious and exciting. For me, flying is many of these. I learned how to fly for the sake of safety. I followed Bob’s passion and in the process found myself achieving something I could never have believed possible. I pushed through something that frightened me. Life is calmer now.

With the recent storms here, we’re wading through gardens rampant with weeds, vines and perennials that have sprung up in the oddest places.

We hope you’ll enjoy these next few weeks of summer and if you are shelling out $1.09 per litre for gas, don't fret. Folks in Dawson City pay $1.28 without blinking an eye.

Warm thoughts,
Lynda and Bob

Sunset in Ashland Wisconsin

Ashland, Wisconsin
August 2, 2006

“Where is the ski hill?” I asked the fellow who helped us park the plane. I was looking at a sign on the terminal wall in Poplar, North Dakota. It read, “Ski Capital of North Dakota.” I scanned the horizon. It was as flat as a loonie in all directions.

He said, looking at a small coloured drawing in the lower left hand corner of the sign, “Someone’s prairie humour.”

I followed his eyes down to the small cowboy wearing chaps, skiing over a mound of manure. We were chased by rain into Poplar, North Dakota plop in the middle of Fort Peck Indian Reserve. The fellow drove us into town and later his dad, who owned six planes, lent us his car for the return trip. Good old prairie hospitality.

The US is a super country in which to fly -- lots of airports for refueling, many with courtesy cars; gas prices are lower and there are often fellows around to help with the tie down. There are only three reasons for landing – weather, refueling and sleep. But there are a ton of airport types. Some are grass strips with badger holes, in others you’re completely alone to refuel and in the elite you get the whole nine yards, someone to refuel your plane, coffee and washrooms with gold taps, cushy leather chairs in the pilot’s lounge. You get the picture.

Late yesterday afternoon, we landed at Grand Forks, North Dakota, the lovely city at the junction of the Red River of the North and the Red Lake River. For centuries the forks, les Grandes Fourches was a native trading site; then, as the years rolled forward, French, British and American fur traders moved into the area carrying their wares by oxcart and later by steamboat. In 1997 Grand Forks made news with the Red River flood. The town was inundated by water, then by fire and everyone was evacuated. Even small kids talk about The Flood.

Grand Forks is a controlled airport – a piece of cake for seasoned pilots in big planes. But for us in our little flying Tin Lizzie – well, it’s a mighty challenge. First we pray that our radios will function. Because it’s not fun being greeted by red lights on the control tower and pickup trucks racing along the taxiway with beacons flashing and as things often work in this world, we’re still struggling with the darn things. Next we try to remember all the radio instructions, transponder code so they can track your every move, runway number and letter – runways are sometimes parallel with the same number --- the difference is one is left and the other right. So you can’t be dyslexic.

When air traffic talks to a number of aircraft, sometimes you’re not sure who is being addressed and its embarrassing to ask, “Say again” three times in a row. You have to know your place in the pecking or landing order as well – when we landed, we were wedged in between a Boeing jet and a Fed Ex cargo plane. After you land you have to thread your way off the runway onto a maze of taxiways. After all that you change your radio frequency to ground (as opposed to air). And try to wind around jets and other aircraft to locate pumps for refueling. Personally, I’d rather have the badger holes. But the gold taps were nice.

Other than a scare with low oil pressure in Nelson, our little plane has performed like a Trojan. But it is small and we will have flown 80 long hours by the time we touch down in Brampton late tomorrow afternoon, if we can skirt the forecasted showers. You have to like the person you’re flying with in a plane like ours. The seats are a little smaller than Air Canada economy class. In place of the seat pocket in front of us, we have steering columns. We have small clip boards strapped to our left knees for maps, the engine start up and checklist and paper to record take offs and landings. Our feet stretched out land on the rudders. In fact they are always on the rudders and you don’t muck around with them or you could end up upside down. This has been an amazing trip and it will also be nice to get back in shape again after so much sitting.

As we chatted over dinner looking at the same sunset we watched thirty days ago, we felt sad that our adventure was almost over. We could have flown to Mexico or the Caribbean in those eighty hours. And that started us thinking about our next trip. Hmmm. But first, I’m going to get my pilot’s license. I’ll solo when we’re home, finish ground school and try the tests. Flying for me came into my life totally out of left field. I don’t share Bob’s passion for the air. But it is oodles of fun and helps people to see the world from a different perspective.

This web blog isn’t set up for us to receive your postings. So, if you’ve written and I haven’t responded that’s the reason. We’d still love to hear from you, though. It would be helpful for me to know if you enjoyed our photos and journey. My email address is lnoppe@netrover.com . I’ll post another blog with photos once we’re home.


I'll try to publish the nine missing photos in another posting shortly. For some reason, the posting is logging off after one photo.

The photos are listed in chronological order, and I will try to post them in this order:

Car covered with chicken wire
Porcupine warning sign
Trail in Kokanee Glacier Park with Bob, Susan and Kai
Kokanee flower
Bob on Kokanee rail

The Purcells with a dusting of fresh snow
Flying through smoky air

Prairie clouds in water
Prairie patchwork quilt
Sunset in Ashland 30 days after first take off.

In the meantime, keep cool and happy,

Lynda and Bob

Home Bound

Glasgow, Montana
August 1, 2006


If you leave your car overnight in the parking lot of Kokanee Glacier Park, you gift wrap it in chicken wire to stop the porcupines from making dinner out of all parts made of rubber – tires, hoses your brake linings. The Slocan Range of the Selkirk Mountains where the park is located is awe inspiring, a ruggedly dramatic paradise expanded in 1995 to protect the grizzly bear habitat.

We were headed for Kokanee Lake, the day before yesterday, the lake made famous by Michel Trudeau’s death by avalanche in 1998, but soon the sky darkened, thundered rumbled in the background and we headed back down in the rain (and even hail). In the shelter below we met a party who had stayed at the backcountry alpine chalet and interpretive centre built on the site of the 103 year old cabin where Trudeau stayed before his death. If you love the outdoors, and like hiking, you would fall in love with the spectacular scenery in this park. You can book ahead to stay in the very spiffy Alpine cabin – only $22 per night. We passed a female moose thrashing around in the brush. Besides the grizzly and black bears that we only want to observe at a distance, you can see mountain goats, marmots and martens.

We had another challenging day yesterday – mostly because of forest fires and again, no warning. We left Nelson, sadly, early in the morning flying east through the valleys between the Purcell’s high peaks, absolutely beautiful with a fresh dusting of snow to Cranbrook, south to Kalispell, MT, east through the Mariah Pass, and through customs at Cutbank, Montana. The week flew by much too fast and in fact Bob would like to have had two months of flying. Gulp. Glasgow is a small farming prairie town with farm machinery made for giants. There’s a lake not far from here where Jean Jacques Cousteau filmed a movie.

Today we’re flying to Grand Forks North Dakota and have to leave soon because there’s a storm on its way.

Hope you’re all well. I don’t know how to access the comments you’ve made to our postings. But I’ll try to find out.

I'll send photos with next posting.

Cheers,Lynda

Through Smoky Air

Nelson, Thursday, July 27, 2006

Through Smoky Air

Hello Everyone:

It’s taken a few days to unwind from our three intense weeks of flying. We took off into hazy air from Grand Prairie Alberta last Saturday morning for our flight here to Nelson, soon realizing by the smell that the hazy air wasn’t water vapour or pollution. By the time we landed at Rocky Mountain House, could barely see through the scrim of forest fire smoke from the west. Two helicopters were refueling and firefighters milling around the ramp waiting for takeoff. The fires had been burning for a week and again, for some reason, Weather Briefing hadn’t informed us. A local pilot gave us the location of the fires and assured us they wouldn’t be a problem. Perhaps in this area, pilots know the location of roads and lakes so well that whether or not they can see these visual landmarks easily or not isn’t a concern. But we must see in order to fly VFR, especially in unknown terrain.

Until this trip, I had no idea how many factors are crucial to flying: the strength and direction of the wind, because with our small engine we’d be flying backwards in a strong headwind but a tailwind is a gift from the heavens; the clouds – if they are ‘scattered’ you have to know how ‘scattered’, if ‘broken’, you often can’t fly; forest fire smoke behaves like a dense cloud and you often can’t see through it. So our trusty GPS is a godsend. During our flight last Saturday, I wondered how the thousands of people below us who struggle with asthma would managed to find oxygen in that uncomfortable air. We flew south to the highway west of Calgary, then soared through a valley to Banff and less smoky air.

Two years ago, we took the Crow’s Nest and Kicking Horse Passes through the Rockies. This year we winged our way through a beautiful but narrower and unnamed pass following a highway. If I hadn’t felt so pinched in, I would have wanted to have stayed aloft in that gorgeous pass for days. The mountains were so close, so immediate. But oh, the turbulence. It’s amazingly unnerving to be tossed around in those tight spaces. For half the time on this trip, I think we’ve been running full out on adrenaline.

I felt a wonderful sense of freedom and expanse coming out of that pass near Radium Hot Springs. One minute we were bordered by immense walls of rock and the next soaring out like an eagle into the green wide expanse of a lush, lake-filled valley. We watched boats, could even make out water skiers in Lake Invermere, tiny specks 5 000 feet below. That whole area including Fairmont Hot Springs is one enormous playground with huge resorts and lavish houses dotting the landscape.

Bob navigated while I flew through the Purcell Mountains from Cranbrook here to Nelson and oh my -- that was one incredible journey winging around tight corners and along narrow passageways. It was my turn to hold the yoke in a death grip but such a feeling of euphoria to turn around giant corners (not the tight ones – they are just downright terrifying). Bob would say, “Move to the right or I’ll be able to pick pine cones from the trees at my left shoulder. (Bob is flying in pilot’s seat, I in the co-pilot’s where I should be.) I remembering thinking, it will be by god’s good grace and by the strength of this plane’s little engine that we’ll finally land in Nelson.

Our daughter, Susan and her husband Alan are in the midst of house construction now. They have completely designed, drawn the plans for and constructed a 3-D model for their home. It’s ncredibly exciting process to watch the project unfold because Bob and I built our homes in Deep River and Caledon. So Susan and Alan’s discussions into the wee hours of the morning after the kids are in bed bring back many memories. The foundation is dug and the footings go in this week. Nelson hasn’t had rain for weeks – the air is hot and sultry.

In a few days we’ll leave for home and the last leg of our great caper. It will seem strange to arrive home after this experience, I think.

Lots of warm thoughts,
Lynda and Bob

Over the Rainbow

Grand Prairie, Alberta
July 22, 2006

Over the Rainbow

“ Whew, I had a hard time releasing my death grip on the steering column,” Bob said. We were sitting at a picnic table yesterday morning while the gas man refuelled our plane in Fort St. John, B.C., munching Triscuits and Old Cheddar cheese.

I said, “Look Bob, my hands are still shaking.”

The day had started out like many in this great caper of ours, an all clear from the Weather Briefer -- good weather all the way with showers later on in the morning in Watson’s Lake. We took off early.

The first four hours of our six-hour flight were a meteorologist’s candy store, some blue gum drops of rain in one jar, some licorice clouds in another and a whole whack load of purple turbulence in another. Three minutes into our flight, rain started to pound the windscreen. Off in the distance and over some hills, the sky brightened.

Bob said, “We could fly the ‘fly way.’”

That’s the route commercial pilots take, the route a crow would fly. But it’s also over lakes, rivers and forests where landing would be very bumpy indeed. We usually follow the VFR (visual) route, near roads and highways that can become instant landing strips when necessary.

“Which would be safer?” I asked.

“It’s a toss up with this rain,” Bob said.

“I don’t want to leave the highway.” I said.

So while Bob gave me bearings using the GPS, I flew, squinting through the rain, kind of freaking out because the blurry hills in front of us looked higher than they actually were. It wasn’t a whole barrel of monkeys. But we could always make out the highway below. When the rain stopped the most glorious rainbow appeared. You can see it in one of the photos.

There was more fun up ahead. While our flight west through In the Rocky Mountain valleys just a few days ago was serene, yesterday, we flew into the most incredible turbulence. Our air speed slid up and down from 67 knots/hour to 120. Giant hands lifted us up 700 feet/minute in one breath and tossed us back down 700 feet in the next. My stomach followed suit. It would have been the stuff of dreams for thrill-seeking midway lovers. The drama inside the cockpit accelerated as the width of the valleys decreased. I kept hearing myself grunting, “Oh god.”

But during the night, the radio god answered my prayers and the radios mostly worked. We’ve had so many adventures in this cross country tour that I think my old fear of heights has just kind of given up trying to scare the bee geebies (sp.) out of me. I’ve tamed the monster, which is a blessing after all these years. It’s an incredible experience flying through these mountains, over this varied and magnificent land of ours. I haven’t quite processed the beauty of flight or the sensation of keeping our very stable, old girl of a plane on an even course despite the weather.

Yesterday we flew all the way from Watson Lake in the Yukon, through B.C. into Alberta – would have been 1100 kilometers by car. Today, if our weater briefing holds and the winds cooperate, we should land in Nelson where the temperature is 40 degrees. Just a couple of days ago, we were in Dawson City, only an five -hour flight south of Tuktiuktuk, shivering in our nighttime socks. Hard to believe.

I’ve included a photo of a huge Russian helicopter that looks like a pregnant guppy fish wearing a propeller beanie cap. One photo is of a bow river. When these rivers overflow their banks the bow gets cut off and the river straightens.

Soon we’ll be back home,
Happy thoughts to you,
Lynda and Bob

Watson Lake, Yukon

Watson Lake, The Alaska Highway, Yukon
July 20, 2006

Chased by a Storm

Among the 54 000 signs from all over the world in the famous Signpost Forest in Watson Lake, is one from the University of Guelph. To its left are signs from Wismar, St Gallen and Madrid. Visitors from Havelock, ON were posting their signs today while I wandered among the rows. The town supplies ladders, hammers and nails and has more posts ready to erect as needed. The forest is quite a sight – but I can’t imagine having either the will or enough room in my suitcase to follow this tradition. In 1942, a homesick American soldier started the forest. One of more than 11 000 American troops and 16 000 Canadian and American civilian workers who built the Alcan (Alaska-Canadian) highway, he pounded a sign into the ground pointing in the direction of his town.
The Alaska Highway is famous. But flying over the asphalt surface now doesn’t tell the tale of its creation. Photos in the interpretive centre here show horses mired in mud up to their withers, troops and equipment forging a route through 1 500 miles of mountain wilderness, muskeg and mosquitoes, workers dying of hypothermia and fatigue. It was an amazing effort, much like building the pyramids in Egypt, building this road to protect America from the Japanese.
I’m sitting in the nun’s room of a former Catholic mission house and can almost feel their piety slipping into the building. The mission is now a comfortable B&B, our refuge for the night that, wonder of wonders comes with a courtesy car. We’re escaping here from yet more storms. Weather Briefing gave Bob the all clear from Whitehorse through to Fort Nelson early this morning. The skies were overcast but the ceiling high all the way to Watson Lake where we stopped for refueling and lunch. Climbing during take off after our stop, Bob said, “I don’t like the look of the weather.” We started to feel the old familiar tension. Ahead to our right were obvious rainstorms and behind us, the skies were closing in.
“Could you radio for a weather briefing?” I asked. Bob tried Edmonton, Whitehorse and Watson Lake on both radios. They heard us, but we couldn’t hear them. Nothing. Oh no, here we go again, I thought, a knot beginning to develop in my stomach.
Bob banked the plane in the direction of Fort Nelson. “Keep the highway in sight,” he said. “How does the weather look?”
“Not too bad straight ahead,” I said.
“But we’d have to leave the highway if we flew straight ahead,” I said, looking at the water and trees below. Where would we land?” Bob tried the radio again. We heard an intermittent signal.
Bob turned the plane around in the direction of Watson Lake, toward the rain and dark clouds. “We’re going back,” he said.
I breathed a sigh of relief, despite the sky ahead and now here I am sitting in a former nun’s room while Bob reads maps.
For the next few days the weather looks stellar. We hope to fly to Grand Prairie tomorrow, to Invermere the next day and then on to Nelson. I’m praying for a radio god.
The photos are of Bob panning for gold, a paddle wheel, a local in the Snake Pit with Brian and Bob reflected in background mirror, an old car decorating a Dawson street corner, Brian in front of a river dredger that churned river gravel during the gold rush days, skirting a rain cloud and the Rockies.

Keep cool wherever you are,
Lynda and Bob

North of 64

Dawson City, Yukon Territory
July 18, 2006

North of 64

“Do you know the way to The Drunken Goat? Bob asked a couple of young guys sitting on a stoop.
“No,” they said, looking at Bob’s beard and smiling.
We were looking for a recommended Dawson City restaurant yesterday after sipping a beer at the Snake Pit, a bar that looked like it had had been around during the gold rush. The weather is perfect, would have been good enough to fly to the Artic Circle, today, even beyond to Inuvik. But as Bob said last night over dinner, “It would be fun to say we’d been there, but that’s all it would be for me. I’d rather see the geology here, the quartz and some gold mining sluices.”
I agreed. It would be a long flight to Inuvik, we’ve already flown 8,000 kilometers and there’s so much history to absorb here. In Fort Nelson on the Alaska Highway, we found the last motel room in town, a charming room that Brian liked, actually. It had a dumpster at the front door. Over the washroom in the Fort Nelson hotel where we had dinner, a sign warned, “Drug Free Zone.” In Fort St. John, a town booming with oil prospectors and guys working in the logging, gas and oil industries, signs in the hotel laundry room said, “Don’t wash your rig clothing here.” Other signs said, “Wipe your muddy boots.” House prices in Fort Nelson are similar to those of Brampton. The area is exploding, much as are Calgary, Edmonton and perhaps Dawson City in the late 1800s, although it boomed for just a couple of years.
I wish I’d read Burton’s books on the Klondike. Old photographs here tell amazing tales of prospectors carting two thousand pounds of food, enough to last a year in the mining fields, of sleds mired in mud, of huge dredging machines roaming the creeks of the Klondike until as late as the 60s. Many hearty young fellows with gold in their eyes died of exposure on the Chilkoot Trail in 1896-1898. There was a checkpoint at the top of the Chilkoot Pass, a long hard 1,000-foot uphill slog and if they didn’t have enough food and supplies to last a year, they were turned back.
We left Whitehorse on Sunday, following the Klondike Highway here to Dawson, flying part of the way through a beautiful barren section of the Rockies. For most of the trip, we also traced the Yukon River that flows through Whitehorse, Dawson City, and Fairbanks, Alaska into the Bering Sea, the fourth longest river in the world.
Dawson City is a little ghost townish at the moment, far quieter than we expected -- a result of high fuel prices, 9/11 and the CAD/US dollar exchange rate. So finding a spot to stay even in the tourist season was easy. It’s a fascinating town that through building codes has maintained its original characteristics with wood framed houses and much careful restoration work. Houses are built on wooden blocks over eight feet of gravel for protection against permafrost, streets are unpaved and boardwalks protect people’s tootsies from the spring mud.
The hospitality here is remarkable, so much like the Maritimes. Brian befriended an old fellow, John, at the airport yesterday, took his photograph and in the wee hours of this morning at Diamond Tooth Gertie’s saloon, John gave us his car keys so we could pan for gold today. Yesterday, a young tour guide surprised us by popping out from behind a large Parks Canada display board. She was dressed in full period costume, long skirt, hat with feather and a parasol. She was from Nelson and had noticed Brian’s Oso Negro T shirt. She wanted to know where he was from. During the conversation, I mentioned that I hoped to see Artic flowers. So, she offered to lend me a wild flower book. Our B&B host gave us a shovel and pan to help us on our quest for gold today. We aren’t wealthy yet. It feels a little like Pilgrim’s Progress here at the B&B. There’s an etymologist and his research assistant who are completing a study on the bugs of Canada, a woman from Philadelphia who is on a Fulbright grant writing an historical fiction of the Klondike and a couple from England who also vacation each year in India.
For the last few nights, Bob and I have been wearing night masks. Sunset is posted for 12.07 a.m. tonight and sunrise at 4:41 a.m. But last night the sky was still bright at 1:30 a.m. when we were walking home. So we could fly our plane all night here for goodness sake.
The photos were taken over the last few days, of the Rockies, lakes, the Yukon River, a few buildings around Dawson that weren’t built properly to withstand permafrost and a foxtail blade grass, the seeds of which lacerated and killed many horses during the gold rush days. We’ll fly to Whitehorse tomorrow, say a sad goodbye to Brian and then head on to Nelson if the weather gods are in our favour.
Thank you for you messages. They are wonderful to read.

Warm thoughts,
Lynda and Bob

Sunrise 4:35 a.m.

Fort St. John, B.C.
July 14, 2006

Sun Rise 4:35 a.m.

A Fort St. John travel brochure says, “Miles from nowhere? You betcha!” And that’s what it feels like in Fort St. John because you can either drive or fly north from here along the Alaska Highway or trace your route back south. I love being stranded, actually, because there is so much cultural and geographical history in this area.

In 1983, an SFU archeological cave excavation at the south end of Charlie Lake (just north of Fort St. John) discovered a fluted spear point, animal bones and a simple stone bead carbon dated back 10 500 years to the time of the Paleo Indians. The bead is significant because it’s the earliest stone bead discovered in N.A. and the earliest example of people using jewelry. At the time the area was part of a large ice-damned lake, an ice-free corridor. The folks who lived here then weren’t ‘cavemen.’ They were hunters who made clothing and shelter from animal skins.

Once through the Rockies, the sky is big, just like the prairies and because of some bad weather, a meteorologist’s dream. We are kind of living in the clouds these days.

Cheers,
Lynda

Williams Lake More Photos

Grounded in Williams Lake

William’s Lake,
Cariboo Region,
Central Interior B.C.
July 13, 2006
Five days behind schedule

Hello Everyone:

Early Tuesday morning, after a couple of days at Brian’s waiting for the weather to clear, the three of us took off from Brackendale airport. We flew north along the Sea to Sky highway, (I’d never want to use it an emergency runway), over Whistler and Pemberton, by Anderson Lake and briefly through the Fraser River valley, that divides the Chilcotin and Cariboo Regions, and through the magnificent snow-capped Coast Mountains. “Turn around the next corner,” Bob said.
“Are you sure this is the route?” I gasped flying around one tight corner. It looks narrow.” I felt as though we could touch the mountainsides.

“You could fly a fleet of cargo planes in here,” Bob said.
Doesn’t feel like it, I thought.

Suddenly around Lillooet, we soared out of the mountains, and entered a flat world of dry sagebrush, the Interior Plateau, a huge amazing area of sandy-coloured terrain, so different from the mountains and river valleys we’d left behind. British Columbia is remarkable for its changing landscape. As we flew north, the weather deteriorated and by the time Williams Lake came into view our windshield was an intricate design of rain rivulets.

William’s Lake began as a Shuswap Village in the early 19th century. When the Cariboo Gold Rush began, prospectors followed trails and later when the gold rush ended, settlers began ranching in the Cariboo grasslands. Williams Lake grew gradually, has had some ups and downs. Now it’s known for cattle shipping, forestry and also still some mining.
Tuesday evening, we picked our way along the narrow and very wet trail of a nearby nature preserve. Birds called to each other, probably enjoying the rain more than we were. In the pocket of his bright yellow rain jacket, Brian had stashed three harmonicas with which to serenade us, a notebook, a clock and a camera. An eclectic assortment that mirrors his nature.
We’ve spent the whole day yesterday walking –12 kilometers or more – there are advantages to not having a car. This is a funky little town with character that Brampton might dream to have one day. In a pub yesterday afternoon, Brian struck up a conversation with five fellows in their 70s or so. One had recently returned from working ten years in Bejing. Four were pilots and gave us a ton of information. Today we had lunch in a bakery, nestled between a hemp shop and a denture clinic. The owner was an amazing guy who seemed to know a lot about everything.

We hope to take off for Fort Nelson today -- as Noah said, “I think it might brighten up yet.” The weather channel has described lots of rain for Ontario flowers.

The photos are Brian’s. www.noppephoto.com The pansy, service berry leaf and the pic of the three of us were taken here in Williams Lake, the rest at various points en route.

Cheers, Lynda

West to the Pacific

Garilbaldi Highlands
July 10, 2006

Our little plane soared through the Selkirk Mountains just after our sunrise take off from Nelson. Despite radio uncertainties, we’re feeling more comfortable up there in the little cockpit. Teamwork takes time – especially when challenges keep popping up to keep us on edge. It seems as though our new radio works well on the ground – but in flight, the old switches get shaken around by engine vibrations and loose contact. So we’re using our old radio which is a bit iffy at times.

We soared through mountain valleys yesterday – through the Selkirks around Castelgar, through the Monashees around Grand Forks and Midway, then the Okanagan Mountains and Osoyoos in the Okanagan Valley, along the Silmilkameen Valley, west of Oliver into Manning Park between Princeton and Hope and along the Fraser River Valley, south of Hell’s Gate. Because the air is drier in Manning Park, Pine Beetles are gorging themselves. You’ll see their ravages in one photo – thousands of trees are toast – actually, the hills are the colour of cinnamon toast. It’s sad to see the damage from this little pest. A hard winter or forest fires will kill these beetles. But hard winters are a rarity now.

Just east of Hope at 7000 feet, a pilot flying behind us radioed ahead for weather. I love flying in solitude amongst these mountains, now that my heart has left my mouth and I’m feeling more at home in the plane. But not hearing other human voices for hours on end rattles me, I have to admit. I keep thinking, where is everybody? So I’m always excited to hear voices wafting into our headphones.

We knew that a cold front was blowing in yesterday, but hoped that by leaving early, we’d squeak through. As soon as we landed in Chilliwack, I phoned Susan. Reading our blog had given her the shivers. I remember laughing to myself during our conversation, not over Susan’s concern but in remembering all the years we had worried about our kids and now they are kind of worried about us. Tables turn, don’t they?

Susan, Alan, Max and Kai had been in Vancouver and Bowen Island while we were in Nelson and wonder of wonders, they were only 45 minutes from Chilliwack en route back home when we called. We were crossing paths and had a wonderful visit at the airport.

It seemed strange flying into the controlled airspace of Vancouver. You need a transponder code so air traffic controllers can track your movements on radar. The controller even asked us at what altitude we wanted to fly, very nice of him since the air wasn’t clear and we needed to fly as low as possible. Soon we were soaring beside the Lion’s Gate Bridge and not long after were eye balling The Chief in Squamish, that amazing hunk of granite, the second largest in the world after the Rock of Gibralter.

In the lovely little community of Garibaldi Highlands above Squamish, Brian’s deck looks out to snow-capped Omega Mountain, a beauty that takes my breath away every time I look out. This is god’s country. Without a doubt.

If the weather cooperates, tomorrow we’ll fly north to Pemberton, Lilooet, William’s Lake, Prince George and Fort St. John. On the ground in Chilliwack, we met the pilot who had been flying behind us. He is planning to fly north into the Artic Circle and around to Siberia. Isn’t that cool! It’s also a challenge because every state in Russia requires a Visa and not only that, Russia charges $1:00 for each kilometer you fly in its airspace.

We pray daily to the weather gods and send you good wishes from near the Sea to Sky highway. For coffee lovers I’ve added a photo of Nelson’s new and trendy Oso Negro.

Lynda and Bob

A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Nelson, B.C. July 7, 2006

The air in the plane was steamy again this morning for a few mintutes. We were flying from Cranbrook to Nelson through the St. Mary's Pass of the Purcell Mountain Range; but unlike our flight yesterday through the Mariah's Pass, we weren't peering at the ground through scattered clouds. I think valleys are devils spawned to confound the aerial bound because until you pay very close attention, they're clones, all the same, one of the other. And as with so many things in life, the devil is in the details. Over the years, when Bob clears his throat I say to myself, Look out.

The throat clearing this morning meant, 'I'm not sure where we are again.' I looked out at the hills, the water below, the mountains. But, now, a woman of vast experience, I thought -- well we got through this mess yesterday and we will again today. Besides, we now have a borrowed hand held radio should the vintage toggles on our avionics fail us once more.

It's such an elixir to be here in Nelson for a couple of days because honestly, we're both a bit knackered. On our second day, we wrestled for a few hours with gusting winds. At one point when I was flying, the wind whipped the plane around a full 45 degrees. I thought I'd been sent for and I think Bob did too! On our first day we flew a long 7.5 hours. So by day three, our own fuel was already low when the control tower's red light welcomed us in Minot. And yesterday we lost our way. So tomorrow will be like the seventh day of rest. Our plan is to just hang out here in Nelson for another day -- then fly to Garibaldi Highlands (Squamish) on Sunday.

Attached are a few photos of our little plane at the border in Drummond Island, Michigan, a sunset in Ashland Wisconsin, and the mountains in Mariah's Pass, Glacier National Park, Montana.

Keep well and enjoy your weekend,
Lynda

There's a Mountain in Front of Us and I Don't Know Which Way to Turn

Cranbrook, B.C.
July 6, 2006,
Day 4 –

Grounded by Thunderstorms


Hello Everyone:

We’re tuckered and kind of bowled over by the last four days. The following are two postings, kind of cobbled together when I had a moment. The other day, I said to a friend during a conversation, “Knowledge is power.” She said, “And ignorance is bliss.” How true, I thought. Two years ago during our flight to the west, I panicked from the fear of not knowing how to fly. In this moment, I’m overwhelmed because I know so little about the art of flying. The skies sparked with lightning this afternoon, only a few hours after landing in Cranbrook.


There’s a Mountain in Front of Us and I Don’t Know Which Way to Turn

Only twenty minutes earlier we had flown through a snow-peaked mountain pass in Glacier Mountain Park, Montana. The scenery was the stuff of dreams. Far below us, a river snaked off into the distance and on either side lush green hills undulating ahead. We were following a river valley. This time, unlike two years ago, my heart had not traveled part way into my mouth with the heights, the grandeur, the immensity of the hills, mountains and the beauty. I was inspired by awe, soaking it all in.

We left home on July 3rd, delayed two days because of strong winds both in Brampton and also en route to our first day’s destination in Ashland Wisconsin. Over the last four intense days, Bob and I have taking turns flying -- Bob the pilot in command and me – well I don’t even know what to call myself – a fearful, exuberant, student pilot perhaps.

I took off from Cutbank, Montana. Bob navigated. We followed a winding highway and railroad tracks up to the edge of the Glacier Mountains. “You’ve got control,” I said to Bob. There was no way I would fly into those mountains, any mountains, god forbid. I grabbed my camera, and feeling as though I was surrounded by the warmth of a gigantic bubble bath, I began to photograph the mystical mountains, the valley, the green hills. I felt as though I’d been transported into another world, and I had.

I was still lost in my inner world when I heard Bob say, “I’m not sure where we are.”

Jeese, I said to myself. My attention shifted like lightning from the mountains to Bob. He was flying the plane, reading the GPS and studying a map on his kneepad clipboard.

“Do you want me to take control?” I said, tasting my heart in my mouth.

“Yes,” he said.

“I don’t frigging believe this, I thought to myself. While Bob studied our maps and GPS and looked at the ground features below, I flew the plane -- through the valley, over the river between the mountains and the hills and I knew at that moment that flying the plane didn’t touch the importance of knowing how to navigate, that I could fly the plane, but only Bob knew how to find our route to Cranbrook.

I flew around one corner and up ahead was a mountain. I said to Bob, “There’s a mountain ahead and I don’t know which way to turn.”

“Neither do I,” he said.

That was a kind of turning point for me. I thought to myself, I just have to fly the plane and if that means telling Bob that I’m going to make a right hand turn into another valley, then I would. He had to concentrate on navigation. I had to concentrate on flying. That was the way it was.

The world outside our plane was serene. No turbulence. Just glory. Inside the plane another drama was unfolding. The air was rank with tension. After ten heart pounding minutes, Bob said, “I think I know where we are.”

I would have jumped for joy if we hadn’t been crunched in a 1958 Cessna 172. We started to radio Cranbrook about ten nautical miles from the field. No answer. Not this again, I thought. For the next fifteen tense minutes, we heard nothing from our headphones -- only intermittent messages from the old speaker on the ceiling of our plane. I unfastened my seatbelt and flattened my left ear to the ceiling of the plane. My ears were blocked from flying at 8,000 feet altitude. The radio controller was telling us stuff and I could barely hear what he was saying. We had to land the plane.



Cutbank, Montana
Day three
July 5, 2006

“Is that a light on the control tower?” Bob asked. We had just landed and were taxiing from the runway at Minot International Airport in North Dakota yesterday afternoon. The international designation is a real stretcher for some airports. Two years ago we landed on the grass strip runway at Louiseville International Airport, avoiding the gopher holes as best as possible. The ‘terminal’ building was an old rundown clapboard building with a door that banged in the prairie wind. I stepped across mouse droppings and old sofa cushions to reach the bulletin board and a curling piece of paper for refueling phone numbers. The guy who arrived an hour later to fill our tanks was a crop sprayer. That night we slept in a tent under the wings of our plane on the grounds of this ‘international’ airport. So we had developed an impression about international airports in the west.
At Minot, South Dakota, we took turns radioing in for an airport advisory – you need to know the wind direction and strength for landing. When no one responded, I said to Bob, “How do these airports get to be called ‘international’?” About a mile from the airport, Bob noticed light glinting from the wing of a plane on the runway’s apron. We radioed the plane. No answer. “What a dumb place to park a plane,” I said to Bob as I circled the airport so Bob could check the windsock. The control tower looked down onto two huge runways. Not too far away was a military airport.
Our Airport Directory said that this control tower was operated with limited hours. Finally we landed and it was then that Bob noticed the light on the control tower. “Oh no. It’s a red light,” I said. “We have to stop.” About the same time, a pick up truck with a flashing beacon came racing toward us. Off in the distance, a jet started taxiing towards us. The pickup truck parked immediately in front of our plane. A guy came running over.
“Control tower has been answering both of you for the last fifteen minutes. So has the plane holding to take off.” He said, not unpleasantly.
Bob groaned. Our brand new radio had failed us and never mind the repairs and delays, we were probably in trouble with the authorities. What a mess. The fellow in the pickup shepherded us over to the ramp.
“You’ll have to call the control tower,” he said.
Later, we found a nice hotel and walked four kilometers to restore ourselves. The air traffic controller who had been signaling us for god knows how long advised us to always watch for tower lights and to transmit a possible radio error if we aren’t hearing responses. We learned a lot the hard way yesterday. This morning, the avionics technician flipped a switch and voila the radio worked. What a comedy of errors was our day two.
Now we’re checking the weather for our flight tomorrow through the mountains of Glacier National Park en route to Nelson. I hope to have some beautiful photos for you. We can actually see snow peaked mountains from our motel room window.
If you want to cross into the States without showing your passport or having any of your luggage searched, fly in small plane!

I hope you are enjoying these early days of summer.

Warm thoughts,
Lynda and Bob

Fear is the Thief of Dreams

June 28 2006

Hello Everyone:

How are you? It's two years since Bob and I flew to the Pacific in our little Cessna 172 and now our living and dining room floors are again covered with maps, eleven of them this time, over which we gingerly walk. Just as before, on the far right near our wood stove is Ontario, topographically looking quite flat and then edging further left into the dining room, Manitoba, then Saskatchewan. Part way through Alberta, things start to look quite tricky with lots of orange lumps and bumps that are the Rocky and Columbia Mountain chains. But we've added another seven this year because our destination is Whitehouse and Dawson City.

Our original plan was to fly west through the States. But the weather gods are in charge and now we'll fly across the top of Lake Superior, eventually landing near Garibaldi Highlands south of Whistler B.C. where our son Brian will join us. A couple of weeks ago while following our route through B.C. to the Yukon, I noticed that the Artic Circle isn't far from Dawson City. "Could we fly into the Artic, Bob?" I asked. "Maybe to Tuktoyaktuk and the Beaufort Sea? Wouldn't it be amazing to see the Arctic?" So now we have a map of the Arctic to entice us, as well.

After a few days in the far north, we'll return home via Nelson B.C. to visit our daughter, Susan and Alan, her husband and Max and Kai, our two small grandsons.

The big difference with our flight this year is that somewhere over the prairies during our last flight --when I had lots of time to look down and panic, I decided that if we ever flew cross country again, I should learn to land the plane, fear or not. So, even though flying was my dread and Bob's passion, I started flying lessons on April 4 this year. But, I didn’t realize at the time that in order to land, I’d have to learn a lot more about flying than I bargained for. So I've climbed and descended, banked, performed stalls, a couple of spiral dives and a spin (Not because I wanted to; but because I had to.).

My patient Brampton Flying Club flight instructor, John Farres, has endured a lot of blue air in the cockpit (nasty words just fly out of my mouth) during some of these manoeuvers and he’s put up with my bumpy landings. During a windy day a few weeks ago when the plane was buffeting around and I was banking for a landing, I said to John, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” He said, “Neither can I. I can’t believe I’m being paid to do something I love so much.” So we were both incredulous for different reasons.

Yes, fear is definitely the thief of dreams, because I’m actually getting a kick out of flying now. I've done more take offs and landings than I care to admit. I've passed my radio telephone operator's test. A radio license will allow me to transmit legally. I've passed an aviation safety exam and have received my Student Pilot's Permit which will allow me to solo. Gulp. I have new glasses so I can see better. My brain isn’t wired for all the technical stuff such as meteorolgy and navigation; but I’m hoping Bob can get me though.

Bob is calm about most things. But he's thrilled about my flying and I -- well -- I’m simply astonished. Our son Mark is also a student pilot and my sister, Janet, who lives in San Diego has logged over 2 700 flight hours. In her spare time she flies specialists into Mexico to care for those who don't have access to medical care. So fliers hover in the air around me.

We hope you'll enjoy following our journey. We'll both be flying and if all goes well, we'll leave early this Saturday morning, July 1st. Bob is the pilot in charge, of course. But he says this time, he’ll be sitting in the co-pilot’s seat. Wow! He will take the tricky mountain flying, that's for sure. We'll post photos along the way.Until the next entry, keep happy and well. You can get in touch with us by email. We'd love to hear from you and keep track of your summer as well. Thanks Christine and Vikesh for easing me into the world of blogging. I'm including two photos taken on our last cross country flight.

Warm thoughts,
Lynda
lnoppe@netrover.com
www.lyndanoppe.blogspot.com


After she received the photo of the Georgian Bay island (above), a friend said that the blue waters reminded her of the windows of the cathedral in Chartres. I'll never forget those islands. They were gems in the water far below. The photo on the right was taken as we soared through the Crow's Nest Pass.

Lynda