Fifteen hard miles in ten hours in the hot sun will leave anyone feeling a little wilted. There was a palpable air of relief around us as we shuffled our way back to the car, which was parked in a dusty lot and pulled in facing a wooded area. The setting sun was still beating on the granite cliffs to the South, but the parking lot was in total shade.
I was on the driver’s side and had just let out a relieved grunt as I slid off my stiff and heavy backpacking boots. Standing up to stretch after slipping my feet into some sandals, my jaw dropped as I saw two hundred pounds, four legs and light brown fur lumbering away from a neighbouring car with a brown paper bag in it’s mouth.
“Sarah! A bear!”
She wasn’t fifteen feet away from us and only wandered about twenty feet into the woods to dig into her new find. Seeing a bear with a tag on its ear and a grocery bag in its mouth doesn't quite recall the majesty of John Muir's Yosemite, but there was still a quiet awe in both of us as we stood transfixed and silent.
Sarah and I had each snapped a picture and I was going to reach for a phone to call and report the late afternoon snacker when I turned and saw the rangers approaching us. Dressed in their green pants, matching ball caps and crisp khaki shirts, the gang of four were probably a couple years younger than me. Two men and two women, with two of them carrying high-tech listening equipment and a paintball gun.
I was approached by the younger of the two men, wearing big glasses and a stubby dirty blond pony tail pulled through the back of his hat. Knowing what he was looking for I whispered “Right there, straight ahead,” and pointed. He took a look and then went back to his teammates. There was a deceptive and fleeting moment of calm as the four of them took about three steps toward the bear.
The contrast could not have been more stark: the silent reverence when we sat watching the bear eat, and the top-of-their-lungs shouting as the rangers gave chase. "HEY BEAR! GET OUT OF HERE!" They exploded like a pack of wolves on Red Bull, a college football team emerging from the tunnel trying their best to psych out their opponent as they ran straight at the animal. She was undeterred for a moment, but once the rangers were within about ten feet she dropped her find and retreated to the woods. As quickly and silently as we had seen her, she disappeared in a jarring mess of shouts and pressurized paint pellets.
They weren't done, though. The older of the two male rangers, sporting close-cropped black hair and a neatly groomed beard (pffff) went back to the truck and emerged with what looked like a Soviet assault rifle. The younger woman stayed close by him with radio equipment they could use to track the animal into the woods.
"So, what do you guys do now?" I asked.
"We have to go and find her. This bear has been a real problem," came the cavalier, almost boastful response from the ranger brandishing the firearm. "We've been chasing her almost exclusively for about a week and-a-half, and she's getting bolder and bolder. We're going to shoot her with rubber bullets to try and keep her away, but we've relocated her five times."
"Did she break into a car just now?" Yosemite bears are famous for tearing into locked cars in search of food.
"No. Somebody put their food down and walked a hundred yards away. She came and grabbed it as soon as he walked away."
"So I guess he didn't pay attention to the signs that seem to be every five feet telling you to store your food properly, huh?"
"Yeah, well, signs are only so effective. " And then, as a casual afterthought he added "We'll have to put her down if she gets worse."
So, just to recap: Person comes into bear's habitat. Person told not to leave food out. Person leaves food out. Bear gets shot. It was a strange and troubling end to four days in Yosemite that were overwhelming for any number of reasons - both magical and devastating.
Yosemite National Park is stunning. The granite cliffs, soaring waterfalls and mountain meadows are enough to bring a grown man to tears. They have captured the imaginations of writers, artists and musicians for generations, and are why three and a half million people visit the park every year (that's an average of ten thousand a day, for those of you keeping score at home). But of those 3.5 million, one has to wonder how many of them see the park as simply a forested extension of the cities from which they come. It would not be a stretch for anybody to view Yosemite as yet another consumerist enclave, only one that happens to be surrounded by natural, rather than artificial skyscrapers.
I am not an elitist. I think the woods are for everybody, and just because I can walk a little ways into the mountains, that does not mean that I am any more entitled to see Yosemite than someone who, for whatever reason, cannot venture more than a half mile from the car. But to nurture the sort of roadside tourism which Yosemite oozes - a pizza joint, souvenir "clearance outlet" and sprawling, cancerous golf course can all be found on the valley floor - does not show the same sort of reverence for the natural environment that the park pretends to espouse. How are tourists supposed to take seriously the warnings about locking up their food when they are parked a stone's throw from an all-you-can-eat buffet? The park is dotted with signs asking us to keep the animals wild, but they aren't exactly setting the best precedent with what they've done to the landscape.
If ten thousand people a day want to respect and learn about the land - even from the comfort and safety of their cars - then that should be encouraged. Awareness and education are the cornerstones of conservation. But I am at a loss as to what good is served by the hordes coming through Yosemite to eat pizza and buy t-shirts, only to have the wildlife that is emblazoned on those very t-shirts be euthanized as a result of the negligence of park visitors. (Funny, too, how John Muir - a man whose image and name are shamelessly plastered all over the park - defined his life by the time he spent in these mountains without every buying a single t-shirt).
Let anyone who so desires come to Yosemite. Let them stay awhile, take pictures and tell all their friends about it. I, myself was a temporary guest, and am very grateful to have been allowed to come for a visit. But let the people come on the terms of the mountains, dictated by compassion, not consumerism. I'm happy to pay to enter the park, but I want to pay to enter a park in the mountains, not a shopping mall in the woods. If you want a pizza buffet, stay at home. If you want a buffet for the soul, bring your sleeping bag and plan to stay a while.
Just remember to lock up your food.
Peace,
Hart
Monday, May 18, 2009
Yosemite Part 2: Half Dome (Choose Your Own Adventure)
(Please choose a number between 1 and 4. You'll need it later on in this post)
Friday had been a great day of recharging, and after some back-and-forth between us about avoiding crowds and what we wanted out of our time in Yosemite, we decided that climbing the fabled Half Dome on Saturday would be a fun and challenging way to cap off our time in the park. Half Dome is more rock than mountain, a granite formation rising up 4800 feet (1, 144 metres) from the valley floor to an elevation of 8,836 feet (2,693 metres). The summit of the rock is accessible without technical climbing gear, with fixed cables shepherding hikers up the last 400 feet (120 metres) of the steep climb. It's a grueling 15-mile round-trip, but something we were very much looking forward to as we packed up camp on Saturday morning and took the short drive to the trailhead.
There are other lookout points and waterfalls on the way up to the summit, so we were very much part of a thundering herd as we started the walk. I felt like a pilgrim heading to Mecca, only with more of a crowd. While the crowds would ebb and flow throughout the day, we never quite had the feeling that we were "getting away from it all," as we estimated at day's end that we spent less than ten percent of the day without other people in view or earshot. I shudder to think of the masses that flock to Half Dome at summer's peak.
The highlight of the early part of the hike is the misnomered "Mist Trail," a steep granite stair climb that has you walking along side a pumping waterfall (pumping in springtime, at least), while the mist from the falls gives you a thorough soaking. It wasn't a bad way to start the day, as the scenery was great and we knew that we were in for a hot day of hiking.
The walk levels off somewhat after the mist trail culminates with the thundering Nevada Falls four miles (about seven kilometers) in. After a flat, sandy section the trail climbs gradually toward the summit, with the final two miles being gnarly to say the least. There are dozens of steps seemingly carved right into the side of the rock, then some free scrambling up bare rock (nothing but the valley floor to stop a fall) which takes you to a false summit. From the false summit, you look straight up to the final 400 feet (120 meters) of climb: a seventy degree rock face where the only (sane) way up or down is to haul yourself up using the steel cables that are in place from May to October. It took me a long, hard look at the cables to figure whether or not I wanted to make the final push, but in the end...(kindly recall the number you chose at the beginning of the blog to complete this sentence. Let's all meet up again after number four.)
1. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The Maori people of New Zealand have asked climbers not to stand directly on the summit Aoraki/Mount Cook - that country's highest peak - out of respect for the mountain's sacred history. I thought the honourable thing to do would be to show the same respect to Half Dome.
2. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 200 feet. My mother is an avid knitter, and my untimely demise resulting from a potential misstep would have put her way behind on her Christmas socks for this year. I couldn't do that to her.
3. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. Sarah told me I was more of a man for not doing it than all of those who did it just for the sake of doing it. And besides, I haven't felt the need to prove anything to anyone since my second successful defence of the Camp Sheldrake 60-second burp record in 2003(120 burps in one minute, and it still stands to this day).
4. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The thought scared the living piss out of me.
So I didn't stand atop the absolute summit of Half Dome. But to let that detract from what was a near-idyllic day on the trails (save for the crowds) would be to miss the point of a day in the woods altogether. The lizards scampering below me, wild flowers in bloom beside me and snow-covered peaks in front of me were the stuff of a Planet Earth highlight reel, and to spend a day letting my senses feast in such a theater was a wonderful privilege. Summit or no summit, to be so blessed as to be wincing my way down the mountain in the relentless sun after walking on the shoulder of a giant was soul food of the highest nutritional content. I am grateful to Half Dome for letting me spend a blink of her eye alongside her, and have never had a shower so glorious as the waterfall mist on the descent.
Peace,
Hart
Friday had been a great day of recharging, and after some back-and-forth between us about avoiding crowds and what we wanted out of our time in Yosemite, we decided that climbing the fabled Half Dome on Saturday would be a fun and challenging way to cap off our time in the park. Half Dome is more rock than mountain, a granite formation rising up 4800 feet (1, 144 metres) from the valley floor to an elevation of 8,836 feet (2,693 metres). The summit of the rock is accessible without technical climbing gear, with fixed cables shepherding hikers up the last 400 feet (120 metres) of the steep climb. It's a grueling 15-mile round-trip, but something we were very much looking forward to as we packed up camp on Saturday morning and took the short drive to the trailhead.
There are other lookout points and waterfalls on the way up to the summit, so we were very much part of a thundering herd as we started the walk. I felt like a pilgrim heading to Mecca, only with more of a crowd. While the crowds would ebb and flow throughout the day, we never quite had the feeling that we were "getting away from it all," as we estimated at day's end that we spent less than ten percent of the day without other people in view or earshot. I shudder to think of the masses that flock to Half Dome at summer's peak.
The highlight of the early part of the hike is the misnomered "Mist Trail," a steep granite stair climb that has you walking along side a pumping waterfall (pumping in springtime, at least), while the mist from the falls gives you a thorough soaking. It wasn't a bad way to start the day, as the scenery was great and we knew that we were in for a hot day of hiking.
The walk levels off somewhat after the mist trail culminates with the thundering Nevada Falls four miles (about seven kilometers) in. After a flat, sandy section the trail climbs gradually toward the summit, with the final two miles being gnarly to say the least. There are dozens of steps seemingly carved right into the side of the rock, then some free scrambling up bare rock (nothing but the valley floor to stop a fall) which takes you to a false summit. From the false summit, you look straight up to the final 400 feet (120 meters) of climb: a seventy degree rock face where the only (sane) way up or down is to haul yourself up using the steel cables that are in place from May to October. It took me a long, hard look at the cables to figure whether or not I wanted to make the final push, but in the end...(kindly recall the number you chose at the beginning of the blog to complete this sentence. Let's all meet up again after number four.)
1. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The Maori people of New Zealand have asked climbers not to stand directly on the summit Aoraki/Mount Cook - that country's highest peak - out of respect for the mountain's sacred history. I thought the honourable thing to do would be to show the same respect to Half Dome.
2. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 200 feet. My mother is an avid knitter, and my untimely demise resulting from a potential misstep would have put her way behind on her Christmas socks for this year. I couldn't do that to her.
3. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. Sarah told me I was more of a man for not doing it than all of those who did it just for the sake of doing it. And besides, I haven't felt the need to prove anything to anyone since my second successful defence of the Camp Sheldrake 60-second burp record in 2003(120 burps in one minute, and it still stands to this day).
4. But in the end, I chose not to pull myself up the cables and climb the final 400 feet. The thought scared the living piss out of me.
So I didn't stand atop the absolute summit of Half Dome. But to let that detract from what was a near-idyllic day on the trails (save for the crowds) would be to miss the point of a day in the woods altogether. The lizards scampering below me, wild flowers in bloom beside me and snow-covered peaks in front of me were the stuff of a Planet Earth highlight reel, and to spend a day letting my senses feast in such a theater was a wonderful privilege. Summit or no summit, to be so blessed as to be wincing my way down the mountain in the relentless sun after walking on the shoulder of a giant was soul food of the highest nutritional content. I am grateful to Half Dome for letting me spend a blink of her eye alongside her, and have never had a shower so glorious as the waterfall mist on the descent.
Peace,
Hart
Yosemite Part 1: Any Room at the Inn?
We enjoyed our stay in Arcata, but a guy can only see so many dreadlocks and yoga pants before looking for a change of scenery. We headed just a little ways down the 101 to Ferndale, CA, a one-horse town renowned for its Victorian architecture and quaint Main Street.
My Lonely Planet guidebook told us that we could camp for a modest fee - hot showers included - at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds in Ferndale, so we followed the signs when we arrived in town. The fairgrounds are located a couple of kilometers outside of town in some pretty serious agricultural country. We weren't sure the camping rumours would be true, but sure enough we found a field adjacent to the county racetrack that had a few ramshackle motor homes amidst the overgrowth and a hand-painted red-and-white sign that said "Camping Check-In". The sign pointed to a trailer that could not have had half as much furniture inside as it did outside.
Ten dollars later we were setting up our tent at the edge of an unkempt field across the street from a fine bovine herd on one side, the county fair grandstand on another and a scrap tire yard on yet another. It would seem that they don't get too many one-night visitors at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds (except during the fair, we were later told), as eyes peered out from behind tattered screens and rickety front doors of each of the ten or so trailers and motor homes that lined the field, watching our every move as we set up the tent and settled in for the night. A couple of young road trippers from Canada were the front page story for the fifteen hours we were camped at the fairgrounds, as every time we went to the bathrooms or walked off the property, locals made sure to find a reason to be standing in front of their trailers or in their windows to get a good look. I'm not sure if it felt more like a scene from Deliverance (backwoods creepy) or Snatch (bare-knuckle boxing gypsy creepy), but either way I wasn't sad to be leaving on Tuesday morning, the back-in-time charm of Ferndale not withstanding.
The coast had been good to us, but it was time to head inland a ways. After a one-night stopover in Ukiah, CA we headed to Yosemite National Park and the Sierra Nevada Mountains therein. It being midweek and early May at this point, we were looking forward to some time in the woods away from civilization. Everyone knows that National Parks are mobbed from June to September, so we were psyched to think we were ahead of the rush.
We were surprised, then, when we arrived late Tuesday night and found an "All Campgrounds Full" sign taped to the unoccupied entry booth in the Southwest corner of the park. Slightly confused and a little but unnerved, we turned around and set up camp in a dark and primitive campground (no picnics or brushing of teeth allowed, because of bears) about forty kilometers outside of the park.
We rolled in to the park again, for the first time, on Wednesday morning. We were told that all of the reservable campsites in the park were taken, but that the walk-in and non-reservable Camp 4 might still have a few spots left. Camp 4 is located on the floor of the Yosemite Valley, a good half-hour's drive from the entry to the park, so we booted it there as fast as we could, knowing that if we got shut out from Camp 4 our Yosemite experience might be in serious jeopardy. Again, this being the supposed off-season, we were taken aback at the amount of traffic we saw driving in, but we plowed on undeterred and were relieved to get one of the last sites available in Yosemite National Park.
How to describe Camp 4? It's a walk-in only campground, where everyone parks in a dusty lot and walks in to their site (we were about two hundred metres from the car to our tent). People are camped on top of each other, six to a site with, one meagre set of washrooms (no showers) serving all two hundred and some campers. Set in the shadow of Yosemite Falls and the iconic El Capitan, Camp 4 is renowned among rock climbers, who seemed to comprise at least 90% of the residents of this strange little village that was one part campground, one part music festival, and one part parents' basement. Twenty- and thirty-somethings who could probably be doing something more productive with their lives are the norm (present company proudly included), but the duct-taped gear and mac-and-cheese diets belie the diversity of the campers. Once the headlamps get turned on around the picnic tables at night you are just as likely to hear conversations about how "Siiiiick, dude" the nose route of El Cap is as you are to get recommendations on where to get sushi in Berlin or whether The Canterbury Tales is Chaucer's best work.
Tents and bear-proof food storage cabinets at Camp 4. You really have to hope your neighbour doesn't snore.
The full campsites and traffic heading from the park entrance to the valley (where most of Yosemite's commercial and slumbering activity takes place) had given us some cause for concern, but I don't know that either of us were quite prepared for the total gong show that would await us after we set up in Camp 4 and made our way to the beehive that is Yosemite Village.
The village is the hub of Yosemite National Park. Three and a half million people visit the park each year, and it seemed to us on Wednesday afternoon that 2009's entire allotment had checked in that afternoon. There were gift shops (and one "souvenir clearance outlet") swarming with tourists browsing the floor-to-ceiling t-shirts. Others clambered over each other in line at the full service grocery store, and still more were found in line at the plethora many eateries in the village, or on their way to the 18-hole championship golf course. It was like a dusty Disneyland, with all of the jostling, noise and aggravation of a major tourist trap and none of the anticipated tranquility or even mutual respect one anticipates when entering a national park. We had paid twenty bucks (the entry fee to the park, per car) for the privilege of fighting crowds for parking spots and roadside views, and were both feeling pretty demoralized.
Thursday was better, however. After the confusion and frustration of Wednesday, we checked out of Camp 4 into the more serene and natural North Pines Campground, and had a wonderful day of hiking 10 miles (round trip) to the top of Yosemite Falls - North America's highest waterfall, plunging over 2,000 feet to the valley floor. Watching the water unfurl as it leaped over the falls and billowed its way into the streams below and hearing its jet-engine roar that could only have been soothing in this particular setting was just the therapy we needed and left us feeling like we'd had a real day in the woods. We looked forward to a rest day on Friday and then a climb of the mighty Half Dome on Saturday.
My Lonely Planet guidebook told us that we could camp for a modest fee - hot showers included - at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds in Ferndale, so we followed the signs when we arrived in town. The fairgrounds are located a couple of kilometers outside of town in some pretty serious agricultural country. We weren't sure the camping rumours would be true, but sure enough we found a field adjacent to the county racetrack that had a few ramshackle motor homes amidst the overgrowth and a hand-painted red-and-white sign that said "Camping Check-In". The sign pointed to a trailer that could not have had half as much furniture inside as it did outside.
Ten dollars later we were setting up our tent at the edge of an unkempt field across the street from a fine bovine herd on one side, the county fair grandstand on another and a scrap tire yard on yet another. It would seem that they don't get too many one-night visitors at the Humboldt County Fairgrounds (except during the fair, we were later told), as eyes peered out from behind tattered screens and rickety front doors of each of the ten or so trailers and motor homes that lined the field, watching our every move as we set up the tent and settled in for the night. A couple of young road trippers from Canada were the front page story for the fifteen hours we were camped at the fairgrounds, as every time we went to the bathrooms or walked off the property, locals made sure to find a reason to be standing in front of their trailers or in their windows to get a good look. I'm not sure if it felt more like a scene from Deliverance (backwoods creepy) or Snatch (bare-knuckle boxing gypsy creepy), but either way I wasn't sad to be leaving on Tuesday morning, the back-in-time charm of Ferndale not withstanding.
The coast had been good to us, but it was time to head inland a ways. After a one-night stopover in Ukiah, CA we headed to Yosemite National Park and the Sierra Nevada Mountains therein. It being midweek and early May at this point, we were looking forward to some time in the woods away from civilization. Everyone knows that National Parks are mobbed from June to September, so we were psyched to think we were ahead of the rush.
We were surprised, then, when we arrived late Tuesday night and found an "All Campgrounds Full" sign taped to the unoccupied entry booth in the Southwest corner of the park. Slightly confused and a little but unnerved, we turned around and set up camp in a dark and primitive campground (no picnics or brushing of teeth allowed, because of bears) about forty kilometers outside of the park.
We rolled in to the park again, for the first time, on Wednesday morning. We were told that all of the reservable campsites in the park were taken, but that the walk-in and non-reservable Camp 4 might still have a few spots left. Camp 4 is located on the floor of the Yosemite Valley, a good half-hour's drive from the entry to the park, so we booted it there as fast as we could, knowing that if we got shut out from Camp 4 our Yosemite experience might be in serious jeopardy. Again, this being the supposed off-season, we were taken aback at the amount of traffic we saw driving in, but we plowed on undeterred and were relieved to get one of the last sites available in Yosemite National Park.
How to describe Camp 4? It's a walk-in only campground, where everyone parks in a dusty lot and walks in to their site (we were about two hundred metres from the car to our tent). People are camped on top of each other, six to a site with, one meagre set of washrooms (no showers) serving all two hundred and some campers. Set in the shadow of Yosemite Falls and the iconic El Capitan, Camp 4 is renowned among rock climbers, who seemed to comprise at least 90% of the residents of this strange little village that was one part campground, one part music festival, and one part parents' basement. Twenty- and thirty-somethings who could probably be doing something more productive with their lives are the norm (present company proudly included), but the duct-taped gear and mac-and-cheese diets belie the diversity of the campers. Once the headlamps get turned on around the picnic tables at night you are just as likely to hear conversations about how "Siiiiick, dude" the nose route of El Cap is as you are to get recommendations on where to get sushi in Berlin or whether The Canterbury Tales is Chaucer's best work.
Tents and bear-proof food storage cabinets at Camp 4. You really have to hope your neighbour doesn't snore.The full campsites and traffic heading from the park entrance to the valley (where most of Yosemite's commercial and slumbering activity takes place) had given us some cause for concern, but I don't know that either of us were quite prepared for the total gong show that would await us after we set up in Camp 4 and made our way to the beehive that is Yosemite Village.
The village is the hub of Yosemite National Park. Three and a half million people visit the park each year, and it seemed to us on Wednesday afternoon that 2009's entire allotment had checked in that afternoon. There were gift shops (and one "souvenir clearance outlet") swarming with tourists browsing the floor-to-ceiling t-shirts. Others clambered over each other in line at the full service grocery store, and still more were found in line at the plethora many eateries in the village, or on their way to the 18-hole championship golf course. It was like a dusty Disneyland, with all of the jostling, noise and aggravation of a major tourist trap and none of the anticipated tranquility or even mutual respect one anticipates when entering a national park. We had paid twenty bucks (the entry fee to the park, per car) for the privilege of fighting crowds for parking spots and roadside views, and were both feeling pretty demoralized.
Thursday was better, however. After the confusion and frustration of Wednesday, we checked out of Camp 4 into the more serene and natural North Pines Campground, and had a wonderful day of hiking 10 miles (round trip) to the top of Yosemite Falls - North America's highest waterfall, plunging over 2,000 feet to the valley floor. Watching the water unfurl as it leaped over the falls and billowed its way into the streams below and hearing its jet-engine roar that could only have been soothing in this particular setting was just the therapy we needed and left us feeling like we'd had a real day in the woods. We looked forward to a rest day on Friday and then a climb of the mighty Half Dome on Saturday.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Honey, I Blew Up the Trees
Lincoln City, Oregon was a stopover serving little more purpose than a bed and a shower, but when we awoke Tuesday to sunny skies, we took a morning run on the beach before skipping town. It can be easy when road-tripping to let your physical well being slide, so we've tried to make a point of starting off at least a few days a week with a run. When you have hundreds of miles of coastline with which to do this, it definitely makes things easier (although we only use three or four of those miles at a time).
Continuing our journey south we spent the night at Humbug Mountain State Park - a lush, rainforested campground tucked in a nook with rich green hills rising sharply to the south, and the ocean churning and crashing a half mile to the west. Lying in my sleeping bag Tuesday night it was a soothing pleasure to hear the low rumble of the ocean harmonizing with the sway of the coastal wind through the trees, while the rain played percussion, sizzling like bacon on the roof of the tent.
Humbug Mountain (highly recommended) lies near the Oregon-California border, so we knew that Wednesday would bring a crossing into the promised land of Northern California and the coastal redwoods. We stopped in Crescent City, CA (not recommended) only long enough to get information at the Redwood National and State Parks visitors' center and were on our way, pointed slightly inland toward Jedediah Smith State Park, smack in the middle of the Northern sprawl of coastal redwoods.
Right. The coastal redwoods. Sweet fancy Moses, these trees are big. With some of them topping off at close to four hundred feet (that's about 394 feet taller than me, give or take), these are the tallest trees in the world, and it's not as though they're skinny either. To be honest, the size of these trees is absurd to me, as even when I crane my neck to see one from top-to-bottom it simply does not seem possible for a tree to be that big. Wednesday night we camped snug amidst a grove of giants, which by their size alone constantly and silently reminded us of our own insignificance.
Thursday afternoon we set off on a fairly gentle six-mile (10K) hike through the forest to a modest waterfall. Snaking our way through the trees, each seemingly bigger than the last, it occurred to me that I was living out a long-dormant childhood dream. That is not to say that I have long wished to visit the giant redwoods. Rather, I remember thinking as an 8 year-old boy how cool it would be to run around on the set of Honey, I Shrunk the Kids - to spend some time in a spatially askew world of giants where I was reduced to the role of insect. This is very much the sensation that I had hiking through the trees - that I did not belong. That they existed on a scale so beyond my comprehension and significance that the best I could ask for would be to walk beside them for a few hours and hope they didn't catch on to the fact that a foreigner was scurrying around their roots.
Eating, sleeping, walking and driving in the redwoods for three days (with more to come) was something that I won't soon forget and an experience I am having difficulty conveying with the written word. The redwood forests were at once overwhelming and intangible. Sensory and visceral. Soothing and intense. I was never quite sure whether I should be bowing my head or raising the roof, so I did a little of both. Booting our way down the highway on Friday through a sun-drenched grove of giants with the ocean to our right and some tasty Phish coming through the speakers elicited more than one fist-pump from yours truly, and was the perfect way to emerge from the woods and punctuate three days that were simply spectacular (awe-inspiring...incredible...you can feel free to insert your own overused superlative here).
Friday night had us camped at the beach at a decidedly non-forested site, but one that was idyllic on its own terms. Watching the waves dance against the hardwood of the Pacific sunset from Gold Bluffs Beach was a joy, and the breathing ocean once again lulled me to sleep, only to nudge me awake with the same song hours later.
We are now spending the weekend in Arcata, CA, a very crunchy Humboldt County town plucked from the Vermont tree, where beards are the norm and self-righteous bumper stickers abound. Gee, I wonder if I'll fit in.
From here it looks like we'll be headed inland. Yosemite National Park, the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the giant sequoias that caught the imagination of John Muir are calling us. While the coast has been spectacular, we're looking forward to spending some time among mountains and fresh water, and getting more lessons in humility from those damn big trees.
Peace,
Hart
Continuing our journey south we spent the night at Humbug Mountain State Park - a lush, rainforested campground tucked in a nook with rich green hills rising sharply to the south, and the ocean churning and crashing a half mile to the west. Lying in my sleeping bag Tuesday night it was a soothing pleasure to hear the low rumble of the ocean harmonizing with the sway of the coastal wind through the trees, while the rain played percussion, sizzling like bacon on the roof of the tent.
Humbug Mountain (highly recommended) lies near the Oregon-California border, so we knew that Wednesday would bring a crossing into the promised land of Northern California and the coastal redwoods. We stopped in Crescent City, CA (not recommended) only long enough to get information at the Redwood National and State Parks visitors' center and were on our way, pointed slightly inland toward Jedediah Smith State Park, smack in the middle of the Northern sprawl of coastal redwoods.
Right. The coastal redwoods. Sweet fancy Moses, these trees are big. With some of them topping off at close to four hundred feet (that's about 394 feet taller than me, give or take), these are the tallest trees in the world, and it's not as though they're skinny either. To be honest, the size of these trees is absurd to me, as even when I crane my neck to see one from top-to-bottom it simply does not seem possible for a tree to be that big. Wednesday night we camped snug amidst a grove of giants, which by their size alone constantly and silently reminded us of our own insignificance.
Thursday afternoon we set off on a fairly gentle six-mile (10K) hike through the forest to a modest waterfall. Snaking our way through the trees, each seemingly bigger than the last, it occurred to me that I was living out a long-dormant childhood dream. That is not to say that I have long wished to visit the giant redwoods. Rather, I remember thinking as an 8 year-old boy how cool it would be to run around on the set of Honey, I Shrunk the Kids - to spend some time in a spatially askew world of giants where I was reduced to the role of insect. This is very much the sensation that I had hiking through the trees - that I did not belong. That they existed on a scale so beyond my comprehension and significance that the best I could ask for would be to walk beside them for a few hours and hope they didn't catch on to the fact that a foreigner was scurrying around their roots.
Eating, sleeping, walking and driving in the redwoods for three days (with more to come) was something that I won't soon forget and an experience I am having difficulty conveying with the written word. The redwood forests were at once overwhelming and intangible. Sensory and visceral. Soothing and intense. I was never quite sure whether I should be bowing my head or raising the roof, so I did a little of both. Booting our way down the highway on Friday through a sun-drenched grove of giants with the ocean to our right and some tasty Phish coming through the speakers elicited more than one fist-pump from yours truly, and was the perfect way to emerge from the woods and punctuate three days that were simply spectacular (awe-inspiring...incredible...you can feel free to insert your own overused superlative here).
Friday night had us camped at the beach at a decidedly non-forested site, but one that was idyllic on its own terms. Watching the waves dance against the hardwood of the Pacific sunset from Gold Bluffs Beach was a joy, and the breathing ocean once again lulled me to sleep, only to nudge me awake with the same song hours later.
We are now spending the weekend in Arcata, CA, a very crunchy Humboldt County town plucked from the Vermont tree, where beards are the norm and self-righteous bumper stickers abound. Gee, I wonder if I'll fit in.
From here it looks like we'll be headed inland. Yosemite National Park, the Sierra Nevada Mountains and the giant sequoias that caught the imagination of John Muir are calling us. While the coast has been spectacular, we're looking forward to spending some time among mountains and fresh water, and getting more lessons in humility from those damn big trees.
Peace,
Hart
Monday, May 4, 2009
Going Places that I've Never Been
(Warning: there are two bad words in this post.)
The going away festivities from the night before had left me with a broken head and slightly dehydrated heart, so I was feeling fragile when we drove on to the ferry. Having finished school (forever[?]) a few days before and finished moving (not forever) a few minutes before, I pulled onto the Coho ferry with Sarah, headed for Port Angeles, WA with a station wagon full of stuff and a roof full of bikes. Our plan: to cruise the American west coast for a while (weeks? months?), looking for a place to lay our heads for a slightly longer while, and take some time to smell the roses along the way.
Leaving Victoria proved harder than I thought, though, in more ways than one. I tend to boast about the amount that I move, and with my last few have developed a smug sense of self-satisfaction at how smoothly it can go. This time, however, proved to be quite the scramble to vacate the apartment, tie up loose ends and catch the last southbound boat of the day from Victoria. While I wasn't entirely surprised at the rough go I had getting everything to fit in the car, I hadn't figured on having to mask a quivering lip and salty cheeks as we sailed away from the Island I had lamented more than once over the past three years. I'll try and save face by chocking the emotions up to the lingering effects of the previous night. Either way, though, at 4:00 on Thursday afternoon, I was headed for the mainland.
We camped in Olympic National Park the first night and headed south down US 101 the next morning. The Washington section of 101 has its share of Pacific Northwest greenery, but we both felt inclined to drive through the state at a utilitarian pace. We knew that Oregon and California would give us much cause to take our time, and looked forward to exploring those states at a gait so leisurely it might invite the middle finger from RV-ing retirees. Washington could be cruised through at a decent clip.
We arrived in Oregon late in the day on Friday and camped in Fort Stevens State Park at the extreme Northwest tip of the state. A funny thing about Oregon: one is prohibited by law from pumping one's own gas. Ostensibly this is to create jobs in the state, but if nothing else it adds some local colour to an out-of-stater's visit. Case-in-point: a conversation I had with an attendant at a rural gas bar on Saturday morning:
"Hey man, where are you headed?"
"Not sure. South is pretty much all we know. We're going to go at least as far as the giant redwoods in California."
"The redwoods are fucking bad, dude!"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah man. They blew my mind. There are trees that are as wide as from me to that building over there."
"Sweet. Looking forward to it."
"Yeah. I think they're prehistoric or some shit."
"Cool."
Heading inland from there, we made our way to Portland to check out the city and visit a friend of Sarah's. After getting caught in a hail storm and learning the hard way that there is a dearth of public restrooms in the city, we decided that the time might not be right for us and Portland to become acquainted. We enjoyed a great evening with an old friend and his wife and then headed back toward the coast late Saturday night.
As far as scenery, the Oregon coast has not disappointed. To our right has been crashing surf and the open ocean (I think it's the Pacific), and to our left have been hills blanketed with foliage so lush I've daydreamed about riding my bike atop the canopy, only to be snapped back to reality by the logging truck approaching me in the oncoming lane I have drifted into.
Sunday afternoon we arrived in Cannon Beach, where any well-cultured child of the 80's should know that The Goonies was filmed. We both felt initially drawn to the town, as it's a quaint seaside village where most of the shops have posted hours that include the words "around" or "ish." There are also striking similarities between Cannon Beach and Lake Placid, New York - a village that is near and dear to both of our hearts and has a similar resort vibe.
Upon closer inspection, however, Cannon Beach seems to be like the head cheerleader of coastal Oregon: it's nice to look at for a little while and is pleasant enough for a day or two, but eventually you can't help but realize it is a little too perfect. The meticulous landscaping, ultramodern vacation homes and picturesque storefronts came to give off an aura of the manufactured (despite the absence of chain stores), and the longer I spent in town the more I felt like I was in Disneyland for rich people from Seattle. Indeed, it looked like a village that had everything one could want, except for the sense that any real people actually lived there. There was enough distinct about it that I could maybe see myself enjoying the beach there for a summer, but I won't be surprised if I'm greeted by a Stepford wife the next time I roll into town.
Before departing Cannon Beach we sent some mail home. Now, one of the joys of our trip is not knowing quite where we're going, and not having anywhere to get back to. There is something at once liberating and guilt-inducing about having to shrug our shoulders when asked where we are headed either to or from, and in the past three days I think we have used four different home addresses. It can also add some flavour to even mundane activities such as mailing a letter. Here is the return address I put on a card that went in the mail box this morning:
99 Outback
BC Plates
924 HMR
Highway 101
West Coast
After the post office we contined south this afternoon. In light of the rather gnarly wind and rain that are pounding the coast, we've opted to move inside for the night. We're hunkered down at a Mom and Pop motel in Lincoln City, Oregon, hoping to be up and at 'em early tomorrow and camped somewhere cool tomorrow night. Private ownership is prohibited on the Oregon coastline, so there are heaps of prime camping spots lining the shore (the hippies finally got something right). I'll update when I can, and look forward to sharing more adventures as we move along.
Just don't ask me where I live.
Peace,
Hart
The going away festivities from the night before had left me with a broken head and slightly dehydrated heart, so I was feeling fragile when we drove on to the ferry. Having finished school (forever[?]) a few days before and finished moving (not forever) a few minutes before, I pulled onto the Coho ferry with Sarah, headed for Port Angeles, WA with a station wagon full of stuff and a roof full of bikes. Our plan: to cruise the American west coast for a while (weeks? months?), looking for a place to lay our heads for a slightly longer while, and take some time to smell the roses along the way.
Leaving Victoria proved harder than I thought, though, in more ways than one. I tend to boast about the amount that I move, and with my last few have developed a smug sense of self-satisfaction at how smoothly it can go. This time, however, proved to be quite the scramble to vacate the apartment, tie up loose ends and catch the last southbound boat of the day from Victoria. While I wasn't entirely surprised at the rough go I had getting everything to fit in the car, I hadn't figured on having to mask a quivering lip and salty cheeks as we sailed away from the Island I had lamented more than once over the past three years. I'll try and save face by chocking the emotions up to the lingering effects of the previous night. Either way, though, at 4:00 on Thursday afternoon, I was headed for the mainland.
We camped in Olympic National Park the first night and headed south down US 101 the next morning. The Washington section of 101 has its share of Pacific Northwest greenery, but we both felt inclined to drive through the state at a utilitarian pace. We knew that Oregon and California would give us much cause to take our time, and looked forward to exploring those states at a gait so leisurely it might invite the middle finger from RV-ing retirees. Washington could be cruised through at a decent clip.
We arrived in Oregon late in the day on Friday and camped in Fort Stevens State Park at the extreme Northwest tip of the state. A funny thing about Oregon: one is prohibited by law from pumping one's own gas. Ostensibly this is to create jobs in the state, but if nothing else it adds some local colour to an out-of-stater's visit. Case-in-point: a conversation I had with an attendant at a rural gas bar on Saturday morning:
"Hey man, where are you headed?"
"Not sure. South is pretty much all we know. We're going to go at least as far as the giant redwoods in California."
"The redwoods are fucking bad, dude!"
"Yeah?"
"Yeah man. They blew my mind. There are trees that are as wide as from me to that building over there."
"Sweet. Looking forward to it."
"Yeah. I think they're prehistoric or some shit."
"Cool."
Heading inland from there, we made our way to Portland to check out the city and visit a friend of Sarah's. After getting caught in a hail storm and learning the hard way that there is a dearth of public restrooms in the city, we decided that the time might not be right for us and Portland to become acquainted. We enjoyed a great evening with an old friend and his wife and then headed back toward the coast late Saturday night.
As far as scenery, the Oregon coast has not disappointed. To our right has been crashing surf and the open ocean (I think it's the Pacific), and to our left have been hills blanketed with foliage so lush I've daydreamed about riding my bike atop the canopy, only to be snapped back to reality by the logging truck approaching me in the oncoming lane I have drifted into.
Sunday afternoon we arrived in Cannon Beach, where any well-cultured child of the 80's should know that The Goonies was filmed. We both felt initially drawn to the town, as it's a quaint seaside village where most of the shops have posted hours that include the words "around" or "ish." There are also striking similarities between Cannon Beach and Lake Placid, New York - a village that is near and dear to both of our hearts and has a similar resort vibe.
Upon closer inspection, however, Cannon Beach seems to be like the head cheerleader of coastal Oregon: it's nice to look at for a little while and is pleasant enough for a day or two, but eventually you can't help but realize it is a little too perfect. The meticulous landscaping, ultramodern vacation homes and picturesque storefronts came to give off an aura of the manufactured (despite the absence of chain stores), and the longer I spent in town the more I felt like I was in Disneyland for rich people from Seattle. Indeed, it looked like a village that had everything one could want, except for the sense that any real people actually lived there. There was enough distinct about it that I could maybe see myself enjoying the beach there for a summer, but I won't be surprised if I'm greeted by a Stepford wife the next time I roll into town.
Before departing Cannon Beach we sent some mail home. Now, one of the joys of our trip is not knowing quite where we're going, and not having anywhere to get back to. There is something at once liberating and guilt-inducing about having to shrug our shoulders when asked where we are headed either to or from, and in the past three days I think we have used four different home addresses. It can also add some flavour to even mundane activities such as mailing a letter. Here is the return address I put on a card that went in the mail box this morning:
99 Outback
BC Plates
924 HMR
Highway 101
West Coast
After the post office we contined south this afternoon. In light of the rather gnarly wind and rain that are pounding the coast, we've opted to move inside for the night. We're hunkered down at a Mom and Pop motel in Lincoln City, Oregon, hoping to be up and at 'em early tomorrow and camped somewhere cool tomorrow night. Private ownership is prohibited on the Oregon coastline, so there are heaps of prime camping spots lining the shore (the hippies finally got something right). I'll update when I can, and look forward to sharing more adventures as we move along.
Just don't ask me where I live.
Peace,
Hart
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
United Steelworkers of Montreal
This is a review I wrote for a show here in Victoria last weekend. It didn't get printed where I was hoping it would, so here it is.
Full disclosure: I freaking love this band.
------
It is a rare thing to see a band called back to the stage for an encore. True, we have all seen bar bands take three unconvincing steps to the left and milk a few seconds of cheering from the crowd before finishing a set. And the perfunctory dimly-lit five-minute lighter-raising break has long been a hallmark of arena rock. Really though, encores in these cases are surprise to no one. On the other hand, seeing a band legitimately punch-out for the night and start packing up their gear only to be called back by an unrelenting crowd they have worked into an irrational frenzy is the stuff of Springsteen legend. Springsteen and, apparently, the United Steelworkers of Montreal.
Midway through an exhaustive coast-to-coast and back again tour in support of their third full-length, Three on the Tree, the Steelworkers brought their gritty harmonies and firey finger-picking to Logan's on Saturday night as part of a double-bill with Edmonton's Hot Panda. Drawing heavily on the new material but also hearkening back to their previous two releases, the sextet offered up heaping doses of back-breaking, love-making and whiskey-drinking all served on a cobbled platter of bluegrass, folk, country, blues, gospel and early rock and roll. The genetics of each of these styles are blatantly apparent in the Steelworkers' musical aesthetic, to be sure. However, the band's real talent lies in its ability to chew it all up and spit it out in distinct four-minute installments that make you want to drink, punch, dance and cry - sometimes all at once.
The sermon-infused Jesus We Sweat and worker's lament Shot Tower, both from the new disc, were foot-stompers of the highest order. On the flip-side, the gentle sway of Son, Your Daddy Was Bad had many in the liquor-soaked crowd in a full-on waltz while frontman Shawn "Gus" Beauchamp paradoxically sang of jealousy, murder and revenge. Beauchamp's voice was smooth throughout and fit like a work-glove in between the ranges of his co-lead singers - the gravely and janitorial Gern F., and the high-harmonizing Felicity Hamer. In addition to assuming vocal duties, Hamer shone instrumentally, adding soothing accordion tones to arrangements that would include banjo and mandolin (Chris Reid), stand-up bass (Eddy Blake) and searing electric guitar (Matt Watson), in addition to the rhythm guitars of Beauchamp and Gern.
Having to share the bill this night, the Steelworkers were just hitting their stride as the clock struck midnight on their hour-long set. Despite their best efforts to convey that their time was up - coiling up cords, packing instruments away and shrugging apologetically - the calls for encore were genuine and unrelenting. The band was noticeably touched by their local reception as they reemerged for the heartfelt Place St. Henri from their 2005 debut Broken Trucks and Bottles.
"If we had two or three Victorias, we'd be West a lot more often," Gern was heard saying after the show. Indeed, it's been a year and-a-half since the band's first Victoria appearance, this being their second trip to the Garden City. That said, if supply-and-demand has taught me anything we should be able to hope for a Steelworkers return much sooner than that this time around.
Full disclosure: I freaking love this band.
------
It is a rare thing to see a band called back to the stage for an encore. True, we have all seen bar bands take three unconvincing steps to the left and milk a few seconds of cheering from the crowd before finishing a set. And the perfunctory dimly-lit five-minute lighter-raising break has long been a hallmark of arena rock. Really though, encores in these cases are surprise to no one. On the other hand, seeing a band legitimately punch-out for the night and start packing up their gear only to be called back by an unrelenting crowd they have worked into an irrational frenzy is the stuff of Springsteen legend. Springsteen and, apparently, the United Steelworkers of Montreal.
Midway through an exhaustive coast-to-coast and back again tour in support of their third full-length, Three on the Tree, the Steelworkers brought their gritty harmonies and firey finger-picking to Logan's on Saturday night as part of a double-bill with Edmonton's Hot Panda. Drawing heavily on the new material but also hearkening back to their previous two releases, the sextet offered up heaping doses of back-breaking, love-making and whiskey-drinking all served on a cobbled platter of bluegrass, folk, country, blues, gospel and early rock and roll. The genetics of each of these styles are blatantly apparent in the Steelworkers' musical aesthetic, to be sure. However, the band's real talent lies in its ability to chew it all up and spit it out in distinct four-minute installments that make you want to drink, punch, dance and cry - sometimes all at once.
The sermon-infused Jesus We Sweat and worker's lament Shot Tower, both from the new disc, were foot-stompers of the highest order. On the flip-side, the gentle sway of Son, Your Daddy Was Bad had many in the liquor-soaked crowd in a full-on waltz while frontman Shawn "Gus" Beauchamp paradoxically sang of jealousy, murder and revenge. Beauchamp's voice was smooth throughout and fit like a work-glove in between the ranges of his co-lead singers - the gravely and janitorial Gern F., and the high-harmonizing Felicity Hamer. In addition to assuming vocal duties, Hamer shone instrumentally, adding soothing accordion tones to arrangements that would include banjo and mandolin (Chris Reid), stand-up bass (Eddy Blake) and searing electric guitar (Matt Watson), in addition to the rhythm guitars of Beauchamp and Gern.
Having to share the bill this night, the Steelworkers were just hitting their stride as the clock struck midnight on their hour-long set. Despite their best efforts to convey that their time was up - coiling up cords, packing instruments away and shrugging apologetically - the calls for encore were genuine and unrelenting. The band was noticeably touched by their local reception as they reemerged for the heartfelt Place St. Henri from their 2005 debut Broken Trucks and Bottles.
"If we had two or three Victorias, we'd be West a lot more often," Gern was heard saying after the show. Indeed, it's been a year and-a-half since the band's first Victoria appearance, this being their second trip to the Garden City. That said, if supply-and-demand has taught me anything we should be able to hope for a Steelworkers return much sooner than that this time around.
Friday, April 3, 2009
Grad Speech
What follows are remarks I made when given the humbling and daunting task of giving a toast to my graduating class at some festivities last weekend (it was an awesome night, by the way). I figured I'd put it up here for posterity's sake, and perhaps to jog some hazy memories.
Oh, and kindly hold your "congratulations on graduating" remarks until the conclusion of the performance, being my last exam on April 23rd.
---------
I suppose a good place to start at a time like this, as we're nearing the end, is to think about the beginning. In our case, the beginning for us as a collective was the first day at the Fraser Building in September of 2006 (or 1997 for some of our esteemed co-op students). And as I looked around room 159 that first morning at all of my new classmates, sure much of what I saw was to be expected: one guy cussing like a sailor, another guy that the women were all fawning over and a woman with a rather over-the-top hairstyle. I knew, however, that I was somewhere special when I figured out that the guy who was cussing was my contracts prof., the apple of the ladies' eyes was teaching evidence, and the woman with the two-toned bright red hairdo is one of Canada's leading feminist legal scholars.
And I think those initial observations appropriately sum up a lot about the experience of going to UVic Law: things are done a little differently around here. From co-op to law center, Dean's barbeques to skit nights, and law games to lounge chats, while we may soon have the same letters after our names as other Canadian law students, we have definitely had a stranger trip in getting there. Indeed, it is the strangeness of the trip and our shared experiences over the past three years that bond us together here tonight.
That having been said, however, it would be naive of me to stand up here and say that we have become a group of 100 best friends. More than naive, such an implication would also be a disservice to the remarkably varied backgrounds and perspectives we all came here with and will soon be leaving with. The intimate nature of our faculty notwithstanding, it would be foolish to expect a group that ranges as much as we do in terms of academic priorities, extracurricular interests and personal and professional aspirations, to emerge at the end of three years as one cohesive unit.
In fact, there have been moments when the striking diversity of our student population has led to tangible friction. And I know that we have all had moments as individuals when we've felt that our own interests and perspectives have left us with the short end of the stick, whether in a classroom, at a wine and cheese or sitting in a lunchtime talk. The diversity and progression that this faculty seeks to embody, and the distinction that comes along with them, also bring their share of challenges. That we as one student body have continually sought to meet these challenges in the spirit of a peaceful co-existence with room for dissenting opinions, speaks to the intellectual integrity that we are leaving here with. We have not always agreed with each other, but I for one am grateful that I have spent the past three years in an environment where there are such engaging and intelligent people to disagree with, and where my personal views have been continually challenged by my peers. There is no harmony when everyone sings the same note, and I for one think that we have all made some beautiful music together.
And making music together - and you can take that however you'd like - is just one of the things people have used as a compliment to, or diversion, from our academic pursuits. Indeed, it would seem that for every class offered to us, there were two or three things we could do outside of class. For the athlete in each of us, there were the intramural leagues. The musicians and performers could always look forward to strutting their stuff at Lucky Bar for Air Bands or the Metro Theater for skit night. And for those who wanted a more direct link to the classroom, the ELC, IHRLA, UAWL, Outlaws, the Crim Law Club, the Black Law Students Association of Canada and others would bring any number of conference opportunities and lunchtime talks. In fact, if one were so inclined - and I know many of us tried - one's daily schedule could be chocked-full of entirely non-academic pursuits.
And then, of course, we had the social time that was entirely extra-curricular. And here again, there were as many different ways of enjoying social time as there were members of our class. For some of us, it meant hanging from the rafters at house parties, perhaps at the dearly departed Crap Shack, or having a drink or two out on the town. For others, it would be an afternoon walk with a classmate, perhaps a cup of coffee or a rousing game of Crainium on a Friday night. And of course there were the weekly poker games. Still for others, simply holding court in the lounge during the week would prove as socially enriching as anything, as we sat watching the world go by, drifting in and out of conversations with whomever would pull up a couch.
Indeed, having a strong social network - be it of family, friends, partners or pets - has been a crutch for many of us. I would find it hard to believe that there is a single one among us who has made it through the past three years without ever relying on someone else when the going got tough or the Property Law needed outlining. And for this we owe a debt of gratitude - certainly to our peers, but perhaps more significantly to the people who stood by us and offered a hand despite not subjecting themselves to the same sort of masochism that we chose to undertake when we walked into the Fraser Building for the first time.
But now with three years of classes, conferences and hangouts almost completely behind us, we sit here tonight on the brink of starting our chosen careers, whatever those may be. With these careers will come a whole new set of challenges and a new kind of prioritizing. The American poet R.A. Zimmerman warns of the character Ophelia, whose profession is her religion, and her sin is her lifelessness. Her profession is her religion and her sin is her lifelessness. I think that there's a valid warning in there for each of us as we leave here, regardless of what career path we may take. Whether we spend our working days at a home office on Salt Spring, a boutique firm in Kits or a sky-scraper in Toronto, we should all seek to avoid adopting our profession as a religion and committing the sin of lifelessness. Indeed, while our professional challenges are sure to be significant, perhaps the biggest challenge of them all will be staying human amidst the demands our careers will place on us. Remaining engaged in our communities - be it as a hockey coach, charity volunteer or simply as a good friend and neighbour to those around us - is something that we will each have to mindfully seek to do, so as not to fall victim to the traps of burnout, over-extension and self-absorption that are all too common in the legal profession. Higher education is an opportunity afforded to far too few in this world, and it is now the duty of each of us to contribute to the greater good in our own ways, so as to not squander the privilege we have enjoyed of spending three years studying the law and expanding our minds alongside a peer group whose talents and abilities are nothing short of remarkable.
We will also have a duty to uphold high standards of professional conduct. This, despite the fact that the prescribed standards we are to adhere to can sometimes be vague and offer little in the way of direct guidance. As such, it will be up to each of us to remain proactive and vigilant, constantly keeping ourselves in check to make sure that we are living up to high standards of personal and professional integrity. This will lead to moments of struggle for each of us, to be sure, but with the great honour of entering the legal profession comes the equally great burden of holding ourselves to the highest standards of ethics. Having the right to do something does not make it the right thing to do, and that is an important distinction we will all have to continually keep in mind. It is the cowardly lawyer who rationalizes conduct that violates good judgment and moral fibre by hiding behind ambiguous rules of professional conduct. Rather, constant self-regulation will be required by each of us, so that we are not fodder for a new generation of lawyer jokes.
But before we head on our merry way, we will raise a glass together tonight. The commonality of our experiences over the past three years have bonded us together, and it is now up to each of us to ensure that those bonds remain strong, cherished and nurtured as we move on with our lives and careers in the years ahead. Let us now lift up our glasses, class of 2009, and drink to the different roads that brought us here, the journey we have shared, and a future that is wide open.
Cheers.
Oh, and kindly hold your "congratulations on graduating" remarks until the conclusion of the performance, being my last exam on April 23rd.
---------
I suppose a good place to start at a time like this, as we're nearing the end, is to think about the beginning. In our case, the beginning for us as a collective was the first day at the Fraser Building in September of 2006 (or 1997 for some of our esteemed co-op students). And as I looked around room 159 that first morning at all of my new classmates, sure much of what I saw was to be expected: one guy cussing like a sailor, another guy that the women were all fawning over and a woman with a rather over-the-top hairstyle. I knew, however, that I was somewhere special when I figured out that the guy who was cussing was my contracts prof., the apple of the ladies' eyes was teaching evidence, and the woman with the two-toned bright red hairdo is one of Canada's leading feminist legal scholars.
And I think those initial observations appropriately sum up a lot about the experience of going to UVic Law: things are done a little differently around here. From co-op to law center, Dean's barbeques to skit nights, and law games to lounge chats, while we may soon have the same letters after our names as other Canadian law students, we have definitely had a stranger trip in getting there. Indeed, it is the strangeness of the trip and our shared experiences over the past three years that bond us together here tonight.
That having been said, however, it would be naive of me to stand up here and say that we have become a group of 100 best friends. More than naive, such an implication would also be a disservice to the remarkably varied backgrounds and perspectives we all came here with and will soon be leaving with. The intimate nature of our faculty notwithstanding, it would be foolish to expect a group that ranges as much as we do in terms of academic priorities, extracurricular interests and personal and professional aspirations, to emerge at the end of three years as one cohesive unit.
In fact, there have been moments when the striking diversity of our student population has led to tangible friction. And I know that we have all had moments as individuals when we've felt that our own interests and perspectives have left us with the short end of the stick, whether in a classroom, at a wine and cheese or sitting in a lunchtime talk. The diversity and progression that this faculty seeks to embody, and the distinction that comes along with them, also bring their share of challenges. That we as one student body have continually sought to meet these challenges in the spirit of a peaceful co-existence with room for dissenting opinions, speaks to the intellectual integrity that we are leaving here with. We have not always agreed with each other, but I for one am grateful that I have spent the past three years in an environment where there are such engaging and intelligent people to disagree with, and where my personal views have been continually challenged by my peers. There is no harmony when everyone sings the same note, and I for one think that we have all made some beautiful music together.
And making music together - and you can take that however you'd like - is just one of the things people have used as a compliment to, or diversion, from our academic pursuits. Indeed, it would seem that for every class offered to us, there were two or three things we could do outside of class. For the athlete in each of us, there were the intramural leagues. The musicians and performers could always look forward to strutting their stuff at Lucky Bar for Air Bands or the Metro Theater for skit night. And for those who wanted a more direct link to the classroom, the ELC, IHRLA, UAWL, Outlaws, the Crim Law Club, the Black Law Students Association of Canada and others would bring any number of conference opportunities and lunchtime talks. In fact, if one were so inclined - and I know many of us tried - one's daily schedule could be chocked-full of entirely non-academic pursuits.
And then, of course, we had the social time that was entirely extra-curricular. And here again, there were as many different ways of enjoying social time as there were members of our class. For some of us, it meant hanging from the rafters at house parties, perhaps at the dearly departed Crap Shack, or having a drink or two out on the town. For others, it would be an afternoon walk with a classmate, perhaps a cup of coffee or a rousing game of Crainium on a Friday night. And of course there were the weekly poker games. Still for others, simply holding court in the lounge during the week would prove as socially enriching as anything, as we sat watching the world go by, drifting in and out of conversations with whomever would pull up a couch.
Indeed, having a strong social network - be it of family, friends, partners or pets - has been a crutch for many of us. I would find it hard to believe that there is a single one among us who has made it through the past three years without ever relying on someone else when the going got tough or the Property Law needed outlining. And for this we owe a debt of gratitude - certainly to our peers, but perhaps more significantly to the people who stood by us and offered a hand despite not subjecting themselves to the same sort of masochism that we chose to undertake when we walked into the Fraser Building for the first time.
But now with three years of classes, conferences and hangouts almost completely behind us, we sit here tonight on the brink of starting our chosen careers, whatever those may be. With these careers will come a whole new set of challenges and a new kind of prioritizing. The American poet R.A. Zimmerman warns of the character Ophelia, whose profession is her religion, and her sin is her lifelessness. Her profession is her religion and her sin is her lifelessness. I think that there's a valid warning in there for each of us as we leave here, regardless of what career path we may take. Whether we spend our working days at a home office on Salt Spring, a boutique firm in Kits or a sky-scraper in Toronto, we should all seek to avoid adopting our profession as a religion and committing the sin of lifelessness. Indeed, while our professional challenges are sure to be significant, perhaps the biggest challenge of them all will be staying human amidst the demands our careers will place on us. Remaining engaged in our communities - be it as a hockey coach, charity volunteer or simply as a good friend and neighbour to those around us - is something that we will each have to mindfully seek to do, so as not to fall victim to the traps of burnout, over-extension and self-absorption that are all too common in the legal profession. Higher education is an opportunity afforded to far too few in this world, and it is now the duty of each of us to contribute to the greater good in our own ways, so as to not squander the privilege we have enjoyed of spending three years studying the law and expanding our minds alongside a peer group whose talents and abilities are nothing short of remarkable.
We will also have a duty to uphold high standards of professional conduct. This, despite the fact that the prescribed standards we are to adhere to can sometimes be vague and offer little in the way of direct guidance. As such, it will be up to each of us to remain proactive and vigilant, constantly keeping ourselves in check to make sure that we are living up to high standards of personal and professional integrity. This will lead to moments of struggle for each of us, to be sure, but with the great honour of entering the legal profession comes the equally great burden of holding ourselves to the highest standards of ethics. Having the right to do something does not make it the right thing to do, and that is an important distinction we will all have to continually keep in mind. It is the cowardly lawyer who rationalizes conduct that violates good judgment and moral fibre by hiding behind ambiguous rules of professional conduct. Rather, constant self-regulation will be required by each of us, so that we are not fodder for a new generation of lawyer jokes.
But before we head on our merry way, we will raise a glass together tonight. The commonality of our experiences over the past three years have bonded us together, and it is now up to each of us to ensure that those bonds remain strong, cherished and nurtured as we move on with our lives and careers in the years ahead. Let us now lift up our glasses, class of 2009, and drink to the different roads that brought us here, the journey we have shared, and a future that is wide open.
Cheers.
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