By Sylvie O’Rourke Snow showed up in early December and remained, blanketing the trees, for four glorious days.  I was launched prematurely into winter-utopia mode, going for strolls in the woods at every opportunity.  I even headed out to Rigaud for a day to snowshoe where the snow was deeper.  Sadly, on the fifth day, the rain came and washed it all away, but by that time the snow-bug had already bitten and drawn blood. Now that the grass is green again, I feel like I have no choice but to do what every winter enthusiast might do. I go where the ground is whiter, in this case, across the border.  That is what brings us here now heading on a snow-chasing excursion to the Adirondacks in a car full of like-minded people.  First, we explore a little-known gem called Elders Grove where the trail is not marked, but the trees are massive.  It has been a few years since we have last been here and, although we locate the gate, the trailhead is another matter.   We can’t find the inconspicuous cairn to get us started and there are no human tracks in the fresh snow. We do the next best thing and bushwhack following any hint of a possible trail, but what appears promising at first eventually ends up a dead end.   We are forced to backtrack time and time again.   Ultimately, we never do find the trail, but we sure have fun in the process.  I pity the next snowshoers who might rely on our tracks to find their own way around the forest.  We will try again some other time but now we have another forest to visit. Our second stop is at the nearby Osgood Pond, where the trails are blazed, and we can snowshoe with confidence.  The trail has bridges crossing two century-old hand-dug canals which connect three ponds together.  Historically, this enabled cottagers and hotel guests to reach the nearby church by canoe.  Also of interest are three lean-tos where you could choose to spend a night under the stars if you were so inclined.  Today, one of them will serve us well as a picnic spot by the frozen pond. After a restorative lunch, we are ready to go again to snowshoe on the network of trails along the shore and through the cathedral pines.  We are warming up for the season ahead, building up our muscles for the mountains to come, and getting used to having awkward snow-gripping devices attached to our boots.  The surrounding beauty casts its spell on us, and it takes a near-stumble on a protruding root to jar us back to reality.  There is not much of a snow-base yet and caution is needed.  We observe footprints on the trail ahead, perhaps those belonging to a coyote, along with the occasional crisscrossing of deer hooves.  As in the previous forest, we see no evidence of human activity since the last snowfall.  The white purity of the forest has a calming effect on us, shattered only by the wind relieving an evergreen bow of its burden of snow.  At times, this unexpected snow dump narrowly misses someone’s head, much to our amusement. A deep breath of crisp air fills my lungs and promptly vaporizes as I exhale; proof that I am alive in this heavenly setting.  Sporadically, I stop in my tracks to admire nature.  I do that…a lot.  Amateur photography is my magnet, always pulling me to see art in the most unassuming places, be it a shadow on the ground, a light-pattern filtering through the trees, or a frozen drop hanging from a pinecone. I am trying to absorb everything as it may serve as inspiration for a story later.  You just never know.   It is no wonder that I am often trailing behind the others; it’s not so much my lack of physical speed as my overactive mind.  At least that is the excuse I’m sticking to.  A day such as this one only convinces me more that sometimes we must take matters into our own hands to extend the snow-season and eradicate those in between months that are too buggy or muddy to be in the woods, or too cold to be on the water.  We are snow-chasers, doing what we can to get an early start on the season and make it last as long as possible.  SDG & A Cornwall Seeker, www.theseeker.ca, February 2024, page 20.

My nerves are on edge and I realize that I am holding my breath.  My right hand is gripping the handle tightly while my eyes dart from side to side looking for a sign. I am wielding a machete chopping my way through the concrete jungle to locate my target, or so it would seem.  In actuality, I am a passenger in a vehicle trapped in a queue on the congested streets of downtown Montreal and I am trying to determine if we are in the correct lane or if we need to merge towards the next exit.  An aggressive driver, a local who knows exactly where she is going, wedges her pick-up truck ahead of us forcing us to let her in.  Somewhere in the background I hear honking and in the distance the faint sound of a siren.  Big bustling cities do not summon me as do the mountains and lakes and I would trade the bright lights for the desert moon in a heartbeat.  My purpose in crossing this busy metropolis today is to reach the hill emerging from its centre; the one Jacques Cartier scaled in 1535 and named Mount Royal.  Our group intends to hike to the summit in time to watch the sun set over the skyline. I exhale gratefully as we reach the parking lot at last. Instantly, I find myself in another world, a refuge of nature in an unexpected place.  From here the skyscrapers are not visible.  As far as the eye can see, there are frosted trees, a partially frozen lake, and people here and there milling around the grounds.  We follow a path along Beaver Lake watching children slide down a hill in snow tubes or sleds, their laughter replacing the cacophony of car horns.  There is more snow up here then back home, and I am surprised to see cross-country skiers gliding by so early in the season as it is only mid-November.  In the blink of an eye, I can almost forget that I am in a large city. The sunlight is slowly fading as we walk up the trail to the Kondiaronk Belvedere.  It looks like we timed our arrival well. From the half-moon-shaped plaza we can look down onto the high rises that define urban life.  The view to the east set against a pinkish sky is noteworthy.  In downtown’s heart I spy an impressive large-scale mural depicting Montreal-native legend Leonard Cohen.  As he stares my way I can almost feel the “Hallelujah” melody vibrating through my core.  Standing in this pocket of nature, I feel removed from the traffic chaos below.  I inhale deeply, appreciating this haven of preserved land.  It has been nearly five hundred years since Explorer Cartier stood on this very hill.  I wonder what he would think now. Just a short distance away the illuminated Mount Royal Cross stands majestically over the St. Lawrence River, outshining the dotted city lights in the valley below.  We stop here briefly before heading back down the path.  We are just in time to catch a glimpse of St-Joseph’s Oratory silhouetted against the last of the sunlight.  The setting has calmed me considerably and I am now ready to head back into the urban din, through the throng of vehicles once more.  It is amazing what a pocketful of air will do for the spirit.  First appeared in the Cornwall Seeker, January 2020/Sylvie O’Rourke

We meet at a trendy café in the town of Golden, British Columbia.  While not an Outdoor Club event, it is a special day to reconnect with a past member who now resides out here and is keen to show us her little corner of the world.  I’ve been looking forward to this reunion all week.  We have chosen to hike at Wapta Falls, described in travel blogs as one of the most stunning falls in B.C.  We are visiting off-season, and we know beforehand that we will be adding an extra four kilometers to our hike because the gate to the furthest parking lot is closed for the season, but that does not faze us.  I am happy to see that there are other vehicles besides ours in the roadside lot.  There is a certain degree of safety in numbers.  I admit that I am a little nervous about the presence of grizzlies in the mountains, but we are loaded with bear spray and bells, just in case.  No doubt we will also be chatting all the way to catch up on each other’s lives – the more noise, the merrier. We make it to the top of the falls without incident. From here we can look directly down at the water thundering over the cliff into the abyss below.  What incredible power!  After taking in the view and the sounds, we take the less steep trail to the bottom of the falls.  We arrive to the Kicking Horse River in the valley.  At this time of the year when the water is at its lowest, some of the riverbed is exposed making it easy to walk on the smooth stones to get a good view of the massive falls above.  There is a fine mist coming from the falls even from this distance.  I walk to the edge of the river and dip my hand in the glacial turquoise water.   Fortunately, we do not have to wade in to reach the small island up ahead. A couple of hikers leaving the island point out the route to a lookout for a unique view of the falls.  We follow the muddy trail up the steep mound with care as it is slippery in places, but our efforts are gifted with an unbelievable vista wrapped in a rainbow ribbon. It is spectacular!  Were it not for the lack of a dry spot to sit, I would stay until the colourful arc faded.  From this vantage point we can see the top of the second mound which forms a wall directly in front of the waterfalls, likely shaped over time by a fault in the rock and forceful erosion.  I have never witnessed anything quite like it.  On its summit we spot the two hikers we met earlier standing before a formidable backdrop of gushing water.  They must be getting soaked! Kevin’s curiosity gets the better of him, and off he goes to walk up the soggy trail.   I watch his progress from the somewhat drier riverbed while my companion observes from the first lookout.  At the top, he stands out in his red shirt, an Irishman at the edge of the rainbow seemingly cashing in on the pot of gold, or rather, Golden’s geological treasure.  I am envious of his position, but not enough to risk slipping in the mud or getting chilled from the cold water. At the base of the waterfall, we locate a dryish log to serve as a seat and enjoy our lunch in the misty and scenic setting.  All this beauty has almost made me forget about the bears and the fact that they would never hear the bells over the roaring of the falls.  Regardless, I am so glad to have come here.  It has certainly been one of the highlights of my trip out west and one I will remember with a smile. In the Outdoor Club, as with life in general, people come, and people go; some meetings are fleeting and others more memorable.  This one is the latter and I hold on to the hope that we will meet again to share our common love for the outdoors. This story first appeared in The Cornwall Seeker, January 2024/Sylvie O’Rourke