Ornoth

I have an older brother who lives in Victoria, British Columbia. Every other year, he flies back to Maine to visit family, and on the opposite years my mother goes west to visit them. However, my mother is 83 now, and for the first time she really needed someone to travel with her. I actually haven’t been out there myself since 1993, so last week I accompanied her on what will probably be her last trip west.

Last Thursday I took the T to Logan, where I met my mother, who had come down from Maine by bus. She was pretty anxious about the trip, and doubly so because she was having some health issues. We flew from Boston to SFO, then north to Canadia. The advantage of flying with someone in a wheelchair is that you are the first people to board the plane; the disadvantage is that you’re often the last people off.

The flights weren’t too bad, although boarding the regional jet north from SFO was a challenge due to the 5-level ramp from the gate down to the tarmac. In Victoria, we were the last people in line at customs, but we finally got to my brother’s house at 11pm Pacific… sixteen hours after I left home.

Friday I was the first person up, which was poor judgment, since my 15 year old neice’s pet bunny decided to throw a tantrum when it realized that someone was awake but not feeding it. We drove into town and picked up my rental road bike and miscellaneous other supplies for the week.

Around noontime, the family drove off to enjoy high tea at the Empress Hotel, which I was delighted to escape, preferring instead to explore the Saanich peninsula by bike. The weather was cool, but improving from misty rain to mostly sunny, a pattern which would repeat throughout our stay.

I warmed up by climbing 400-foot Mt. Tolmie, which was a nice little knoll with a beautiful view of Vancouver Island. Next I made my way to the top of 850-foot Mt. Douglas, which was a major challenge. It’s very reminiscent of Great Blue Hill or Prospect Hill in Waltham, but instead of ascending in short leaps with flats in between where you can rest, it was the most monotonic climb I’ve ever done. I finally gave in to the unforgiving incline, making two brief stops to let my legs and heart catch up with me. After admiring the view, the descent was bone-jarring and filling-loosening due to the horrible patch job they’ve made of the (and I use the term loosely) road.

Full Photo Set

From there, I followed the Seaside bike route north through Cordova Bay, then hooked up with the Lochside trail, which hugged the coast and took me from Victoria’s suburban Yuppie warrens into very rustic farmlands. However, the path degraded to a gravel rail trail, then dirt singletrack before I arrived at the Victoria airport. I took a more inland route back home, aiming to climb Mt. Newton but missing the turn. However, I did climb 750-foot Little Saanich Mountain, aka Observatory Hill, which was a steady, manageable ascent up to an astronomical observatory and the “Centre of the Universe”. The smooth pavement made the descent an absolute joy, in contrast to the crappy surface on Mt. Doug.

In the end, I logged about 45 miles. It wasn’t the most scenic ride in the world, but the hills were nice, and it was good to be back on the bike after all that time cramped up in an airplane… even if the bike was a heavy steel loaner!

I was especially pleased when we decided to order Thai take-out for supper. After Day One, the trip was going pretty well!

Saturday was a grey day, and we had nothing planned but seeing the musical The Fantasticks at a local theater. The play was reasonably interesting, the cast did a good job, and the music was tolerable (which for me is saying a great deal).

Aside from that, I was able to handle some key errands, including the all-important grocery run and a trip to the bank, where I was surprisingly able to obtain fistfuls of small US bills for entry into Where’s George. When the weather cleared again, we had a wonderful supper of steaks on the grill. It was a good way to let my legs recover from all the hills I’d ridden the day before.

Sunday’s weather was a reprise, starting out rainy but ending sunny. We began the day with brunch at The Marina, a fairly upscale establishment in Oak Bay that hosted a surprisingly good all-you-can-eat buffet. I utterly stuffed myself with waffles, french toast, bacon, sausage, ham, smash browns, cookies, chocolate cake, and probably a half dozen other things I’ve already forgotten. Gotta build my strength back up, see? Because…

Then it was off on a bike trek through Victoria’s Highlands district, which featured a lot of hills, but nothing quite as excessive as Mt. Doug. Despite being a single lane road (Millstream Lake Road) for much of its distance, the Highlands route was very nicely paved and a pure joy to ride, swooping up and down and around for kilometer after kilometer through mossy, rocky, majestic Pacific Northwest woodland. At one point a young deer crossed the road no more than 10 meters ahead of me. It was arguably one of the most beautiful rides I’ve had, and one I’d be delighted to revisit.

But there was another whole half of the ride to go, with a very different feel… Returning to town, I briefly followed the Galloping Goose trail, which after crossing a trestle bridge over Victoria’s Upper Harbor, rapidly disintegrated in a deluge of construction. I found another bridge into downtown and suddenly found myself in front of the Empress Hotel, the British Columbian Parliament buildings, and the soulless tourist hell that is any cruise ship terminal.

I followed a tour bus as we skirted the James Bay coastline until I reached the Ogden Point Breakwater and Beacon Hill Park. From there, the Coastal route brought me around several well-developed but scenic rocky headlands and small, rocky beaches, then back to my brother’s neighborhood around UVic. I logged another 45 miles, and had a frozen lasagna for supper, which was plenty after the huge brunch at the Marina.

My brother had signed us up for a kayak expedition Monday morning, but I wasn’t really looking forward to it, because the forecast called for rain and temperatures below 60 degrees. Nonetheless, we bundled up and drove up to the rental place in Brentwood Bay, where things weren’t quite as bad as advertised: it was foggy and misty, but not actively raining, and the temperature was quite tolerable. We met up with our guide, a savory young Scotian named Trish, and another gentleman who would accompany us on our paddle. I was delighted to find that we were given standard fiberglas sea kayaks, rather than cheap and worthless composite boats.

After a skills refresher, we followed the coast north for about five miles, exploring the coves along the way. It was quiet and scenic, and generally a pleasant experience, save for getting a bit wet (I’d foregone securing my skirt in favor of access to my camera) and developing a blister (from windmilling and too tight a grip on my paddle). But we saw eagles and herons and a waterfall and several oceanfront mansions, and admired the mist rising from the steeply wooded hillsides.

The return trip was more direct, as we’d seen everything once on the way north, and also because a breeze had kicked up out of the south, making the paddle back a bit more arduous. However, we returned to the dock after three and a half hours, soaked but satisfied with the effort.

The remainder of the day included returning the rental bike, packing, and an excellent meal at the 5th Street Bar & Grill. We were up Tuesday at 4am to catch our 7am flight home, which passed reasonably uneventfully, save for the constant sharp ache in my hamstrings from the kayaking.

Overall, I think the trip was quite successful. My mother enjoyed it (especially after her health issues resolved themselves), and I found my usual preferred balance between activity and rest, complementing my bike and kayak expeditions with a couple rare talks with my brother and his wife. Had we spent more time in Victoria, I might have enjoyed a full-day bike ride further afield (probably the Malahat) or some window-shopping downtown, and we lacked time to fire up the Vandercook for the letterpress project my brother and I had talked about; but on the other hand, it’s best to leave before one strains the host’s patience, and my mother and sister-in-law’s mobility issues would have made a longer stay more trying.

Thus ends (to my knowledge) my only major trip this year, and the final use of my current passport, which will need to be renewed soon.

Do they just not get the message, those residents of our northern protectorate? They call their country “Canada”, but they call themselves “Canadian”. Do they not see the obvious contradiction there?

Look, there are about six dozen countries around the world whose names end with the letter ’A’.

The majority, about thirty-five of them end in “-ia” and without exception their people are referred to by words that end in “-ian”. Examples: Australia/Australian, India/Indian, Russia/Russian, Serbia/Serbian, Colombia/Colombian, Austria/Austrian… You get the picture.

Another twenty-five countries end in “-a” but not the popular “-ia”. People from those nations are all referred to by adding an ’N’ onto the end. Thus: Cuban, Jamaican, Korean, Samoan, Venezuelan, South African, and, naturally, American.

That accounts for essentially every nation in the world that ends in the letter ’A’. That’s the universal rule: if your country name ends with “-ia”, your people are “-ian”, and if your country ends in “-a” but not “-ia”, your residents are “-an”.

Oh, but not if you come from Canada, eh? They’re different, or at least backwards. They’re not “Canadan”, as by all rights they ought to be, if they understood the Queen’s English that they so proudly esteem above American English.

Oh no, they’re “Canadian”, which would only be correct if they lived in a place called “Canadia”. Canada: Canadan. Canadia: Canadian. So simple, even a Quebecois could understand! But imagine how it would sound in their national anthem: O, Canadia! Our home and native land…

Of course, two other backward nations have been even more creative than the Canucks in this regard.

The people of China are called “Chinese”. Wouldn’t it be interesting if our northern neighbors (sorry, neighbours) were “Canadese”? Kinda like a slurred pronunciation of the name of their damned birds that are a hissing, crapping plague on our parklands. Mind you, they’re not “Canadan Geese”. They’re not even “Canadian Geese”. They’re “Canada Geese”. Just like Canada Dry beverages and Canada mints and the Canada Games. Is this a third possible permutation? Perhaps we should refer to our friends as “Canada people”?

But there’s one more, still better alternative. People from Panama, in a rabid fit of panache unexpected from a tiny country not known for its creative talent, call themselves “Panamanians”. If the people of Canada had that much flair, perhaps we’d all be calling them “Canadanians”, eh?