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Published: September 7th 2011
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For more of my photos, or to buy my book, please visit www.nickkembel.com I have experienced the 1200+km road-trip from Edmonton to Vancouver through Southern BC no less than a dozen times since birth, along a variety of routes, and primarily as a child with my family. Place names such as Kelowna, Penticton, Shuswap, Kamloops, Revelstoke, and Hope ring is my head with nostalgia and fond memories of camping below starry skies and wading into pristine, icy-blue lakes.
Never before have I been so familiar with an area, a route, or a destination, and yet so unfamiliar with the names, the actual geography of it, as this part of the world. I would struggle to put those place dots on a map for you, or document their cultural history and effect on my own psyche as I pass through them, in the manner I might normally do when detailing a journey. For this land is my own, it's culture dwells in me,
it is me, and to describe it to an outsider is no less difficult than to pick apart and separate the innate from that which is affected by environment. The places of
my memories elude naming; jumping from a bridge here, casting a stone into a lake there.
The British Colombia that I recall is a road that is almost never-ending, but when it does arrive, it disembarks with tears; happy cries of reunion with family, and all the tastes and smells that come along with it: jams of fresh strawberry and apricot picked straight from the garden, canned pears and salmon, baking and toasted bread, and not to mention dusty antiques, farm equipment, and motor oil.
So important is the destination, yet somehow the journey remains unrushed; how could it possibly be, when the backdrop is so majestic and stunning? Coming off the prairies, that first distant glimpse of snow-capped peaks, sheer walls disrupting the landscape, is nothing short of awe-inspiring. Hot water seeps through those rocky intrusions and begs a night of soaking and rest. Mountainous elders cast hasty shadows, followed by incandescent sunsets that tease the eye for hours on end. At every turn in the highway, immense glaciers tease the observer, as if saying, "Go ahead, I dare you to even imagine rafting upon me", and vibrant turquoise lakes chuckle at the
mere thought of passerby's toes going numb in escaping their vast, eternally flat surfaces.
And then, like a denouement that rivals climax in sheer magnitude, the highway descends upon a wide central plateau with desert engulfed hills. Lush, fertile, wine producing valleys host water playgrounds that are the final remnants of once glorious ice-age rivers of condensed snow. Fauna abounds, and traveling kilometers are forced to rest upon the sight of crossing deer, moose, elk, coyote, mountain sheep, and lucky enough if you may be, grizzlies, black bear, and the elusive mountain lion.
Finally, as they say, all journeys end at the sea, and this one is no exception. Coastal Pacific Northwest is notable for its creatures; under every stone, skirting crabs and critters are to be found fleeing the scene, while ocean pools of all shapes and depths boast 5-legged purple and pink stars of the sea. Seals bark in unison, while red octopuses flirt with the shore. Native art leaves its mark, in sky totems, wood faces, anthropomorphic beasts, and even of the non-intentional variety: discarded shell beaches that glisten whiter than their tropical sisters.
For me, that final
frontier is called Galiano Island. It faces Vancouver, and might be familiar to some as the first gulf drop en route by ferry to Victoria, Vancouver Island. Once again, my childhood is materializing before me, but while in innocence I simply accepted what is, I now stand baffled before it. The life that we busy-ones dream of: log cabins, weekend art markets, the sound of waves at dusk, is indeed reality to some. But soak it up while we can, it goes not anywhere, never fleeting, even after we come and then flee again.
The water is colder than I remember as a child, or perhaps I have grown unaccustomed and spoiled in my absence. I've allowed too much time to pass since my last trip home, until I remind myself that my 'years' are mere fractions of seconds relative to the land. Twenty years later, I still do, and still will stop for ice cream, do backflips off the dock, lock eyes with the deer for as long as it permits, peel the starfish off the rock and then put it back, stare wide eyed at every alpine vista, and revel in the salty scent of
the sea.
For more of my photos, or to buy my book, please visit www.nickkembel.com
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Jenny
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About BC
Your blog post was a great reminder on how this trip back home for a mere 8 months was lacking in something. I travelled from Edmonton to Toronto and then to Sasquatch with a beautiful road trip to the Gorge near Seattle. From there a greyhound bus into Vancouver and Victoria....we hopped on a flight home right over the rockies. After reading this I realized that I missed my yearly drive from Edmonton to Vancouver!!! Thank you for reminding me what I need to do when I return after my adventures in the UK.