Iron Horse 100k – Race Report

02 Sunday Oct 2022

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Canada, Outdoors, race, running

The race is named after the train line that ran through this area of Northern Alberta, the Lakeland. The tracks have long been pulled up and the remaining line a multi use trail for ATVs and snowmobiles. Much of the race sticks to the Iron Horse. While sections are ideal compact dirt, keep in mind that large portions of the track are soft gravel that will suck a good deal of power from a runner. Still, it is a relatively fast course compared to other ultras.

I ran leg 1 of this race (~20k) for a last minute team that was thrown together by the race organizers. They paired the 5 of us together when we individually reached out to ask if there were teams that needed someone. The race organizers get 5 stars. They were super accommodating, friendly, easy going and all around excellent. I only saw leg 1 of the course but I’m confident in saying that the entire race provides some fantastic views. This would be the ideal first 100k or 100mi race. For the veterans out there, this would be a fast course through stunning countryside with just enough variability to make it interesting. Their website does a good job of describing the various legs.

The race comes with a great feature, 100 milers can choose to drop to the 100 kilometer distance at the third aid station (approximately 60k in). The 100 mile distance has been on my mind ever since I took up ultras. Should I ever get to that point I think this would be a great race to make the attempt.

Backstory

This was my first race since 2018. By the end of 2018 I was suffering from back issues. 2019 was a series of battles with my back that culminated in 2 surgeries, the last on December 18th. By March 2020 I was slowly getting back to running. The pandemic had me working from home and this made it possible to run every lunch hour. By the end of the summer I’d lost 20+ pounds and was tackling 10,000+ foot peaks in Utah every weekend. I was on track to marathon level endurance and potentially ultras. Then, at the beginning of 2021, I moved to northern Alberta and took a job that demands 60+ hours a week behind a desk or a steering wheel. I gained all or more of that 20 pounds back. I’ve been struggling to find a routine that will help me rebuild.

The last time I ran this distance was mid-may 2021. I ran a 15k on the Monday before just to see how I’d feel. My runs have really only been around 7-10k, when I’ve been getting out. I felt pretty good with the 15k. So I went into this race with reasonable confidence that I wouldn’t let our mashed up team down.

The Gear

I was dressed like a solo runner wearing ancient gear. My Ultimate Direction ultra bag (2014) has seen hard times. The elastics that hold the water bottles to my chest have both given up. There are rips and tears in the bag itself but all-in-all its still functional. My shorts hail from 2013 and fit a little more snuggly than they once did. As I approached the registration desk in the morning I went to retrieve the little punch card that acts like a baton between race members, (they punch your laminated card at every aid station). The card was in a little pocket on the back of my shorts. As I attempted to unzip the pocket the zipper fell apart in my hands. It felt like it simply disintegrated. I managed to force the zipper open anyway. It may be time for new shorts.

My shirt came from a sprint triathlon that I won (for my age category) in 2013 at the University of Sharjah. The lettering is fading and it has lost much of its elasticity. In my pack, rolled tight, is my blue Northface rain jacket. It long ago stopped repelling water. It has a number of small cuts on the front that have been patched by duct tape from the inside. It is still masterful at cutting the wind and keeping one warm. Also in the pack, My prescription sunglasses (I’d be running east into the rising sun), a couple granola bars, airpods (which I probably wouldn’t use), and half a dozen zip ties that have been in there since about 2016 – one day they’ll come in handy. My phone tucks nicely in a side pocket.

I’d start the race in a light pullover because I am weak. It’s freaking cold in Northern Alberta in October. I stuffed it in my bag (on the run) at the 1k mark before I could start sweating. My hat I stole from my son-in-law who got it free from a company he once worked for. It’s a great running hat. It washes easily, keeps the sweat out of my eyes, and fits well.

Start line of the Iron Horse 100. You can see the broken elastics for the water bottles.

Shoes. I debated between the two pairs of runners I own. When I moved to Alberta at the beginning of 2021 I bought runners best suited for running on the road. Of course, I still have a pair of Saucony trail runners. I bought them the day before the 2015 Canadian Death Race and wore them for the first time at that race. They’ve seen 1000s of miles.

I chose to wear my road running Nike shoes. The first 7k of leg 1 loops around St. Paul on paved roads. It then moves onto the Iron Horse trail (much like a gravel road). The final 5k of the leg moves into single track through fields and poplar groves. I wonder now if I could not have gotten 1 more race out of them. I feel a strange gratitude for these shoes and a little sorrow in their retirement. Yes, I am weird.

It felt a bit strange to be geared up for this run as I was. Long past are the days that I could head out the door with nothing but a light shirt, shorts, runners, and (maybe) a bottle of water in hand.

The Race

The race began at Reunion Station in St. Paul Alberta at 7am. They let the 100 mile solo runners and teams go at 6:45am. I stayed warm wrapped in a blanket at the start line. It really wasn’t that cold. At 7am as the race began the sky was just beginning to take on a grey light. We followed the Iron Horse trail west for a couple kilometers before heading south through St. Paul to Thérien Lake. I’ve lived here twice, for a cumulative 5 years, and have never been to this lake. I appreciated the opportunity to run along the shore line for several kilometers. The paths are well maintained and there is a couple kilometers of wood boardwalk.

The loop around and through St. Paul was a little more than 7k before turning southeast on the Iron Horse trail. I ran about a kilometer with a couple 100k solo runners, Amro Alansari and Stephen Mater. Amro is an experienced ultra runner and it appears that he finished in 11th place with a time of 14:54:49.8. Well done Amro! We would leap frog each other a few times toward the end of leg 1. This was Stephen’s first ultra. He did very well coming in 15th with a time of 16:08:01.2.

I held myself back the first 10k. That is a hard thing for me to do. I didn’t do any research on this race beyond a casual look at the map and a skim of the website. I wondered if I could pull off a negative split. At kilometer 10 I left Amro and Stephen hoping to finish around the 2 hour mark. Over the next 5k I picked off 6-12 runners as I ran the Iron Horse trail. The trail is gravel soft and I fought to find harder ground as too much energy was getting sucked up by the trail.

At about the 15k mark race volunteers in a side-by-side directed us off the Iron Horse onto single track straight up a high bank. Cresting the bank we ran through grass and low scrub in a choppy landscape. We dodged cow patties and struggled to stay upright on the slick flattened grass. I didn’t last long before my legs went out from under me and I came down on my side. It’s okay. I’m not far from the ground. I did a quick push-up and didn’t lose much momentum.

The single track took us up a number of steep hills. These hills revealed my limits quickly. My heart rate shot up to the high 170s low 180s. I was light headed at points. It seems that not long ago I could have done these kind of hills all day long. No one runs these things. I appreciated the scenery though, the falling yellow leaves, the cows lulling in their pastures, the misty morning sky that occluded the sun and kept us all cool and my sunglasses in my pack.

The single track, at times, became just a line of pink flags through woods, low scrub, and crowded stands of aspens. Up and down we went. Many times in the last 2k I hoped “this” was the last hill. I could hear the cheers of spectators at the aid station for a good kilometer before I’d reach them. That last big down hill came. It was just shy of a steepness that would have people sliding on butts instead of feet. Halfway I went down hard on my back. My arm came around quickly to protect myself and the jarring was severe enough in my shoulder that I felt grateful that it took the blow and not my lower back. In the end, no great damage was done.

I came in to the aid station as quickly as I could. my teammate found me by my bib number and we managed a speedy transition. Those hills destroyed my negative split and my 2 hour goal. I was about 2 hours and 15 minutes. Before the race I told myself I’d be happy with anything less than 2.5 hours and I managed that. Lisa was there with the jeep, wrapped in a blanket for warmth. We chatted for a few moments with another member of my team, Vic. Then we were off home. We were home before 10am and I enjoyed a leisure afternoon keeping up with the progress of the race via texts from the team and Zone4.ca.

The Results

I’ll admit I was sore after this run. However, I did not feel the need for drugs, pain killers or anti-inflammatories. I didn’t take any as I wanted a good sense of how my body was actually doing. It is the next day and I could probably comfortably go for a 5k run. I’ll likely go for a good walk.

I met all my teammates for the first time at the end of the race when we drove back up to St. Paul to be there to greet our last runner, Victoria. It was an interesting conclusion. We saw the first 100k solo runner come in, a local, Doug Howson with a time of 11:12:29.4. He was the 8th place finisher in last year’s Canadian Death Race. Impressive.

Leg 5: Victoria, Leg 4: Pam, Leg 3: Vic, Leg 2: Sandra, Leg 1: Me (Lisa said nothing when i left the house dressed this way – just saying).

Yes, I don’t know any of their last names. There was a real chance that our team would make the podium. We were in third place leaving the last transition. Ultimately, we ended in 4th place with solid runs from every member of the team. Our final time was 11:32:56.5.

Final thoughts

I highly recommend this race. There are decent accommodations in the area (literally walking distance from the start) for those coming from out of town. The race organizers are excellent and the atmosphere congenial. The finish line ought to have a band and a couple local food trucks for spectators. Commitments kept me away from the breakfast on Sunday morning. I imagine that was pretty great. Those that could not attend the breakfast could get their medals the night before. The medals are nice, hand crafted by local artisan Stray Cat Designs. I’d like to be in shape to tackle the 100k next year. How I do that remains to be seen but plans are formulating. I suspect I’ll be involved with the race at some level going forward. Thanks for a great race.

Adam’s Peak

09 Sunday Jun 2019

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Asia, hiking, Outdoors, Sri Lanka, Traveling

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As we wound our way along a gravel mountain road I marvelled at the rolling acres of tea plantations. Women worked the land, gathering immense cloth bundles of tea leaves they would carry from the fields on their heads. Our driver informed us that tea plantations largely employed only women as they could be paid significantly less than men. A concept I found repugnant. Yet, I reminded myself, this was not my country and who was I to judge their social order. Besides, could we really ask western nations to suffer the indignity of a more expensive tea? (Yes, yes we can).

Our driver came to a stop in the middle of the mountain road. We strained to see what blocked our way. Stray dogs seem to be as numerous as people in Sri Lanka. It was a dog that now impeded our progression. More accurately, a puppy appeared to have chosen the middle of the narrow lane as the ideal place for a nap. The driver honked and the little thing raised its head sleepily but refused to move. No honking or aggressive posturing on our part made any impression upon the pup. This was his road and at the moment his bed.

One of many Sri Lankan puppies.

I stepped out of the car in order to persuade the little thing to move along. It ignored me as easily as it had the car. In the end I was forced to pick the little fellow up and move him to the side of the road. I was hesitant. Would he bite? Was he sick or injured? Still, I lifted him out of the way so we could continue our journey.

Our destination was a hotel? No, hostel perched above a mountain ravine on the pilgrimage road to Adam’s Peak. People come from across Sri Lanka, and perhaps further, certainly we came from much further, to make the pilgrimage to this singular mountain peak. The mountain rises a canonical tower over a forested and singular landscape. At its summit, it is said by some lies the footprint of Buddha, Shiva, or Adam, depending on your faith tradition. Lisa and I thought it would be entertaining to climb the mountain and see for ourselves. I could not spend the whole of my time in Sri Lanka lounging on its beaches.

The pilgrimage begins early in the morning or late at night, depending on one’s perspective of 2am. The ascent is made by climbing a mixture of cement and stone steps. Thousands, upon thousands of steps go up, and up, and up. Upon those steps go thousands and thousands of people. Though there be so many, the climb is somehow peaceful. The sounds of frogs and other insects of the night are clearly heard among the soft footfalls of the mountain’s travellers. There is little talking out of reverence, perhaps, or more likely that in climbing the ascent requires one’s breathe for measured breathing not speaking.

The way is softly lit by electric lights and the glow from little tin roofed shops pressed together like standing dominoes on both sides of the path. The shops sell mostly teas and other light victuals. As well, they sell toys and trinkets to the families and foreigners pressing to the summit.

It took us some hours to make the climb. In the dark we joined a queue to take our turn passing through a humble concrete building overtop the famed footprint. My curiosity was peaked and my anticipation climbed as we neared the site. Then we were suddenly there and I was peering through a plate of protective glass to the rock with the famed footprint. What I saw was no footprint at all but a tacky cloth lotus flower spread out over the spot in, what I learned was, supposed protection of the sacred print. My dissatisfaction was evident I’m sure.

Nonetheless, the footprint was really only secondary to the purpose of our climb. We were informed that the sunrise from the peak was impressive and worth the climb, hence the two am departure. So, Lisa and I found a small patch of concrete so situated that there would be none of the thousands that climbed with us between us and the rising sun. There we waited.

We waited patiently with the many pilgrims to witness the birth of a new day; to watch the sun shoot forth its rays over a blue-black sky and the billowing clouds beneath us. We waited to see the shadow of the mountain curl out behind us on a land far below. We waited. Though I was disappointed in the claimed footprint of the first man I would not be disappointed in this. The sun rose, brilliant, and breathtaking. It was true, I thought, that I would not see the footprint of Adam but this certainly felt like I was witnessing the indelible fingerprints of God.

A wide angle shot from Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka.

Once the sun was fully in the sky and we were thoroughly inspired, Lisa and I ran down the mountain path, leaping from stairs like much younger versions of ourselves. We ran past the little shops, the shrines to Shiva and Buddha with their burning incense. I felt renewed and exhausted. We would pay for the journey and our speedy dissent soon after. Our calves would be as hard as the stone we climbed, for days. We didn’t mind, though, as it made those final days in Sri Lanka, lounging on the beach, that much sweeter.

——–

Lisa and I visited Sri Lanka in the spring of 2014.

Picnic Boat

03 Monday Jun 2019

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Camping, Canada, I miss..., Outdoors

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This blog recently auto-renewed itself. Had I been thinking ahead I might have returned the blog to a free state. Now I feel as though I need to make use of my inadvertent purchase. Like a new year’s resolution I move forward with naive determination. I’ve found myself ruminating on youthful experiences lately. The following is one of those. As I nag my children to get outside, to be adventurous, to put down their devices I’m drawn to my own childhood. Those were days of the Sega and Nintendo but we couldn’t download games from the cloud. We collected enough pop-bottles to cash in at the store for the deposit money. We walked clear across town to the video store and rented games that we played for as long as the rental allowed. I am left with a sense of nostalgia and longing for the 90s. Will my children tell stories like these?

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Ragnar Wasatch Back

05 Tuesday Jun 2018

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Outdoors, race, running, USA

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I’d been chasing that little red blinking light for a couple kilometers. A three quarter moon was shinning brightly and the once inky black sky was giving way to infinite deep blues. My last leg of Ragnar Wasatch Back was a little mind numbing. It followed an old train track with less than a 2 percent incline. I beat back the monotony by chasing down the little red lights flashing in the distance. Each runner is required to wear a taillight.

I could see the finish line grow larger as I approached but that little red light wasn’t going to make it there before me. I turned up the speed slightly. Soon I was pulling in beside this last runner, his Ear Pods protruding from his head, his breathe in time to some silent beat. A few hundred meters away and I felt bad about passing the poor guy so close to the finish. Would his last memory of this epic race be my back flashing past him to sour his victory? “Let’s go! Don’t let me pass you right at the end!” I called.

He seemed to come to, to shake out of his dull cadence. He put on a burst of speed and I pushed harder. We seemed to drop through successive gears as we pressed our acceleration. The crowd at the finish line loved it as we barreled through shoulder-to-shoulder breathing hard and having fun. This was a near repeat of a scene from Ragnar Zion. In fact, it ended the same way. Where was my team? There was no one there to pass on the baton to. Could this really be happening again?

I called our team number. I called the name of my next runner. Nothing. Just as before the crowd thought this was just as enjoyable as whipping my opponent across the finish line. Their absence was my own fault. It was cold and my body was miserable at the start line so I estimated I’d be rather slow. A near flat 7.9 kilometers in my current shape and attitude might take me 50-55 minutes. I had no plans to run hard. I crossed the line in a little more than 41 minutes. Still slow but much faster than I imagined I’d be. In the end we burned up at least 5 minutes before the team realized I was there already.

Ragnar Wasatch Back is a different beast than Ragnar Zion. Our team of 12 was split across two vans. Where the trail run had us all start and end in the same spot Wasatch Back is a point-to-point race. Race teams elaborately decorate their support vehicles but no amount of bling would mask the odor of a can of ripe runners. I barely knew any of these folks before we started. They all know me a little more than they’d probably like to now.

Ragnar didn’t disappoint. The atmosphere was party like. The trail was stunning and the test was formidable. The many legs of the course made it possible to customize the run to the skill level of each runner. Our less seasoned runners could take the 2-5 mile legs or the down hill portions and those with a little more grit the 6-9 mile legs and torturous uphill. One 7-mile hill was so grueling the race provided a special medal for the runner from each team who tackled it. In our case this was the team captain and he dominated that hill. I was impressed. Next year that thing is mine.

We had a fellow on our team who stepped in last minute for us. He took the place of two runners. His first leg was more than a half-marathon and he’d end the event having covered more than 26 miles. I hammered out an easy 15 miles and my legs are still very annoyed with me a few days later.

Our team t-shirt logo

I was also added to this team at the last minute. I didn’t tell the team I’d be making this post so I won’t list the names of the team members here but I’ll say that it was a fun group of writers, editors, historians, students and this lone librarian, so, a bunch of nerds. Our team name is a play on an obscure quote of Joseph Smith’s though less obscure since the publication of Richard L. Bushman’s acclaimed biography of Joseph by that title, Rough Stone Rolling. We were the Rough Stones Running. Sufficiently nerdy, I’d say.

I thought I’d be able to say which race I preferred (Zion or Wasatch, road or trail). Turns out, I enjoyed both of them on their own merits. If I take my kids in the future it will probably be to the Zion trail run. I think it’s much less dangerous. Though, I’d be up for another Wasatch Back anytime.

Things that could be improved on:

Better finish line management. So often the finish lines were crowded with spectators and it was hard to tell exactly where to stop or transition
Something besides water at aid stations. You pay a good deal for these races. I feel like there could be more food and freebies along the way
Food trucks at the busier transitions. That epic hill run could have used a handful of food trucks – so many people
Double the number of portable toilets at those busy transitions too

Things that I really liked about the race:

Being packed into a van was actually good fun – road trip!
People really got into it and the sportsmanship was inspiring
Some great scenery on the trails
The high-school gyms that allowed for sleeping and showering. Those were awesome. Sleeping on a mat in a gym isn’t really great but it did look like a makeshift morgue dealing with a pandemic – which was kind of cool (only because it wasn’t actually a make shift morgue)
They’ve got great medals

Left: medal for running both Utah Ragnar events. Centre: medal for running two Ragnar events in 2018. Right: medal for running Ragnar Wasatch Back.

A near death experience

16 Sunday Jul 2017

Posted by jrwmacdonald in race, running, USA

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I am in the hospital. This isn’t the type of place that I frequent, at least not as a patient. The heart rate monitor attached to my finger makes typing difficult but I suppose that is the least of my worries. Or perhaps it is my biggest worry at the moment? I feel great. It appears my travel insurance will cover these couple nights here too. The nurses, doctors and staff at the Logan Regional Hospital have been fantastic. I fully expected to wait in the emergency room for 3-4 hours (standard Canadian practice) before being admitted but I was in the door in minutes and had a doctor almost immediately. Since then the stay has been top notch. Though as we dialed up our insurance company before heading to the hospital and again on admittance (they were actually great too) I wondered whether I would take the 3 hour wait over the anxiety of whether I’d have to pay for this much needed visit out of pocket.

How did I get here in the first place? It started at the end of the Canadian Death Race in 2015. That was my second ultra marathon and it was awesome. My running buddy, Jeremy and I, immediately made plans for our next ultra together and we chose the 100k Beaverhead Endurance Race for the summer of 2017. Then life happened. Jeremy went home to Finland and kept running. The Beaverhead would become his 12th ultra marathon and for me number 3. I’ve got a million excuses. Some of them are even good. None of them matter when you are fighting to catch your breath at the peak of a jagged mountain staring at the next summit in your way. The Beaverhead is reportedly the most rugged ultra marathon in Northwest America. I’m no expert but I’d be surprised to find a tougher race. There were 89 entrants for the 100k option 44 didn’t complete it.

Jeremy and I camped out at the start line the night before the race. The alternative was to take a ~3am shuttle from Salmon, Idaho to the start line at Bannock Pass. Camping out gave us an extra hour of sleep. Not that the sleep was great. We pitched a borrowed 2-man tent that wasn’t quite long enough for either of us to fully stretch out. If it had rained we would’ve been soaked. I was grateful for it nonetheless, it kept the mosquitoes at bay. Bannock Pass is at about 7,400 feet in elevation and looks out on a green rolling landscape worthy of the artists paintbrush. It took the breath away. Literally. I’m used to 2,200 feet above sea level. 7,000 is a stretch. The course offers about 12,000 feet of elevation gain over the 100k distance rising and falling between ~7,400 and ~10,000 feet above sea level. I have zero experience running at elevation.

Campsite at Bannock Pass looking south (opposite direction of the race)

The bus with our competitors rolled in about 4:20am and we scrambled to get prepared for our 5am departure. The race crew kindly transported our camping gear back to the the finish line for us. The forty minutes before the race went by way too quickly. No time to even visit the loo. We lined up in the semi-dark, our headlamps and a full moon illuminating the way before us and counted off the seconds that slipped away on a big digital clock brought out for the occasion. “5, 4, 3, 2, 1” and off we went into the dark, reflective stakes pounded into the ground pointing out the way. What a feeling! Setting off on an immense challenge, feeling the muscles and tissues in your body reverberating with excitement and knowing the joy of being young and healthy. There is always a bit of anxiety of course and for me, on this day, not having put in the training I wanted and should have, there were variables that made me a little nervous. I was elated all the same to be running with my old friend Jeremy. It’s been nearly 2 years!

We soon moved into single track running and within a few kilometers the pack was spread out. The trail winds through an undeniably gorgeous backdrop and those first few kilometers were great for lulling you into a sense of ease. There were a good number of aid stations on this run. I can’t remember them all but they seemed to be spaced fairly evenly throughout the course. Arriving at the first station I was pleased to see PB&J sandwiches and Pepsi – these places were excellently stocked. The folks manning them were awesome too. There were no fancy GPS tracking gadgets so we found ourselves calling out our bib numbers as we came in and out, hoping the folks with the clipboards would get them down.

Jeremy set a manageable pace. We strove to keep the heart rate down by power walking the hills and running the downhills. My immediate goal was simply to keep up with Jeremy as long as I could. After that I planned to shift into a power walk with occasional light jog for the remainder of the race. As kilometre 18 drifted by it occurred to me that every K after this would be the longest distance I’d run in quite a while (a year perhaps). At about 20 kilometres my right toe caught the edge of a rock or a root and the shock instantly threw my right calf into a terrible spasm and cramp. I had to flex hard to keep the muscle from seizing completely. Not cool. It was very clear to me at this point, having hardly done a half marathon, that my fitness level was not where it should be. Jeremy gave me a salt tab and within a couple minutes the cramp began to release. Okay – clearly I was losing sodium more quickly than I’d anticipated. The day was growing hot fast.

Jeremy left me at about the 28 kilometre mark. He just slowly started pulling away. He kept looking back but I waved him on. I thought that’d be the last I saw of him but he was cheering me on as I pulled into the next aid station. He set out walking as I grabbed a few calories. He had to return when he realized he’d forgotten his poles. So off we set once more together. We stuck together for another 10k or so. I seemed to burst through something of a wall and we made some great time on a few long downhill portions of the course. Our drop bags were waiting for us at the 45k mark. Jeremy pulled away about 5k before then. My renewed energy and strength was waning and to tell the truth this is where the trouble really began. The heat of the day was pressing now and I made an error I’ve made many times before. I chose to wear a black long sleeve shirt and black hat when I set out in the morning expecting I’d reach my drop bag with lighter clothing before the heat could catch me. I was close.

With a few kilometres to my drop bag I ran out of water. I was doing everything I could to keep my body cool. At each aid station I would load my hat with ice and leave it to melt on my head. My sleeves drawn back and my collar as wide as it could go yet the sweat was flowing. I moderated my pace to keep my heart rate down but it hardly seemed to help. Worse even was the hot spots forming on my feet. I hate blisters and generally speaking I rarely get them. I’ve never lost a toenail like so many other ultra runners and I very rarely develop blisters of any significance. This one forming on the outsides of both big toes and the back of my left heel was giving me some trepidation. Where was that aid-station and drop bag? I was running on a fairly smooth jeep track winding its way through rolling hills and Idaho scrub when I seemed to spot the stop a ways out and up! My heart sank – “It must still be 2k away,” I thought. I pressed on worried about my growing dehydration and foot soreness knowing that at these temperatures without water a few hundred meters in either direction could spell relief or disaster.

Some race official was walking the course in the opposite direction. I wanted to quip he was headed the wrong way as I passed but I was hurting. “The aid-station is just ahead” he called. I thought him a bit of a Jerk – I’d clearly seen the vehicles at least another kilometre away now obscured by the hill I was climbing. To be fair a kilometre really is “just ahead” but it might as well have been a thousand in my mind. But then cresting the hill there it was hidden in a little bowl in the land like cool crystal waters in a land of fire. I made it and not a moment too soon. I queued up to the table and a volunteer was taking my empty water bottles and another asking after my drop bag. Jeremy was there looking like a master of his element, confident and cool, coiled to strike out on the course. He asked if he should wait for me but I waved him on. I knew I’d be at this station for a while. He pressed into my hand a small black bottle labeled “Hot Shot” and then sped off, words of encouragement lingering behind him.

I found a chair in the shade and downed a litre of water. I was suddenly ravishing. Normally it is a struggle for me to eat after 40k of running but here I found myself struggling to hold back. I ate and I ate and I ate. A volunteer suddenly appeared above me, in his hands he clutched an armful of sweating pop cans, their cool interiors reacting with the oppressive heat around them. We exchanged some words I’m sure but all I recall is the brilliant blue Pepsi can and his smile as it slipped from his hand to mine. A shaded chair, my shoes removed from my feet and the sensation of cool fizzing liquid sugar passing my parched lips combined for the perfect sense of euphoria. This is all I needed. I could stop the race right now. No, I finished repairing my feet and changed into my lighter shirt and hat. My body temperature fell, it seemed, a couple degrees. I was ready to press on.

I peeled open the small black bottle Jeremy had given me. I wasn’t sure what I’d find… a powder, pills, no, an ominous dark liquid. I reexamined the bottled and confirmed I was supposed to drink it. It felt a little Alice in Wonderland as I tipped it back. It burned going down. I chased it down with some water and hoped for the best. I moved off down the trail thanking the volunteers at the aid station and falling in with another runner. Turns out Jeb, this runner, had completed the 55k last year but not without some trouble. He explained that last year he fell in the infamous “boulder field” and opened a cut below his knee requiring 8 stitches. In true ultra form he finished the race regardless, just a little bloody. Much more lay ahead I realized than what came before. I was climbing and my mind and body found a compatible mutual gear. More a walk than a run but my poles worked to push me forward with every step in a stubborn rhythm. I wouldn’t do much more running in this race but I had it in my teeth and I wasn’t letting go.

The next miles are something of a blur. I was racing the clock and much of my time was comprised of math. How fast was I moving? If I moved at 9 minutes per kilometre what time would I make the next aid station and how close to the cut off would that put me (10 minutes, 11 minutes, 12 minutes)? This terrain minus the increase in blister size on my right foot plus the possibility of elevation gain minus possible downhill sections divided by my time at the last aid station would put me into the next cut off with so much to spare. But if this rain storm approaching is at all severe how long might it take to put on the rain gear and what will the rain do to the trail? I hate math by the way. I made it into the 3:30pm cutoff station with hours to spare. I inquired after Jeremy and learned he was about 30 minutes ahead of me. I’d inquire after him at every aid station and watch him pull ever so slowly away from me.

A storm was gathering along the mountain I was ascending, The thought of rain was a good one. I could hear the growing repeat of thunder though. I was running along a high ridge of the Continental Divide when the rain began and I had to put on my shell. I stopped next to the charred remains of a past lightning strike to pull it on. The booming of thunder as I ran through a forest of historical lightning strikes was unnerving. My metal trekking poles lightning rods in my hands. I morosely wondered what it might feel like to be struck by lightning. Would there be any warning? I suddenly could run again.

As the race progressed the race directors seemed more and more masochistic. I seemed to be climbing all the time. I was playing leap frog with what I knew was the final half dozen to dozen runners on the course. Some of us were not going to make the next cut-off. Would it be me? I was starting to hope it would be me. The last cutoff was 7:30pm. I was watching the clock. I told myself I would run for it at 7:15 if I was still not there. It was with mixed relief that the aid station appeared on the hill above me at 7:15. I’d make it. I wouldn’t need to run for it. I’d make it. Was that a good thing?

I collapsed into a chair at the aid station next to a jovial volunteer flipping quesadillas on the barbecue. “You need a quesadilla my friend!” And magically a corn tortilla was in my hand. I’d beat the cutoff by 12 minutes and I thought I might just die right there. 5 minutes washed away as I fumbled with my phone to text Lisa. The urge to let her know I was still alive seemed urgent to me and I was glad to find a weak cell signal. “Um, not trying to rush you but you should know that the cut-off at 7:30 means you need to leave the aid station by that time.” Wait, What? This was news to me and not good news. I looked down at my legs. There were dozens of small flies feasting on them. I looked at my watch. 7:27. I stood and borrowed a can of bug spray to douse my shaking legs. I shoved half the quesadilla down my throat and suppressed a violent gag reflex. The remainder went in a trash bin. “Thanks everyone! #47 heading out!” It was 7:28pm. As I pulled away I heard the volunteers tell the gentlemen right behind me the next cut off was the last aid station 4.5 miles away at 11pm. 3.5 hours to cover 4.5 miles shouldn’t be a problem I thought even if there is some “boulder field” in the way.

There was no trail really. All that lay before me was a field of jagged boulders the bones of some ancient mountain reaching up to stab and slice at those that would dare to disturb their rest. The sun was falling in front of me and I worried that I’d be trapped on these mountains in the dark. To my right the land fell immediately away, a cliff towering above moraine lakes and scree fields below. Beautiful valleys to my left teased with the knowledge that somewhere among them we would descend to the finish line. We final three on the course spoke little. Though we took queues from one another. When one rested the others seemed to receive permission to rest too. When one moved the others seemed drawn to move too. Each peak seemed to be followed by yet another in an endless procession into hell. Planting my poles between a few rocks I bent and pulled for air watching my sweat splash against the parched rocks at my feet. “I don’t care” I said. “I can miss the next cutoff, they can pull me from the course – I don’t care.” #11, smiled. “Yes you do, you care” she said. “Ok, yes I care but I don’t care” I rejoined and raised my head and my poles. It was time this was over.

We came off the boulder field suddenly and in a steep dive. The trail snaked sharply down the mountainside requiring you to use the surrounding trees to arrest your descent. It was nearly steep enough to slide down on your backside. If my quads had anything left it was about to be spent on this. The sun failed and I stopped to retrieve my headlamp. The trail was marked by a series of reflective stakes like glow bugs in some enchanted forest. I pulled into that final aid station about 20 minutes after 10pm having spent nearly the past 3 hours covering 4.5 miles. It was by far the most difficult 4.5 miles of my life. I felt like throwing up. A volunteer handed me a small cup full of fruit smoothie as I settled into a chair. #11 was there reminding me to be pleased with my achievement. I liked her attitude.

This was it. Just 9 more kilometers to go on a trail from all accounts that was relatively tame. I could cover that distance in my current condition in about 100 minutes I calculated. It was about 10:30pm when I stood up. I was going to finish this thing. I found a pace and pushed it a little harder. Down to the finish line. The river crossings at the end were a nice touch. The cool water on my feet was amazing. Soon enough I could see the lights of the finish line in the distance. Every time the trail veered away from the finish I felt the sting of annoyance. I concentrated on the time. No sense expecting the finish line before midnight. Then it was midnight and I was still on the trail. 10 more minutes. 10 more minutes. “Go James.” It was Jeremy’s voice. Jeremy was there on the side of the trail in a chair, the finish line out of sight. Was I hallucinating? “Go buddy, you’ve got 200 meters left.” 200 meters! My poles were in my hands and I was running, running down hill, running to the finish line. Running to my family, to freedom to relief and ecstasy and… I was running. Breathe. I fought tears, joyful tears. There was the clock (19 hours and 11 minutes) and the finish and tears desperately wanting to spill down my cheeks and pour out the last of my energy onto the ground. My girls were there and running with me. I crossed the line and felt my knees go. I was on my back staring up at smiling faces and thanking God for my life, for this body capable of so much. I knew that were I to finish it would be a triumph of mind over matter. It was an epic battle and my mind won. Though I would learn that my body wasn’t going to go quietly.

I won’t try to describe the feeling of finishing such a race. Those moments right after when you chat with competitors (there were only a handful of us left) is surreal. It was after midnight. I hoped to crawl straight into a tent and fall asleep. Lisa informed me we were instead going to drive three hours south to our friends the Anderson’s. She figured the ride would be worth the real bed. I couldn’t argue that. We had already imposed on the Anderson’s for nearly a week and I was reticent to inflict myself on them anymore but who was I to argue. Matt and Yvonne if you read this you need to know you are the embodiment of sainthood. Thank you.

It was a fitful ride back but I was hardly conscious even when I was technically conscious. At some point in the wee hours of the morning I took a shower and scrubbed myself as clean as I could. Then I threw up. That Hot Shot at kilometre 45 seemed to return with vengeance. At least the black vomit that swirled below my parched lips looked, smelled and tasted like the little vial I’d downed earlier. I felt marginally better. We rested at the Anderson’s where I fought recurring episodes of vomiting until about 4:30pm. Then we piled into the van with its poor attempt at an air conditioner to make the 3-hour drive to Logan, Utah where we planned to stay with friends before dropping the kids at summer camp at the University of Utah on Monday afternoon. “If I throw up one more time I think I’d better go to the hospital.” I told Lisa. Then the hiccup fit began. My feet on the dash and a bucket in my lap my chest spasming every few moments threatening to expel what little fluid I had left in my body. I took some anti-nausea meds (Gravol) just before getting in the car but they didn’t seem to be doing much.

I held on as long as I could before puking in the car. Lisa cracked the windows and we stopped at a gas station to rinse out the bucket. It was time for a hospital. We arrived at our friends’ home and announced my predicament. We could not have better friends. Marvin loaded me into his car after we called the insurance company and took me into Logan Regional Hospital. I figured they’d give me some anti-nausea medicine and some IV fluids. I’d be out in a few hours. Dr. Stolworthy had other ideas. He seemed rather concerned when he told me he needed to admit me for 3-4 days and that I’d developed something called Rabdomyolysis. Essentially my muscles had begun to break down and the resulting proteins were too large for the kidneys to handle. Eventually the condition would lead to renal failure, possible nerve damage and other nasty things. Lisa got on the phone with the insurance company and we proceeded as the doctors directed. There were all sorts of folks popping their head in and out of the room before I was officially wheeled off to the ICU. One young doctor appeared next to the bed and announced that Dr. Stolworthy had told her to come by and look at me. That my case was “interesting.” Everyone that saw me over the next couple days mentioned how impressive it was that I’d run 100 kilometres. Naturally, I thought it’d be much more impressive were I not lying in a hospital.

Honestly, I don’t feel any less about that 100 kilometre accomplishment even though it ended in a stay at the hospital. The hospital was about the best thing that could have happened. Sure they came around every few hours to stick needles in me but I slept. That first night I was racked with the worst hiccups I’ve ever experienced but they pumped me full of enough anti-nausea medicine that I did not throw up again. They hung bag after bag of IV fluids and kept a close eye on my sodium, potassium, “CK-protein” and other levels. Sure I had to get up every hour to pee but for the first day someone was there to unplug me and help me wheel the IV stand to the restroom. I was admitted Sunday evening. By Monday evening I was unhooking myself and getting in and out of bed unassisted. By Tuesday I was writing this post and feeling amazing. At least comparatively.

The doctors seemed to think my situation was concerning. They put me through a few tests including an EKG. My heart rate was concerning for me, resting in the 70s when it ought to be in the high 40s. There was some concern about a high “T wave” but in the end everything checked out. In fact, I checked out of the hospital Tuesday evening and Lisa and I headed into Salt Lake City to dinner with an old mission companion. I felt like I’d just been raised from the dead. I’m sure my family will never let me live this down. Most of them have promised to kick my butt when they next see me. I’m not too concerned.

So what have I learned? I’m not sure I know yet. There is the obvious: clearly I need to spend more time and effort on my preparation for these things, my mind is capable of killing me and I’m happy to be alive. Jeremy finished his race in just over 16 hours. I was about 2 hours behind him. The apprentice has truly become the master. What I’ve really been reminded of through this whole thing… how much I love my wife. She cried for just a moment in the hospital and it struck me how meaningless it’d all be without her.

Vimy Ridge

18 Monday Jul 2016

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Europe, Living, Traveling

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Canada, Canadian War Memorials, France, World War One, WWI

Canada mourns the loss of her fallen sons from Vimy Ridge, France.

124 years ago today, July 18th 1892, my great grandfather, George Andrew McDonald, came screaming into the world. In his 24th year he enlisted with the Canadian military and entered the Great War. He volunteered likely believing the war would be over by December and thus set sail for England, I imagine, excited for adventure. I know very little of the man though he was one of my father’s principal early care givers.

When I graduated from high school my father gifted me George’s WWI service medal. That gift seemed to somehow connect me to this man. From the regiment number stamped on that medal I obtained his attestation paper from his military enlistment. Library and Archives Canada (LAC) has made these available online. I then went on to pay the photocopy fees to obtain his service record from the LAC. Practically everything I know about the man comes from these documents. It isn’t much.

George was five feet six inches tall and likely weighed around 140lbs. He had light brown hair and grey eyes and I imagine that if he and I were standing side by side we might just be mistaken as brothers. He was 23 years old when he enlisted in late November 1915 in Sarnia Ontario. He was assigned to the Canadian Forestry Corps and the 70th batallion. His initial medical report indicates that he had no distinguishing physical marks. Within a year there’d be scars: physical and mental. He was discharged August 23rd, 1918 “being medically unfit for further general service” the record states. He had taken a bullet just above his left knee, “external to the joint,” though I wonder if he walked with a limp from then on? He took that bullet somewhere along the Somme, France on the 12th of October 1916 nearly 100 years ago.

The Somme was a muddy, bloody cess pool. Men literally rotted in trenches as we struggled to learn this new “modern” warfare. His record tells a grim story of the aftermath of that experience though in the most clinical and perfunctory way. One doctor reports that he “claimed” to be shell-shocked 4 or 5 times. I know he was at the front but how long exactly I can’t say. He was in France for 5 months. He developed a slight tremor in his hands that could be seen also in his tongue. He couldn’t keep his food down and lost about 20 pounds. He was nervous all the time and easily excited. If he was anything like me his resting pulse rate should have been in the mid to low 50s. After his time at the front it was 108.

When I learned I would be going to France I hoped that my travels would take me close enough to the Vimy Ridge memorial. George didn’t fight at Vimy (that was a few months after he was wounded). Vimy is the Canadian war memorial to see in France. It is widely regarded that our victory there was the birth place of the nation. France gifted the ridge in perpetuity to the people of Canada and on its hallowed ground stands an inspiring monument to the sacrifice made there.

TO THE VALOUR OF THEIR COUNTRYMEN IN THE GREAT WAR AND IN MEMORY OF THEIR SIXTY THOUSAND DEAD THIS MONUMENT IS RAISED BY THE PEOPLE OF CANADA.

It was raining as we drove through the French countryside, avoiding the toll road, toward Vimy Ridge. The country is flat here and well cultivated. We passed through many small French villages where row homes of weathered brick pressed close against the narrow road. The steeples of Catholic Churches rose majestically above each community against the back drop of storm darkening skies. Then suddenly between villages appeared the familiar white font on black background of Canadian government signs, a small red maple leaf in the corner. This could not be a sign for Vimy Ridge as it was too soon but I was intrigued. I made a left as directed and followed the signs to an unknown, to me, Canadian memorial. The narrow road narrowed more and more until it was essentially a single paved lane winding through French fields. Then just off the road was a small plot, maybe 30 meters square, of fenced coniferous trees with close cropped grass. In its centre lay a rock monument with the statue of a caribou dominating its top. Gueudecourt. I would learn that a regiment from Newfoundland fought bravely and won here at extraordinary cost. Newfoundland was not a part of Canada at that time. It wouldn’t become Canada’s tenth province until after the 2nd World War. Yet, a Canadian monument all the same.

Gueudecourt Memorial

The small grounds of this memorial are meticulously kept. Even the shallow trench at the foot of the caribou statue was filled with well groomed grass. The rain fell lightly as I reflected on the beauty now found here. I wondered if George felt the sting of that bullet somewhere close by. Perhaps it was a rainy day much like this one and he was in this trench at my feet. His feet rotting in his boots as he anticipated the command to climb out of the mud and charge the enemy. I learned that this line, this trench at my feet, became the front line of the Somme. Indeed along this line some where George had fought. Along this line now stretching off into well cultivated fields George had sat in the mud as explosions shook the ground around him and men died in squalor. Yet, when he arrived the trench had already been dug and the ground watered with the blood of Newfoundland’s boys and when he was done others would come to make their sacrifice. It was sombering to stand there in the rain.

We drove on to Vimy Ridge. Every Canadian has seen this monument. It is on our 20 dollar bill. Two granite spires reach out of the earth toward heaven and at its base a single tomb to represent the thousands lost here and elsewhere in the war. Above the tomb the lone figure of a woman, Canada, shrouded in her granite cloak mourns the loss of her sons. Her eyes are downcast staring at the silent tomb unable to see the view presented by the ridge she stands upon. It was for that view of the plains her sons had fought and died. Fought and died. Sixty thousand Canadian soldiers; 1 in 10 from a force of 600,000. 1 in 10 from a country of a mere 7 million.

I wandered around the monument lost in my thoughts, grateful for the sacrifices made and saddened that it was ever necessary. I placed my hand upon the names of the fallen carved in that granite and felt a small touch of survivor’s guilt. George was only a boy who likely had little concept of the fate that awaited him when he signed that attestation. Sure there was some courage there, some patriotism, some sense of duty but it was probably the uniform, the call of adventure, the smiles of the girls that compelled him to the theatre of war. The dark clouds roiled above us but did not obstruct our view of the valley which seemed to stretch out a hundred years and into our prosperous lives.

Just a few days later Lisa and I joined hundreds of thousands of Parisians at the foot of the Eiffel Tower to celebrate Bastille Day. A day of freedom. Later that night when the fireworks had ended we learned that a man had used a truck as a weapon at a similar fireworks show in Nice, France. He indiscriminately smashed through the crowds killing and maiming men, women and children. In a great act of evil he took the lives of nearly 100 people and injured twice as many. Tens of thousands more mourn their loss. Their eyes are fixed on the tombs at their feet. It is a new “modern” warfare. There is no trench to climb into and if there were those firing from the other side are surrounded with innocents. Is there a weapon made with hands that could find our enemies without giving rise to more? I won’t claim to have the answers but it seems clear to me that the soil at our feet has an infinite capacity to drink the blood of man.

: A mourning Canada.

: A lone tomb representing our fallen.

: Canada comforts the suffering.

: The names of fallen Canadian soldiers on French soil during WWI.

: The Canadian war memorial at Vimy Ridge, France

Ultra Bowron

24 Friday Jun 2016

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Canada

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Una Lake taken August 2014

Thirty hours and eight minutes. That is how long it took Brenton and me to circumnavigate the Bowron Lake circuit last weekend. We should have finished in about 22 and a half hours but when we reached the mouth of the Bowron River (more of a snaking lake) it was nearing 1am and we talked ourselves out of the final 11k to the finish and into a tent. It was dark and I was nervous about the possibility of upsetting in the river (however remote that possibility was). It would be one thing to swim into shore from the lake but the Bowron River is a tangle of brush and swamp that could prove a great hazard in the dark and in our fatigued condition than I think we could handle. We’d been paddling for more than 19 hours at that point and a chunk of that directly into a strong head wind that churned up waves just high enough to cap white as they crested and fell.

It was dark but not nearly as dark as it could have been. In February I found myself with two friends (including Brenton) circumnavigating this same lake circuit but on skis. That trip took about 6 days and several of those consisted of travel that took us into the dark of night. A vivid memory of stars glittering in profusion across an inky black sky is still emblazoned on my mind. This night, though nearly as clear, was framed in the soft light of a full moon. It rose resplendent directly behind us as we raced toward the sinking sun. In the last rays of twilight bats hunted insects around our gliding double kayak. We were crossing the well named Spectacle lake at that point and I couldn’t help but recall the scene a few months back on that same lake. There was about an inch of water covering the ice that looked nearly like a mirror. The red purple sky and the ashen winter greens of the surrounding hills reflected from it as we slipped across its surface. The words are inadequate but perhaps they convey a sense of why I keep going back to this place?

Brenton and I left for the chain at about 2pm Friday evening. The chain is about a 3 hour drive from Prince George. We rented a cabin at Bear River Mercantile just a kilometre from the trail head. We stayed there the night before our winter ski adventure too. It isn’t the Ritz but it is clean, warm and comfortable and the hosts are lovely. I slept soundly. That sound sleep is a reflection of some gained maturity, I hope. In the last couple years I’ve found that I can sleep soundly before races or adventures of all sorts. I used to toss and turn brimming with anticipation and excitement. The anticipation and the excitement remain but they are tempered somehow, by experience perhaps?

Having checked in with the park Friday evening we were up at 3:30am on Saturday to be on the trail before 4:30am if possible. We learned during checkin that there were two other vessels attempting an under 24 hour circuit that day. One of them, a husband and wife team, we understood would be on the trail by 3:00am. The other, a soloist, left Friday evening at 9pm and we later learned had finished before noon on Saturday. Apparently, the fastest tandem time is 11 hrs, 47 mins and 27 seconds (if I’ve remembered correctly). The soloist had the right idea. By leaving at 9pm the sun was setting at his back as he travelled east. By the time the sun was cresting the eastern horizon in the morning he was heading west and racing it to the finish. We on the other were travelling with the sun in our eyes on the way in and out.

The bulk of the circuit’s portage trails are completed in the first 30 kilometres as you walk into Kibee Lake, then on to Indian Point and finally into the western arm of Isaac Lake. The morning cloud and fog on Indian Point Lake was incredible. A thin cloud, a deep blue colour I’ve never seen, snaked through the spruce trees to our left but directly ahead was the scene of some sort of theophany. The fog lifted from the lake in wispy tendrils reaching up to embrace the low dark clouds and blended together as if the lake were pouring itself into the sky. Through it all the sun burst every crack and thin veil to drive beams of light onto the rippling waters which reflected them like frosted glass. We paddled into the light.

At the marshy end of Indian Point we spotted our first moose, a bull. We’d see 8 moose this trip. Though there have been plenty of bear sightings on the circuit this year (both black and grizzly) to our disappointment we saw none. We did get a good look at a young buck and a fat beaver along with a myriad of birds including, of course, several beautiful birds of prey.

The thirty two kilometre eastern arm of Isaac lake is without a doubt one of the more mentally challenging parts of this circuit. Its not as if there is nothing to look at. The water is an aqua marine colour that along the shore is clear all the way to the bottom. Every now and then a gushing white water spills from the steep shoreline into the lake and you are heading directly toward 4 snow capped craggy peaks. You are quite literally paddling across a Bob Ross painting. The problem is you feel trapped in that painting. The lake just goes on and on. We covered the distance in about 5 hours with only two brief stops. The first of which was a Brenton emergency to straighten his poor back. Thankfully a quick stretch seemed to fix him up for the rest of the trip. I know this circuit pretty well now but Isaac lake always tricks me. “The end is just around this point,” I’ll say only to follow it up with “oh I mean this next point or maybe this next point.” Stepping out at the end of the lake and the head of the Isaac River is always accompanied with a sense of gratitude.

The Isaac river is squeezed out of the lake between a rocky shore line to make a 90 degree right turn. They call it “The Chute.” You have the option of portaging around it but, really! Brenton and I debated whether we’d run the kayak through the chute or make the portage. I didn’t press too hard because I knew something he didn’t. From the shore the chute looks rather gentle. Certainly, the right turn is wide and the water though rolling and breaking gives the impression of gentle power. We pulled into shore and I headed over to inspect the chute. When I came back I said “before we unload maybe just stretch your legs and have a look at the river.” Brenton knew what I was doing but he went anyway. It took him moments to be seduced by the river. “Okay, let’s do it!”

The first time I paddled the chute I was with Lisa. We portaged our gear around it to walk back and take our empty canoe down the water. A practical precaution. If you roll over its nice not to send all your gear over the Isaac falls. That first run down the river was a success but not before spinning us around in a complete 360 and graciously spitting us out the other side a little wet but still floating. My skills have improved remarkably since then but my experience in a kayak is next to nothing. As you approach the chute from the lake and feel the immense power of the water push you along you realize the deception of the shoreline view too late to turn back. You sit much lower in a kayak than you do in a canoe. My adrenaline rose rapidly as the chute pulled us in and I waited for the right moment to burry the rudder and my paddle. “Here we go!” My paddle dug in at the bottom of a rolling wave and its crest swamped the back of the kayak. The skirt kept the majority of the water out but the weight of the water gave me a moment of terror that we would roll as we came to what felt like a dead stop. “Pull hard Brenton, pull!” With increased strength and determination he drove us free of the gripping force of the water and down stream. A few hundred meters down the river you run through what they call the “roller coaster.” Its a narrowing of the river that creates a series of rolling waves. Having successfully navigated the chute I had a flash of anger when I thought we were about to be driven against a rock at the edge of the roller coaster. It was a fleeting feeling as the river swept us safely beyond. The nose of the kayak took a bit of a dive and it was Brenton’s turn to have the river attempt to pull him down. he had forgotten to fully zip up his kayak skirt and ended up with a few gallons of water in his lap. In the end we made it safely down the river full of adrenaline and recovered from the gross monotony of Isaac’s 32 kilometres.

A couple portages and a small stretch of river later we passed the deafening roar of the Isaac falls into McCleary Lake. This is my favourite place on the entire chain. It’s a small lake in a small valley. The Isaac falls crashes down just out of view from the lake but the dull roar of it can be heard echoing off the mountains that enclose it. A small trappers’ cabin lies lopsided like a beached boat on its eastern bank. Spruce, cedar and fir trees rise powerfully from the steep hillsides surrounding it. The shore line is reedy and swampy drawing moose to the feed. Those snowcapped peaks seen from Issac lake tower above it all and at their base gently rolls the Cariboo River. There is something restorative about the place that I can’t describe. Its about the half way point on the circuit and thus about the most remote, hemmed in as it is by the Isaac and Cariboo rivers. Should the zombie apocalypse bring modern society to a crashing halt you can find me on McCleary Lake fishing.

In no time we were leaving this little paradise and entering the Cariboo River. The contrast of this trip’s 30 minute ride down the 5 kilometres of the Cariboo and the slog we made in February was palpable. This last winter was a warm one and the river was open when we reached it in February. In snowshoes and drawing our 80 pound sleds we were forced to traverse the rough shoreline down to Lanezi Lake. It took us ten hours to make those 5 kilometres. The river is powerful but not much of a danger if you pay attention. The remnants of the occasional wrecked canoe along the shore are a good reminder to stay vigilant.

The Cariboo River spreads its silt across the entirety of the 14 kilometre Lanezi Lake. It’s a murky green. It is here that you shift from the cooler rougher ecosystem of the east side of the chain to a gentler warmer less mighty western side. By the time we’d traversed the majority of Lanezi we were going on our longest stretch in the kayak without a reprieve (even n the Issac we pulled off twice). We were therefore sore and tired when the wind began to push the lake back up the Cariboo River. We ducked in and out of every bend in the shoreline to escape the wind but it was a tremendous battle. There is a campsite at the end of Lanezi and we pulled in for a bio break and to boil water for dinner. The plan was to boil the water, fill up our freeze dried meals and get back in the kayak. One of us would paddle while the other ate and then we’d switch. The wind made this impossible. It taunted us rushing in in great powerful gusts to then go still for a minute or two before whipping back up. So we sat and ate and lingered spending nearly an hour in hopeful anticipation of a calming of the winds. The winds continued as we climbed back into the kayak and set its nose defiantly into it.

We paddled what remained of Lanezi into the wind and on into Sandy lake where we knew we’d find no protective inlets. We’d have to battle for every inch of that lake. In 2011 Brenton and I as youth leader drug a group of boys around the circuit. When we reached Sandy Lake on that trip we were met with similar winds but also with such torrential rain that it was difficult to tell where the lake ended and the sky began. The rain came with such ferocity that the large drops exploded into the lake sending water shrapnel back into the air. There were storm clouds in the sky on this day too but they were scattered and lacking the power they could have if they joined forces. The sun streamed into our faces with the wind and a fine mist of rain carried from a billowing storm cloud some distance to our right brought a little laughter to my heart. We pulled past the beach where in my minds eye I could see the half dozen canoes, carrying those boys of five years ago, into the sandy shore. The rain brought the boys over their bows like men storming the beaches in some 20th century battle. They fled for whatever cover they could find, (out houses, bear caches, trees) while their leaders pitched an impressive tarp fortress and miraculously built fires beneath them. How on earth did we ever get anything to burn there…? We must have carried the dry wood under tarps in the canoes from a distant wood lot.

One of my favourite pictures is from that youth trip. Its of me sitting in the back of a canoe wearing my favourite leather hat as the rain drips around me. I have the biggest grin on my face. Two of my young men are also sitting in the canoe but looking forlorn and cold. I haven’t seen those two in sometime and I wonder if they’ve yet learned to smile in-spite of the rain. It is true that I said a few silent prayers standing on the beach at the end of Lanezi Lake that the wind might abate and that we could carry on in calm waters. The winds kept on perhaps because that prayer would be answered in the form of strength to endure. You may argue that that hour rest and a good meal were the source of our strength to meet the wind after those first 80k and you’d likely be right but knowing how the miracle is accomplished does not make it any less miraculous to me. I know from whence my strength springs.

So through the wind we travelled down Sandy Lake and the next stretch of the Cariboo River before finding shelter in Babcock creek. We passed that couple that left at 3am on the shores of Spectacle Lake. They’d reached that point when the winds came up and opted to pitch their tent rather than fight that battle. We would meet them the next day at the mouth of the Bowron River and the final sprint to the finish. They passed us there like we were standing still. When we met them at the dock the secret of their speed was revealed in 12 ounce bent shaft paddles and a 25lb white water canoe. I could literally lift their canoe over my head easily with my left hand. I may still be a little green with envy. Brenton and I had to weigh the kayak after that… 98 pounds. The revelation that such equipment existed kept us talking all the way back to Prince George. I’m fairly certain we could complete the circuit in less than 16 hours given the right equipment. Any one out there want to sponsor us? Maybe some company marketing to rad dad weekend warriors… 🙂 we could be the spokesmen for some cool product middle-aged dads everywhere need.

If you’ve managed to read this far your endurance skills could likely take you around the Bowron too. It is perfectly acceptable to take 6-7 days though and completely and utterly worth the time.

The Taj Mahal and Home

09 Monday Nov 2015

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Asia, Traveling

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Nothing runs on time in India. At least, this is the impression I am left with in my brief stay in a corner of the country. A bus was to take us into the Taj Mahal this morning at 5am. Actually, we were told 6am then 5:30am, then 5:45 and finally at the end of the evening it was an emphatic 5am. I asked several times to be sure. No sense getting up that early if we did not need to. We were assured 5am. There we were at 5am with the rest of the delegates staying in the guest house. I was not completely surprised when the bus pulled away at 7am. I am writing this from the plane on our 15 hour jump to Toronto. The flight was to leave at 12:45am. No shocker that they did not start boarding until after 12:30 and it was nearly 2am when the plane lifted off. And like the bus there wasn’t an explanation, an apology or even the acknowledgement of a problem.
We checked in to our flight online this morning so I was confident as we strolled past the Air Canada counter and into the immigration line. After a long wait in line we were told by the immigration officer that we could not use electronic boarding passes! Seriously! You would think that Air Canada would let you know this when checking in on the web. So back we went to the Air Canada desk to get our boarding passes. Once through immigration, this time it was a guard who stopped me and pointed out that my boarding pass read Toronto to Vancouver not Delhi to Toronto. So back I went through immigration and to the Air Canada desk. Not so much as an apology.

This post isn’t meant to be a rant. I promise. I’m at the beginning stages of a 15 hour flight that began at the end of a 20 hour day where I travelled 8 hours by bus. I’m not complaining. I just walked around one of the seven wonders of the world with my dad. Now how many people can say that? A colleague of mine on this trip would say “India is an inner journey.” She’d be right too. To live here you’d need to channel real calm to stay sane. Is it any wonder that from this part of the world springs yoga and many meditation practices?

India is, in so many ways, offensive to my western sensibilities. Yet, strangely I find myself liking its people. Perhaps it is their desire to serve, their keen sense of hospitality, their patience? In spite of the trash all around me, the thick smog that burns the lungs and restricts breathing and the insane driving I find myself day dreaming about touring the country some day on motorcycles. We travelled by bus to Agra, a distance of several hundred kilometres, and the country seems simply bursting with people. Grass huts dot farmers fields leaving me wondering at the life their owners must lead. A man piles hand cut hay on a flat deck trailer pulled by oxen. A team of camels strung out in procession move with their master to some unknown destination. The windows of the bus speeding down a 4-lane divided highway seem to look out on a strange fusion of the past and present.

Agra was much like Old Delhi only the number and variety of animals increased. The same shops line the road ways, the same thick layer of dust covers their wares. Pigs and cows root through piles of refuse. Chickens nest inches from the road ways and directly outside the doorways of people’s homes. A teaming vegetable market crawls with activity like an over turned ant hill. We crossed the Yamuna River where water buffalo and cattle kept cool in its polluted waters. Women worked tirelessly at their washing in the river. Along the muddy shore miles of carpet and sheets lay spread out to dry in the sun. It seemed counter productive to me. Surely the cloth laid out so was getting filthy on the shore line?

We caught glimpses of the Taj Mahal as we approached on the bus. Its spires and domed roof well known symbols of India’s glory. We collected our tickets from a ticket counter in a long brick building. Foreigners pay 3 times the price but their tickets are “priority” ones that would take us past the long queues wandering through the Taj. We walked the kilometre from the ticket counter to the gates. There were any number of rickshaws or horse drawn carriages that vied to carry us the distance but we opted to walk as a group. In retrospect taking a ride may have saved us the grief of turning down every merchant we passed along the way. The red sandstone fort that surrounds the Taj Mahal (crown palace) kept the tide of filth securely outside its walls. We passed through security guards and metal detectors to gain our admittance. Food was confiscated from several in our group. Thousands upon thousands of tourists filled the courtyards and gardens leading to this wonder of the world. 16 gardens and 53 fountains to be exact. Incidentally the year of it completion, 1653.

I have seen the Taj in pictures and video but to see it in person is something else. The scale of it cannot be expressed. To my initial distaste a guide found us. One that insisted his services were free but naturally would take a tip at the end. He was worth the tip, however. A sleight man dressed in a white katur pajama and wearing a white tight woven Muslim cap that reminds one of the doilies found on the tables of their grandmothers. He kept our group remarkably together and showed us many features of the palace that we would have otherwise surely missed: optical illusions, the translucent white marble that would change colour depending on the quality of the light shone upon it, the variety of stone expertly set into the carved marble.

In the main chamber of the palace the only light is the little that filters through the open door ways and the windows set high above us. Photos are not allowed in here, though an occasional flash from the uncontrollable crowd wandering through would go off. Our guide borrowed a smart phone from one of our group and used its flashlight to illuminate a small stone set in the marble in the pattern of the lotus flower. It lit up like a Christmas light and the vision of the mausoleum’s architects was suddenly before us. The interior walls are intricately covered in these stone lotus patterns and you knew that with just the right lighting these stones in their blues, yellows, greens and reds would ignite like a hundred thousand stars. One can book a night viewing of the Taj only in the few days around the full moon. I’m certain it would be worth the long flight to India just to stand in that chamber when the moonlight reveals the genius of India’s architects.

Shah Jahan the emperor responsible for the construction of the Taj had it raised in honour of his 3rd or 4th wife (his favourite) who died bearing her 14th child. She would never see the monument he had erected in her honour. It took 22 years to complete it. He would have gone on to erect a similar edifice in honour of himself made from black marble (10x the cost) but his son refused to let him spend the public funds on an edifice to his own ego and had him imprisoned where he eventually died. At least this is the legend according to our guide.

Upon leaving the grounds of the Taj Mahal we found ourselves directed to a stone craftsmen’s shop. Apparently the same families that built the original Taj still live at its feet and create stone art to this day. Again, according to our guide. They had some beautiful works of art that I wish I could afford. I was glad for the air conditioned shop though. At this point dad was completely cooked. He’d had too much sun so I flagged down a rickshaw driver and had him take us the kilometre back to the ticket office and a small restaurant.

Dad has done quite well this trip. We’ve put in a fair number of kilometres, endured some long days and extensive travel. We’ve gone by: plane, train, boat, car, tuk-tuk, rickshaw, bus and foot. We’ve come a long way since our days of exploring the Cariboo in the old station wagon. When I was 15 he and I drove the van out to Prince Rupert and back camping and fishing all along the way. We caught one fish, and a little one at that, but we made vibrant memories that are easily recalled today. Not many people have a dad like mine. I’m hopeful that we’ll have many years more together and many more adventures. Jaron and I will have adventures like this too and he with his sons and so on down through generations of time. My dad never knew his father and could have perpetuated that legacy with his own children but he chose a different path and my life is all the richer for it.

Dad and me at the Taj Mahal

The Taj Mahal framed by the red sandstone gates to its courtyard

Dad approaches the Taj Mahal

A Mosque in Old Delhi

08 Sunday Nov 2015

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Asia, Traveling

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It’s been a few days since my last post. My time in India has included much later nights than in Italy making it near impossible to write. Of course, I’ve been at a conference much of the time so there is little to report on a daily basis that would not bore you to tears.
A couple cultural observations (and while these may appear to be criticisms they are not intended as such): some cultures are more punctual than others. This culture is the least punctual of any I’ve encountered. The session I gave was a half hour late, the awards ceremony (I chair this committee) was 15 minutes late, the bus to the national arts festival was an hour late, the bus to the Taj Mahal (which I am now on) was 2 hours late. Indeed, nothing truly seems to run on time here and none of the locals seem the least irritated by it. Their lack of impatience is perhaps the most aggravating to this westerner. Second, there is a pronounced inability to not admit when you don’t know something often accompanied with a characteristic head shake. This is most aggravating when attempting to get somewhere by cab. “We need to go to Chintan Guest House. Do you know where that is?” “Okay, okay, okay, no problem, no problem.” Yet, it is not okay and there is a problem and it involves driving in circles in Delhi traffic.
Yesterday I managed to get dad out of the room and into Delhi. We took much the same route as I did the first day. We were joined by a colleague of mine, Scott, and his wife Debbie. Scott has worked at BYU for the last 31 years (dad is a BYU alumnus so they had something to chat about). I must say dad did remarkably well, he complained very little when he boarded the tuk-tuk for the ride to the metro. Never mind the death grip he had on the bar in front of him.
Scott needed an adapter to use his North America plugs so we made our way into the electronics district of Old Delhi. The entrance to this district is marked by the sour stench of the very public urinals. We wound our way through the crowd and visited a variety of shops to find everything from light bulbs to, well, mostly just light bulbs. We would eventually find an adapter but not in the electronics district.

The goal of the trip was to visit the very large mosque in Old Delhi. It was built by the same Moghul emperor that raised the Red Fort and the Taj Mahal. In the same architectural style of the Red Fort the mosque rises above the city in blood red sandstone. We took a couple rickshaws from the electronics district to the mosque. Dad enjoyed this about as much as the tuk-tuk, which is to say, he tolerated it quite well.

We arrived at the mosque to find it was closed for the next couple hours. Right, it’s Friday. So, we walked back into the markets to look around. We passed through the fireworks market and an area devoted to brass works generally depicting Hindu gods. Debbie nearly stepped on a rat at one point. The streets were as crowded as before and possibly more so. Squeezing through one narrow space I was hit by an oncoming rickshaw. Not hard enough to do any real damage but enough to prompt greater caution on my part. We found ourselves on a street dedicated to used book vendors. Sadly these were not your typical bookstores. Merchants sat at their stalls with their books piled behind them from floor to ceiling. Apparently you had to know what you wanted and ask the merchant to retrieve it. The majority of items appeared to be textbooks: medical, dental, computer and business were the dominant subjects. String bound half a dozen titles together. I assume you buy the books by the bundle. Like everything in Delhi a thick layer of dust and grime covered the pages along with everything else.

We passed through a variety of merchant districts where the haggling was fast and furious: the paper district where we watched as paper was made and even decorated by hand, the poster district where the most animated trading seemed to take place, the Saree district with its colorful cloth a stark contrast to the filth around us.

Eventually we caught a couple more rickshaws back to the mosque. As soon as we dismounted, a little boy perhaps 4 or 5, was at my side begging for money. I tried my best to ignore him. We’d planned to stop for a snack just outside the mosque. The little boy followed me to the kiosk. He was so cute. “No money” I said “but would you like a drink?” “Bebsi, bebsi,” was his excited reply. So I bought him a cola and the sheer delight on his face was solace to my heart. Dad bought a drink for a woman in burqa (possibly the boy’s mother).

The mosque was like many others except we had to pay to bring a camera inside. I was wearing shorts so I had to wear a skirt. I looked pretty good in my skirt; my sisters would be jealous. There was a pool in the midst of the courtyard and prayer mats were being rolled up and stowed away. They’d thrown a large amount of bird seed out and hundreds of pigeons feasted and then scattered to circle and return to their meal. Some sort of circling hawks likely fed on the pigeons.

We walked about the mosque enjoying its architecture and its general peace after the crowds of the market. We paid the hundred rupees to ascend one of the spires for a view of the city. Dad found a corner to relax in and watched our shoes as we made the climb. Climbing and heights have got to be two of dad’s least favorite things.

The staircase wound up and up in a tight spiral for 120 steps. At its peak it opened to a small platform from which I imagine the call to prayer was sung in days past. The gated windows prevented any great pictures of the 360 degree view but they also prevented me from plummeting to my death so I was glad for their presence. The Delhi skyline reveals a vast sea of squat dilapidated buildings overflowing each other and home to more than 10 million people.

Our return to the guest house was much of the same, rickshaws, tuk-tuks and the metro. Except dad did spot a couple monkeys outside the metro and he managed a picture or two.

I left dad at the guest house; he’d had enough for one day. I went with the conference sponsored outing to the national arts festival. It was a huge production. The outdoor seating was couches in long rows with ample aisle width. Very comfortable! The performances from artists across India were both fascinating and bizarre to these western eyes. India has a unique musical sound and its dancers are equally unique. I quite enjoyed myself even if the performances were a little longer than we are used to. Time truly runs differently here.

I arrived back to the guest house after 10pm and packed for the trip to the Taj and then on home the next day. A few days in Delhi and I’m not the same man I was when I arrived. Neither is dad. He has hardly eaten since he arrived and he keeps having to cinch up the belt. He is leaving a good deal of himself behind.

A woman dances while balancing pots on her head – conference entertainment

View from a window in the spiral staircase in the mosque spire.

Scott and Debbie in the rickshaw behind us – Old Delhi

First impressions of Delhi

04 Wednesday Nov 2015

Posted by jrwmacdonald in Asia, Traveling

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Some experiences are raw and unfettered, experiences that leave you breathless and reflective that both cut deep and inspire. Today was such an experience. If this post feels like I am reaching, if its tone is strained, it is because the story is beyond my control of the English language. How does one convey in words the feel of a place, its sights, its sounds, its atmosphere, its emotion? The day we arrived a thick smog lay over the city of Delhi. Like a sickness it hung on the horizon. In just a few minutes the back of my throat was prickly and the corners of my eyes burned with it. The air can be felt like silty water. Delhi in many ways is ill. It is a sick man struggling to feed his people. To breathe the air, to feel it enter your lungs is to breathe its sickness. To walk its streets, to witness its people moving and being and living is to suffer if only a little with them. To be clear, sickness is not sin and suffering does not make a person or a people less than another. Indeed, it is through sickness and suffering that we must pass, or so I believe, to find peace and happiness.

After a light breakfast this morning I headed into Old Delhi with several colleagues and their companions. Dad was still suffering jet lag this morning and after a harrowing ride from the airport to the guest house yesterday evening he was not keen to venture into the city. So while he stayed behind 5 of us embarked on an adventure that I will not soon forget.

We flagged down a couple tuk-tuks. These are the 3 wheeled vehicles that look like the offspring of a VW bug and a dirt bike. For 100 rupees (about 2 dollars) the drivers took us into the metro station. I’ve ridden in a tuk-tuk once before on a back road devoid of traffic in Sri Lanka. This was nothing like that. This was utter chaos poured out without mixture. Bicycles, motorcycles, scooters, rickshaws, ox-drawn carriages, buses, BMWs, Jaguars, vans and people all moved, sometimes slowly and sometimes a little less slowly, in the same general direction. Like the vehicles that moved on the streets the people darting in and out of traffic were of every fashion, every age and persuasion. Poverty lined the streets like English hedgerows.

Within 30 minutes we were entering the subway. 16 rupees (maybe 30 cents) would take us into or near Old Delhi. Our destination was the Red Fort. A large red sandstone structure built by the same leader that raised the Taj Mahal. Indeed, the sandstone was imported from Agra where the Taj stands. The modern subway was a stark contrast to the chaos we left above it and what we were about to find.

I’ve experienced crowded souks in the Middle East, struggled in pilgrimage to the top of Adam’s Peak in Sri Lanka, jostled through malls in Hong Kong, stood in crowded London squares and just days ago navigated the crowds of Rome and Venice but I was not prepared for this. The narrow streets outside the station were awash with humanity. Little shops to either side sold to metro goers an assortment of edibles and merchandise. Dogs wandered amongst the people or sat scratching their sores. A rat was seen nibbling something amongst the garbage. Beggars here are drowned out amongst the movement of people and many are too weary or too sick to beg. We passed a man curled lifeless in a corner his dark weathered body exposed to the elements except for a small cloth; every bone clearly visible beneath his aged skin. What is his story? Who is this man that lays helpless amongst all these people? Is there someone that cares for him? Is someone even now struggling beneath some burden to pay for this man’s last meal? We walked on. We walked on! What could I have done for this man or the man with the deformed hands and feet we would pass or the children that would beg at the side of our tuk-tuk?

Running by palaces in Dubai the thought occurred to me that I would never want the responsibility of that kind of wealth. What might I tell God at the end of this life when he asked what I did with such privilege? “I had a great theatre room; the leather seats in my Maserati were heated.” Walking the streets of Delhi today I realize I am the wealthy Emerati. What is my answer to the wealth and privilege I enjoy?

On we went down the broken sidewalks of Delhi toward the Red Fort. Something dripped on me from an awning above (water I hope). Through dusty streets, in and out of traffic we went and the whole time a man pestered us to be our guide. A rickshaw driver, he would take us all over Old Delhi: to the Red Fort, to the spice markets, to the mosque, to the jewellery market. We declined and he pestered, we ignored and he pestered, I got quite rude with him “the answer is no!” and he pestered still. He followed us all the way to the gates of the Red Fort and then promised to wait for us and he would take us to all the places we wanted to go. Finally we agreed that should he be there on our return we would take him up on his… offer, pleading.

What can I really say about the Red Fort? It is a massive stone building of stunning architecture. Within its walls are impressive relics and structures of an opulence passed. We found a guide, or a guide found us, who walked us through the structures and told us the history and stories in an accent that made it hard to understand. I don’t like being guided through these places, mostly, because I don’t trust the history I’m being told but also because I feel rushed and then obligated to hand over my money. We wandered the grounds of the Fort and its buildings, watched children play on the grassy courtyards while patched and thin dogs bathed in the growing heat of the day. Sitting on a park bench for a break we were approached by a woman who wanted to take a picture with us, we posed. Then a group of 5 young men (studying law at a local college) asked if they could take a selfie with us. Others I could see simply stood in the distance and took their selfies slyly. Our blue eyes and western dress made us famous.

An hour or two after leaving our pestering rickshaw driver we emerged from the Red Fort to find him waiting with friends. We climbed aboard the tricycles and proceeded on an adventure that I can hardly retell. I thought I had been daring to take a tuk-tuk a rickshaw is another experience entirely. To their word they took us to the spice market. More than this they led us through the market to the wholesale spice market in a dark and filthy building. The overflowing bags of spices and chilies filled the air and we could not help but cough and sneeze and water at the eyes. They took us up a gloomy flight of stairs and then another and another. Men were sitting in the stairwells chatting and eating. We emerged on a roof top where food was being served to a group of local men. Tourists must be shown these sites often as they did not stir as we moved amongst them. We were presented with a view of the streets below us. A chaotic jumble of old and new. Then to the other side of the roof and a view of the courtyard of some monastery or mosque. Clean for India and marked by a tall ornate obelisk and a fountain filled with colourful fish. Delhi, we are learning, is a city of contrasts.

From the spice market we were taken to a silk and fabric store through narrow streets filled with vendors of all kinds. There seems to be districts of goods. Now we are passing through the shoe district, then the bangles, automotive parts and then fried foods. It was the meat market that really got me. A multi-layered cage held chickens ready for the butcher. The remains of their sisters, freshly dissected, lay atop the cage dripping their life’s blood upon the butcher’s next victims. Goats were in the streets, no doubt, destined to meet a similar end. Mutton hung openly in the stalls and fish exposed in boxes where flies were occasionally brushed away by merchants. I understand why many Indians would choose to be vegetarian.

We ended our rickshaw tour at the Mahatma Ghandi museum. The museum was surprisingly free. A group of school children loudly toured the facility in our wake and were very pleased to try their limited English with us. Outside the museum we finally stopped for a rest and small snack: chips and a cola at a local vendor. Finally, we walked through the resting place of Ghandi’s ashes. A beautiful memorial to a man that strived to bring peace to India.

We were getting really bold now. We piled 5 of us into a single tuk-tuk built for two. I sat up front sharing a single seat with the driver. There was nothing between me and the open road as we wove in and out of traffic. An ambulance desperately tried to push its way through traffic but the traffic responded reluctantly and I watched as the big ambulance stopped centimetres from ramming the tuk-tuk in front of me clear from the road. Back on the subway and then another tuk-tuk, which got lost, we finally made it back to the guest house 10 hours after we’d begun.

The conference begins tomorrow and I speak first thing. I should have spent some time going over that speech tonight but I had to get this down while it was fresh. Reading it through I am certain it will not convey what I wish it could. My first brush with Delhi will affect me for a long time. I suspect that like all great memories I will mine it for meaning and enlightenment over many years.