[British Columbia, Canada]
[This essay was written in the autumn of 2018]
I escape my condo for a much-needed walking meditation. I wander over to the Okanagan River Channel Walkway. It’s a six-kilometer path that connects Okanagan Lake to the north with Skaha Lake to the south. Packed between the two lakes, and squeezed in by mountains to the east and west are the citizens of Penticton. I am one of them. I have lived in 55 different places in my 56 years of life. A couple of years ago, I made Penticton my home base for my travels, thinking of my condo as a temporary abode, but lately, I find I am slowly accepting it as my permanent retirement home. My eyes have been blessed with views of startlingly vivid landscapes in my many travels, but none exceeds the beauty of the Okanagan valley. Every day that the rising sun illuminates nearby N’Kwala Mountain, the gratitude within me expands. I’m nearly at the point of bursting.
I cross the busy highway 93 to the Okanagan River. It is autumn and the tourists have gone home, filled with experiences and memories of this beautiful vista, to be cherished in the quiet moments of their hectic lives. In August, I saw hundreds of people floating down the Okanagan River on inner tubes. It’s one of the premier tourist activities in this area. But the tubes have all been deflated and stored somewhere in basements and garages. The river doesn’t care much whether people transport themselves leisurely along its surface; it flows contentedly like it has for a million years. But for the likes of me, who appear but for a speck of time in the earth’s history, and who is caught in the ebb and flow of the tourist rhythm, the emptiness of the river is comforting.
I walk towards Okanagan Lake with the city to the east, but my eye is drawn to the hills and open spaces to the west, to the land of the Penticton First Nation. It is rugged, seemingly untamed, and appeals to my nature. I long to return home to grab my rucksack and lose myself in the wilderness, but I tame the romantic nomad within. Focus on the now, I tell myself, not the past or the future. It’s my mantra for the day.
I reach the dam at Okanagan Lake and peer over the edge. A month ago, I came here every day for a week to watch the salmon run. This is a dominant year of a four-year cycle, which means nearly a million salmon have passed through this dam in the last couple of months. The salmon ladder, which would normally make it easier for the salmon to pass this obstacle, is under repair. But this has not deterred the salmon, which obstinately battle the intense current in order to enter the lake. Many fish were thwarted in their attempts to cross the threshold, the current tossing them back into the river like an angry child pitching an unwanted doll across the bedroom, but they didn’t give up. Every time I saw a salmon disappear through the dam without returning, I let out a silent cheer. They were on their way to completing their final mission, the females to deposit their two- to ten-thousand eggs and the males to deposit their milt (sperm), before succumbing to complete exhaustion and eventually death. It was an honour to be witness to nature’s act of reproduction. But today, the salmon run is complete. There are no fish to be seen in the water. Yet I stand on the dam and stare into the water anyway, lost in the memory of the many salmon that have passed recently below my feet. It is in their nature to sacrifice their lives for the survival of their species, but as conscious humans, would we be willing to do the same?
I walk along the promenade of Okanagan Lake, through the public Rose Garden, where the flowers continue to bloom, past the S.S. Sicamous, a stern wheel ship that delivered people and freight up and down Lake Okanagan between 1914 and 1936. The motorways made the wheel ships obsolete, and after the Sicamous’s last voyage, it was sold to the city of Penticton for a dollar. It is now a popular tourist museum, an icon of the Lake Okanagan waterfront.
It’s a sunny, brisk morning. The promenade is filled with locals, some walking dogs, some jogging, some strolling hand in hand with lovers, and some just content to wander alone, lost in their thoughts. I stop to admire public art and, a couple of times, I am so overcome by the beauty of the vista that I halt to still my breathing.
The beach is virtually empty but for the seagulls and ducks. Near the pier, a man drops his backpack off at the water’s edge and steps into the lake, dipping his head into the water, then throwing his head back and running his hands though his long dripping hair. His motive seems to have little to do with personal hygiene. Rather, he has the look of someone who has connected spiritually with the energy of the valley. He looks exhilarated. And cold.
I follow the promenade all the way to the Japanese Garden. I come to this place in my infrequent moments of anxiety. Watching the koi swimming aimlessly has a calming effect on even the most troubled soul, and the short walk around the pond can be comforting. On this day, I’m not feeling particularly troubled, but the garden is soothing nevertheless. I’m reminded of my childhood when my mother would comfort me with soothing words during a frightening thunderstorm.
My route takes me close to the marina, beyond which are exposed cliffs, with ravines carved like open wounds in the earth. I glance down at the scar on my arm, a memento from a judgemental error I made during a climb up a Nicaraguan volcano. I look at my scar and then back at the rupture in the rock. The resemblance is uncanny. Does it mean anything? Probably not, but it gives me the feeling that I have a primordial connection with nature.
After a serene ten minutes of contemplation, I wander up to the Bench Market. The artisan café is packed with bohemians and conformists, with nary an empty seat to be found, but after I order an organic coffee and a blueberry-rhubarb muffin, a small table by the window opens up. I soon lose myself in a book, Backpacking with the Saints, by Belden Lane, caught up in the argument that backpacking in the wilderness can be a form of spiritual practice. It’s heavy reading, worthy of thoughtful consideration, so I frequently stop to stare out the window. I did this frequently as a child, too, sitting at the back of a classroom, staring out the window while my teacher lectured. I craved adventure as a child. And now, staring out of a window with a coffee in hand, I crave nothing. The idea bewilders me. I really do not crave anything at this moment. Nothing at all. When did this transformation occur? I wonder.
My return home is anticlimactic. For a moment back at the café, it felt like I was on the verge of an understanding, something magical. But now it’s lost. It seems I can’t escape my rational self. Like always, however, I enjoy the effect of endorphins released from exercising my muscles and from the feeling of a brisk wind on my cheeks. My sore feet remind me that I am still alive. I am grateful.