Running while traveling

I blended the travel reflections I do mostly on this blog with my moving-my-body reflections on the fitness blog for my monthly post last Friday.  Reposting here because it gives me a moment to fantasize about running among the temples of Bagan instead of feeling my freezing feet in bleak Toronto midwinter.

Why I run when I travel

bagan field golden hour.jpg



My next major trip is Bhutan, in May.  I booked a bike trip a couple of months ago, and finally turned my attention to flights.  Tried my usual methods of booking flights and it turns out… no one flies there.  Except a tiny airline owned by the Kingdom.  You can’t book a flight from Toronto to Bhutan — you have to book a flight to one of five asian cities and then do a separate trip with this tiny airline.  Who only publish their schedule three months in advance.


When you send them an email and they are out of the office, this is what you get:

Dear Cate ,

Kuzu Zangpola! (Bhutanese greeting)

Upon receiving your enquiry, our team did a little traditional Bhutanese song and dance. We will be in contact with you soon as we usually require at least one day to meditate over your enquiry to ensure we’ve created the best itinerary possible for you.

Once we’ve ensured our response has the village chief stamp of approval (we light a butter lamp just in case), we give each other a high five, click ‘send’ and eagerly await your reply. So eager, sometimes we can’t sleep at night.

While waiting for us to return from our mountain, feel free to browse the following.  (Links to amazing videos about the kingdom).

The second “I’m not here reply” is different:

Thank you for contacting us.

Apologies, but our office is closed now. We’d rather be replying you, but we’re currently on a mountain for mandatory meditation. If you can correctly guess which mountain we’re on, we’ll reply straight away. If not, we’ll get back to you the next working day after our descent.

In the meantime, journey into spirituality with us here:

I guess I’m going to New Delhi en route.

All of this difficulty getting there is exactly what gets my heart racing.


I went to Morocco over the holidays, but I didn’t post about it — very shaky wifi, but more significantly for me, I was never alone.  Turns out I experience things very differently when I’m traveling alone than when I’m with other people, and that alone-ness makes me reflective and bloggy.  I was a bit more along for the ride this time, but it was lovely.  So in lieu of word-vignettes, three #nofilter photos of our trek into the Sahara on camels as the full moon rose over the desert.


I wrote this post about a week ago for the Feminist Fitness blog, and then I succumbed to a flu and missed three days of significant work, a first for me.  I am not going to post what I look like right now after three days in bed, but feeling the vulnerability of time is particularly poignant right now.  Thankfully the second season of The Crown dropped on Friday and I had a mid-century royal world to escape to.

What does it mean to look my age?

Big Hill Trail (Yellowknife)


The trail is more of a route than a demarked trail, twisting through root-y trees, up over lichen covered boulders and down sheer sides, jutting sideways and over any place feet can safely be placed on this pre-Cambrian rock, among these northern trees.  The trail is unserviced but marked by community members, mostly with tape, an occasional cairn.


Everyone who marked it used different tape — yellow and pink trail tape, green painter’s tape, occasionally, white and blue stripes.  It’s the kind of trail where there is no just settling in and walking — after every marker, I have to lift my head and scan for the next marker.  In the 9 km or so I walk (far further than the estimated distance, maybe because of all my back and forths looking for the trail!), there are maybe two straight stretches of 50 m or so, both of these on boulders where the path was scraped by glaciers eons ago.

IMG_9777I hike alone, tempering my nervousness about the barely-there trail, the lack of map, with the reassurance that the trail is mentioned on the official visitors’ site for Yellowknife.  Just finding the starting point was a challenge, just a rough pullout off the highway about 23 km outside the city, the only sign that I’m in the right place a trailing pink piece of tape entering the forest.  I’m not sure why I was so determined to do this particular trail instead of the flat prospectors’ trail in the territorial park closer to the city, but I only have one day here, and I’ve never been to the Canadian North before, and I want to feel inside it, feel its bones and spine, just a little bit.

The first part of the hike is sunny, and I’m completely present, my feet moving nimbly over the roots, my scrambling up the boulders as graceful as that can be.  It’s not warm, and the geese feel it, honking in giant vees flying south overhead.  Their trajectory is partly how I know I’m going in the right direction.  They are the only noise I hear, and I’m completely alone on the trail, almost alone in the entire vast area I can see.


I come to a high point, flat boulders where I can see in every directions.  Trees, rocks, small lakes, darkening sky.  I meditate for a bit, bask quietly in the sun.  Gratitude practice.  When I stand up, I have the deep restfulness of waking after a good nap.


I walk and walk, just me and the rocks and the spindly trees and the clouds.  One scramble up, and the lake the hike is named after.  I sit on the edging rocks, eat an apple, look skeptically at the dark clouds that are appearing.


The only description I had of this trail called it a “hidden treasure” and a “6 km round trip trail.”  Somehow I had it in my head that it was a loop, so I spend about 15 minutes looking for the alternative entry.  I don’t find it, and as I start back the way I came, it starts to rain, first gently, then pouring.  The boulders become slick as the lichen gets wet, and the trail tape gets less jaunty.  I go off in the wrong direction several times, and at one point, lose track of the tape entirely.  Good lord, I’m lost in the northern woods, I mutter out loud.  Twice, I step into marsh I managed to bypass on the way out.  But I stay calm, and I backtrack, and every time, I find the trail again.

Winding my way back is less full of wonder.  It’s harder to find the markers in this direction for some reason, and the slippery rocks make me a little anxious.  I try not to think about the story I heard recently about someone’s friend canoeing on her own who broke her arm on a portage and had to wait 3 days before someone came along who could help her get out. (Who just told me that story?).  Mostly, I think about how a hiking trail , like everything else in the world, can be summed up in one terse sentence — unserviced 6 km round trip trail, beautiful view of small lake —  but walking it requires step-by-step presence, is a whole world in every moment, a world filled with the honk of geese, the slick of rain, wet shoes, the focused scan for the next marker — and brief elation and relief when it’s spotted, giving way immediately to scanning for the next, endless sweep of trees and jutting rock, low heavy cloud, the distant sound of occasional cars, slight ache of foot, an unexpected deep sigh, fogged glasses, planting every footstep with caution and certainty.  Here, now, where I find myself.



Tony [76?]

August 23rd was my dad’s birthday.  He would have been 76 this year, which is almost impossible to imagine — he died at 50.

I usually like to light a candle for him on his birthday and on the anniversary of his death.  I was traveling for work this week on Wednesday and was in Montreal.  After I left my meeting, before I went to the airport, I went into the Cathédrale Marie-Reine-du-Monde, the blatantly baroque revival basilica near the Gare Central.  I think it’s my favourite church in Canada — it’s so in your face — and I usually go in and light a candle when I’m in Montreal.

IMG_9663 There was a noon Mass happening when I crept in this time, and I was surprised at how many people were there.  I left my little wheely bag at the side and snuck up to far left of the altar.  I fed loonies noisily into the slot and lit a candle.  I stood for a few minutes thinking about the line of history stretching back from my dad, French Canadian and Irish, the catholic church in the centre.

When I was at my mother’s earlier in the summer, I went through the one remaining box of Stuff that belonged to me in her basement.  It was mostly things I didn’t want — blurry, off centre, faded photos from the 70s, postcards I’d collected as a child, a doll I don’t even remember.  But there was a photo of my dad I’d never seen before.  Straw hat, grass skirt, joy and sunglasses inside. The essence of Tony.

Tony grass skirt.jpg

Happy birthday, Dad.