The Chronicles of Nik

I’ll cut right to the chase, my girlfriend is flying from england in less than forty eight hours.  My Mission, should I choose to accept, is to turn my Parkdale apartment into an English cottage.

When I took this photo I wasn't wearing pants.

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

I have been living in this apartment alone for two months.  I know what you’re thinking about the state of my abode and you’re probably not far from the reality of the situation. Rest assured, there is no structural damage.

Problem 1 – Clothing Storage:

Yesterday a women in my office noted that there was a wrinkle on my shirt, so I looked for it.  As it turns out she was joking, because my shirt was just one big wrinkle.  The ladies then asked how I store my clothes.  I think my system is great, they did not.

I have two hampers, a clean hamper and a dirty hamper.  Clean clothes naturally go in the clean hamper, and dirty clothes for the most part go in the dirty hamper.  There is occasionally some cross contamination. I don’t use drawers, and I don’t own any hangers.

When I was finished describing my uber efficient system, one woman, Denita, looked like she had just heard that an asteroid was on a collision course for earth.

This is what adults use to hang clothes with.

As it turns out, women like hangers and are not a fan of the hamper system.  This has been noted and rectified.  I went and bought hangers, and nice ones, no big deal.

Part 1 of the cottagization of my apartment is complete stay tuned for more.

Side note, does it mean that I’m an adult now that I have paid money for wooden hangers?

A sample of my 'work' from the textbook. If you couldn't tell this is a tragic tale of boy who died in the Alps days from his birthday. Dawn Johnston is a dark lady.

Learning Italian might be romantic.  Getting crazy and learning Korean might be exciting.  Learning Teeline Shorthand is none of the above but is one of the many flaming hoops I must jump through in my journalism diploma.

Perhaps a quick briefing on Teeline is in order.  This system of written shorthand when it boils down to it is a completely separate dialect of the written English language.  Quickly written symbols replace letters that often only vaguely resemble their forefathers.  This form of writing is a requirement for nearly any journalism course in England.  General rules in Teeline include: leaving out vowels(there are exceptions), leaving out silent consonants(with exceptions), leaving out double consonants, and joining words together in an effort to increase speed(with exceptions).  In addition to having a lot of exceptions, this is also leaving out a lengthy list of rules which I have only recently scratched the surface on.

In essence Teeline Shorthand is a system of writing that economises movements to improve speed.  The course culminates in a speed test of writing at 100words per minute for two minutes.  At this stage of my development walking on the moon seems to be a more attainable goal.

My first problem encountered with Teeline is my penmanship.  I HAD the worst penmanship in south east England.  Although right handed, I had learned to right much like a lefty with my body  surrounding the paper and my fist clutching a pen like an orangutan.  With my arm curled around the note pad and leaning over it, my pose looked like I was a prison inmate trying to protect his pudding.

From the outset of the course I knew that this would be an issue.  The tutor took one look at my writing and said this would be an issue.  Thus after one week of hand cramps and frustration I did what had to be done, I relearned how to hold a pen properly.  I am proud to say I now write like a civilized person, or more like one at least.  I still sweat too much and scrunch my brow like a primate.

The second problem I have encountered is that Teeline is outrageously difficult.  There is nearly a specific rule for every type of letter combination.  It took me two weeks to realize that we had never used the word ‘can’ because there was a special blend for that and would learn it later on.  Instead the book was obsessed with the very un-PC destitute old lady who was running amok in the narrative of the textbooks exercises.

Worse than that, is still trying to convince my hand to make these unnatural shapes and curves that are Teeline.  On more than one occasion I have been tempted to take a hammer to my hand.  Desperate times call for desperate measures as Aron Ralston demonstrated in 127 hours.

Then there is Dawn Johnston, the writer of the textbook and narrator of the exercise CD.  Her voice seems to single me out and taunt me every time I listen to her, “Stop scribbling like a squirrel NIK.”  I had a nightmare where I found out she was Canadian and I was ashamed to be in any way linked to her.  I was relieved to wake up and remember she was English.

Will I prevail, of course.  Am I frustrated, extremely.  Will I look back on this and laugh someday, probably.  Does the mish mash mountain of shorthand scribbles seem endless and does my soul shrivel, also yes.  But I do enjoy a challenge.

Sorry for the delay

Where I left you last I had just bored my first of three flights to Boston, and at this stage things were still going quite smoothly.  There was good news and bad news in Boston unfortunately.  The good news was that they had a restaurant that made excellent pizza which I took full advantage of.  The bad news was that every flight to England was already cancelled and although I was heading to Iceland, England was to be my final destination.  This was not a good sign of things to come.  I even wrote in my journal “What happens next will be bad.”  With premonitions like that I should be a prophet.  Unaware of my extra sensory skills at this point I optimistically looked forward to familiarizing myself with Reykavic airport.

When the airport would eventually make the announcement that Heathrow was in fact closed to all traffic I was less than shocked.  Apparently Jack Frost had squatted over England and taken a giant crispy dump on London stranding people all over the world, and potentially me just not in Boston.  Which believe it or not was a good thing because in addition to there being no flights to London, there were also no hotels left in Boston according to the anonymous airport intercom voice.  It was day one of a Christmas disaster and I could already sense that Christmas cheer was already wearing thin.

Five hour layover behind me I was on my way to Iceland or as I would soon refer to it, my new home.  Only having just boarded my flight I was ready to make a wide variety of generalizations about Icelanders.  The most obvious, they are extremely blond.  This should come as no surprise.  I discovered while taking my seat that Icelanders are ridiculously nice and disgustingly polite.  When the flight was called to board in an orderly fashion I went to find my seat, to my dismay I did not get a window seat.  There was already a blond viking at my row of seats and he offered me the window seat.  Then the third member of our row came and claimed the window seat as his.  Independently of me or my influence my neighbors decided that I should get the window.  When it comes to a window seat, there are north americans who would kill for less.  After sacrificing the premium seat to me, the two Iceland natives became best friends and chatted like old chums.  They really hit it off, although I never saw any numbers exchanged.  As another rule for Iceland, the local language sounds like it is spoken with a mouthful of vaseline and lego.  Less then an hour into the flight my neighbors showed me their countries most enviable characteristic, they are able to sleep anywhere.  Their necks were craned in ways that you should only find in a morgue and they were happily asleep.  Even the flight attendants were a different breed, they appeared to be happy and barely disgruntled which was unfamiliar territory.  When charged with waking up the Icelander in the aisle seat she gently rubbed his hands to welcome him kindly into the nightmare of flying a transatlantic flight.  I did not know what to make of this whole situation.

I did arrive in Iceland and surprise surprise it was dark.  This frosty little island is substantially further north then I have ever been, and I would soon become familiar with the four our five hours of daylight that they are privileged to a day, but more on this later.

Before my flight to London I had a few hours layover that morning to kill, and what does one do in such situations?  Assume the fetal position on a public bench in my gate while presenting my jet lagged behind to anyone unfortunate enough to be on the same flight.  Being aware of the current weather situation brewing in London I checked with the customer service desk to see what the fate of my flight was.  The exact words used were, “Your flight isn’t going anywhere.”  She seemed startlingly confident, and given her strong command of the English language there was little error for any misunderstanding unfortunately.  This bad news did not keep me up, Reykavic airport is offers the comforting atmosphere of a futuristic viking longhouse hybrid with a cottage vibe that made for an exceptional napping environment.

I woke up to the announcement that my fight was in fact cancelled, and that we were to wait in line at the desk I had visited earlier to discover our fate.  The nightmare that I was being pushed into was the stereotypical Christmas gone wrong flight cancellation.  Unfortunately this time I was not watching this as it appears on the news.  Now I was part of the news as just another stranded idiot being punished for trying to fly at Christmas.  Who could be so dumb to try such an impossible feat?  Apparently me.

I waited in line, and was told that my flight was in fact cancelled.  After which I was given a three paged voucher that given it’s intrinsic magical properties would give me transportation to and from my hotel, a room in the hotel and all my meals.  I was less than thrilled, but given that people at Heathrow airport in the same situation were fighting for a slice of carpet to sleep on, things could easily be worse.

Unfortunately things would get worse.  All victims of the flight cancellation had to collect their luggage unless your were relieved of this chore by the miraculous loss of luggage… All of my checked luggage was in fact loss.  The soul surviving belonging of mine that I had checked in at Toronto and had made it to Iceland was a giant box full of bicycle bits.  This was a troubling development.  I asked at the luggage desk as to the fate of my worldly possessions.  After showing her my confusing luggage barcodes she said, in her own kind words, “You flew with Air Canada?  Oh well your bags could be anywhere?!  Just file your lost luggage report at Heathrow.”  Now having never lost my luggage I ignored the recommendation that I should pack some belongings in my carry on.  Instead I brought books.  Thus, now all I had was a bike and books.

I came out of the airport that morning bike box in hand to board my shuttle during the five hour sunset where what little light Iceland does receive proceeds to dance along the horizon for four or five hours.  It might be romantic if it was not so miserable during the other twenty hours or so of darkness.  It being day one on the island this seemed very novel.

The shuttle arrived at our hotel that looked more like a communist headquarters than a lodging establishment and I was given my room and free phone call promptly so that I could arrange my flight for the next day.  I did so at the front counter as everyone waited while I was on hold.  The masses were becoming restless and many aired their anger.

Fortunately for me I was the first in line, even with the unwieldy bike box to slow me down so unlike the rest I was quite pleased with myself.  With my fellow travellers in my wake, I made the hike to my room so I could get changed into my bike. The elevator to my floor was old fashioned and had an actual door that you had to open, this was probably my favorite aspect of the hotel.  An excuse to take the elevator was the highlight of my day.

My own room was efficient and spartan, and had a ‘trouser press’ which I never saw fit to use seeing as how I only had the one pair.  With this strange contraption beside me I was finally able to relax.  Watching television I realized Iceland is a strange volcanic rock.  My favorite cultural masterpiece was a beer commercial where a polar bear draws a high calibre rifle to mowed down Santa from the sky, enough said.

Dinner buffet was also an educational experience.  The people of Iceland love fish.  Everything is either fish, or in some sneaky way fish infused.  I had cheese that was made of some sort of fish medley.  They are crafty in their obsession with fishy entrees.  My meal was as you can imagine less than awesome.

With a full nights sleep behind me I was fully prepared to fly to England that morning.  Preparing myself for victory I had the break feast of Iceland champions which also consists mostly of fish.  I went to the airport, checked my bicycle once more, and waited in my gate.  Passport control stamped me out of the country, and then my flight was once more cancelled.  Again, I waited in line for food stamps and got on the bus.  Again I went and collected my bike box, which was getting substantially worse for wear.  Cardboard boxes were not designed for this sort of endurance travel.  Upon boarding the bus with bike someone commented that at least we were seeing iceland, which I debated while making light of the continuous darkness, “Have we really seen Iceland?”  Everyone laughed, and I felt better.

For my second night in Iceland I was in a substantially more luxurious establishment in a different town, Keflavik.  My room for the night was without a ‘trouser press’ but the bathroom was one complete piece of plastic and felt like it should be in a space shuttle.  Also it being my second night I branched out and made friends that I had arranged to explore Keflavik and dine with, Edouard and Matt.

Matt, deciding to reap the benefits of free wi fi, left Ed and I to explore the countryside in the dark.  A local of the town gave rave reviews of the waterfront and downtown, while the hotel concierge said, “Ya there is really nothing here.”  These were two very conflicting perspectives.  The only thing that the two sources could agree on was that there was in fact one single Irish Pub in town.

Ed and I left the hotel for a brief trip to the waterfront, it was cold, dark and very windy.  The waterfront was very much the same, and unfortunately the concierge was right there was really nothing.  In addition with the wind kicking up we were sprayed with frosty waves.  So far my first real taste of Iceland is nothing short of miserable.  We abandoned the water front and searched out the pub in the abandoned streets of Keflavik.  We found the pub, which was also abandoned by all drinkers and probably in large part to the prices.  One pint was seven dollars.  Iceland is a cold dark place, and that did not make it feel any warmer.  With beer prices like that I don’t know what the locals do in the dark, or maybe that’s the point.

Ed and I returned having seen enough of town and just in time to enjoy our buffet dinner, which was described by hotel staff accordingly, “You get one meat, one fish and one vegetable.”  It all felt like a classy soup kitchen, or that we were children and so long as we were well fed we would not through a temper tantrum.  Fish aside, Matt, Ed and I sat down for our meal.  At the conclusion of the feast I said, “Well, I honestly hope that we don’t all have dinner again.”  We laughed, and I went to bed.

I retired for the night but did not sleep.  The quirky daylight hours compounded with my jet lag was anhilating my sleep habits.  My sleeping patterns were now more like a serial killer.  I lied in bed and watched the news until I was informed that there was a lunar eclipse to happen that morning, the twenty first of December.  As it would happen I was spending the shortest day of the year, in the darkest place I will likely ever be, Iceland, and there was going to be the first lunar eclipse happening on that very night in hundreds of years.  If I was not so bitter about my predicament it would have been substantially more special than it was.  Instead I shuttled back and forth between outside and the lobby at six in the morning watching the moon slowly hide behind the rock that we are all perched on.  The hotel staff thought I was crazy, or maybe a chain smoker constantly needing a fix.  When I explained the miraculous lunar event happening just outside their door the concierge showed no interest, she still thought I had gone crazy in the endless night, maybe I had.

I was first at the break feast buffet that morning and what a treat.  This was the first meal that I had where I knew for certain nothing I ate contained fish, it was refreshing to be able to eat things to which the identity I was certain of.  It was a good start to what would be me final day.

Still without my luggage, collecting my belongings to leave the hotel was a brief task.  Although my flight was not until five that afternoon I got one of the first taxis at noon to the airport.  I was sick of waiting at the hotel, I needed a new location to be idle.  Also by arriving early at the airport I could jockey for the most comfortable position sit around and wait.

By this point in the game though my clothes were beginning to become less fresh.  I had brought nothing to change into and I was on day four with the socks I had begun my trip with.  At security I was asked to take off my boots and hand them over to security.  My feet were stink grenades and just by unlacing them I was unleashing their fury.  By taking those boots off I was pulling the pin and dropping the grenade in securities lap.  I felt less guilty when I saw that the man handling my footwear was wearing rubber gloves.

I would survive security and it would also survive me and at our gate I again would meet up with Matt and Ed who had the same idea as myself about arriving early at the airport.  Together we waited

Sitting there at that table I saw what would salvage the entire experience.  There were scooters.  Not motorized, but adult sized versions of the children’s vehicle of choice.  This was the method of transport that airport staff were given to roam the building.  It was like seeing a unicorn or a mermaid, it was beautiful.  This vision of childish innocence nearly wiped the slate clean of all the inconveniences that I had recently suffered.  Then like a whisper on the wind the scooter glided silently down the terminal and my flight was called to be boarded.  My time had come and Iceland was done.  After four days of travel time, most of which in Iceland I was finally bound for England without any luggage except my bicycle.

Now of course I can look back on the situation and laugh, but even at the time I found it fairly entertaining.  I lived in a world dominated by vouchers, line ups and buffets.  England ruled the world at gunpoint, but with a little snow the entire county shuts down and derails my travel plans.  People might say well at least you got to see Iceland, but did I?  I have intimate knowledge of their airport.  I could tell you where the best places are to nap there, or how to get in line the fastest when your flight is cancelled, or where to get the most expensive pint in the North Atlantic.  My one attempt at actual exploring ‘the rock’ in the darkness was an ill fated and regrettable expedition.  I did not really see Iceland.  A land where, despite it’s name, there was absolutely no snow or ice.  The closest I saw was an extremely cold but not frozen puddle.  Never did I see Bjork, only outrageously blond locals.  Through all of it there are two words that resonate through this entire ordeal.  Two simple words to live by.  Fly. Direct.  Oh and don’t be such a cheap skate when it comes to buying flights, because some how or another you get what you pay for.

Every man has his price, and apparently mine is somewhere around three hundred dollars.  Flying to England is not a cheap endeavor during the holiday season, so when I had the opportunity to catch the cheapest ticket on the market I pounced on it like a cheetah would a wounded impala.  There was however a tiny catch.  The flight that I booked was and possibly is the longest most indirect flight to London, England that you can purchase through any one airline.  The itinerary went as follows, Toronto to Boston, Boston to Reykavic, then finally to London.  The entire travel time was supposed to be close to twenty hours, and I’m fairly certain if you flew direct without layovers you could fly the opposite way around the planet and beat me to London.  Now this story on it’s own should have been entertaining enough, but things have gone catastrophically and hilariously wrong.  Usually I have a fairly accurate barometer for when I am entering a shit storm but even this one caught me by surprise.  Despite my recent residence being taken up in Iceland I will start my norse saga from the beginning.

It was early december 18th and I had arrived at Pearson airport to begin my trip and attempt my survival of the single most ridiculous travel itinerary ever organized.  At the time I joked that I was taking the scenic route, and was even slightly entertained at the prospect of spending a few hours in Iceland so as to scratch it off my list.

Before any of this unfortunately I still had to deal with the messiness of checking in.  I had a lot of stuff.  In terms of amount of goods to be flying with it was an outrageous quantity, but when I thought about it as everything that I own it was sort of embarrassing that my life’s physical footprint could be packed into two bags and a box containing my bicycle.  My team was there to help me deal with this burden, father, sister and brother in law.

I made my way with my mountain of luggage to check in and I wasn’t so naive that I thought they were not gonna make me pay the price for packing my life’s achievements into luggage.  At check in the price began as a hundred dollars, which seemed reasonable.  Unfortunately if ever anything seems fair while attempting to fly it is likely just the airport gods taunting you before they crush you like a king would a peasant.

What started out as a hundred dollars became a two hundred and fifty, then two hundred and twenty five, then two hundred and seventy.  The price just kept creeping, and what began as reasonable did not finish so.  The fee I was now being billed was approaching a rate where it would be cheaper to buy my luggage it’s own seat.  The flight had not started and my bike was already a burden.  This foreshadowed a lot of suffering and irony to come.   With this crippling fee I was being crushed under the airport gavel.  The lady working check was my judge, jury and executioner all while smiling.  I wasn’t angry, but I wasn’t happy.  It was a minor consolation to know that my bags would meet me in London and would not have to be rechecked, this is also foreshadowed of the impending doom.  The check in woman also commented on my circuitous flight path asking, “Where are you trying to go?”  as if I might die along the way.  I laughed because I was still so proud of my deal, but I had no idea how close to being right she would be.  At the time though I was on my way to England to be with my lady so I shrugged off this minor setback.

The rest of my check in proceeded at the usual airport pace that everyone has become a custom to since fear has been quantified into colours and terror alerts.  That’s not to say that security line ups can’t be entertaining fortunately.  My personal trick is to not watch what people do as a whole but the tiny intricate and deliberate behaviours they embark on.  The favorite of the day was after getting into the flight crew security check by accident. There I watched a pilot dissect a long gangley hair off the tray where you put your life to be x-rayed.  He handled the hair in question with the care of a bomb technician, and at one point I actually thought he was going to pull out tweezers and rubber gloves.  In his defense aside from hospitals and a mcdonald’s play place there is nowhere on the planet that you are more likely to get sick at.  I commented on the dexterity of his manoeuvre, “Nice work,”  and as if he had just found the cure for cancer he responded proudly, “You get use to it.”

Having successfully navigated through security I sat and waited for my flight to Boston at a gate that looked and felt more like a juvenile detention centre.  There I was, still basking in the glow of cheap ticket in spite of my ridiculous luggage charge that I would have received no matter when I flew.  My thrifty ticket was in fact the stitches that was closing the growing wound in my wallet.  If you were to divide my ticket price by the time I would spend in flight and airports, I would venture to say that there was probably not a cheaper intercontinental flight in the northern hemisphere.  I’m a player not a payer, so at the time this was a great source of satisfaction for me.  Deals aside, what could be better than some really quality ‘me time.’

Again while waiting humanity once more put on a show to entertain me.  To be honest I don’t even know why I bring books to airports anymore when the airport itself is just one big stage for a tragic comedy.  At the desk the Air Canada employee announced that a flight would be delayed to Memphis and that meal vouchers would be offered.  Gentlemen approaches the desk and says, “I’ll take a meal voucher,” with a big dumb smirk on his face.  The employee asked if he was on the flight and he laughed  saying, “Well know but I’ll take one.”  The employee did not so much as smile or even flinch, stupid customers dignity was crushed by employees cold disregard at attempted humour.  I now thoroughly like Air Canada employee, plus I failed to mention that she lent me a pen earlier.  For whatever reason in the 21st Century everyone thinks they are hilarious and that customer service is there to act as the testing ground for their stand up routine.  This is an unsettling trend and I appreciate her stand against it.

With stupidity now brushed aside my flight boarded, and then I realized this was my first airborne experience since my ill fated stunt flight in a cesna.  This would be the least of my worries.

See part two later today.

I’m not particularly proud of this moment in my life, or happy of even as much as the thought of it. It did happen and it is rather humourous. It’s even funny for me, until I remember that I am the victim.

I was in second year university living in a cramped post world war two shotgun house. There were five of us dwelling in this habitat that was only hairs above being considered a squat. With one washroom for everyone things were cozy, but we did make it work as best possible. Given the proximity of people, so too are the belongings and food that we all place within our dwelling. Certain things were holly, beer, shaving cream, and fresh razors. Some items though were fairly loose in ownership, juice, video games, and lastly potato chips. Especially so with potato chips if they are already open or better yet left open on the coffee table.

This was the state in which I found the bag when I came home after a long day of classes. I was quite pleased with the treat I found. I turned the TV on and assumed the appropriate position on the couch to take full advantage of my crispy potato bounty. The remaining schrapnel was just the bottom eighth of the bag. As fate would have it the crumbs were unfortunately my favorite. I inhaled the scraps. Only moments after, my room mate Nick Zak would stomp up the stairs. He instantly stopped seeing me with the empty bag in my hands, he said two sentences that changed my life. “YOOOUUUU did not just eat that? I JUST clipped my toe nails in there….” I think the level of shock was equivalent to having my arm removed by a rusty chainsaw. I shook my head in disbelief. Although I knew he wasn’t messing me round, I hoped that someone would pop out of the couch with a camera. There was no camera, just the horror of what was now inside me being digested. I was and still am traumatized by the thought of it. I should be in therapy. To make matters worse, Nik Zak was a large man with equally large and stinky feet. My feet stink and I thought his feet were bad. A piece of those very feet was now being ripped apart by my body in my stomach and becoming a part of me. I felt like some toe nail monster might burst out of my stomach like in Aliens. The silver lining of that scenario being that then they wouldn’t be inside of me.

I would never describe myself as a fearful person, that being said I am still not immune to the human condition.  I used to have what some describe an irrational fear of heights, so I started rock climbing.  After biking across Canada I am now deathly afraid of cougars, and to my knowledge there is no similar remedy for my mental anguish.

It was southern Alberta and our trio of cyclist found a cozy campsite to call home for the night after our days ride.  Having only just left BC at this point in the trip I literally assumed we were out of the woods with the whole potential bear scare that could occur in that province.  I bought beer, I thought I would sleep well.

While talking to the camp caretaker/crypt keeper, he was quick to inform us that we had in fact ventured into cougar country.  Initially I received this warning lightly, the simple Nik LOGIC being as follows,

cougar < bear      -therefore bear less threatening than cougar

This seemed fairly rational to me.  Our local advisor gave us two things, a brochure and this timely cherished advice.  Our senile campground attendant advised that in order to safely secure our food, the ‘safest’ place to have it was in our tent.  Maybe he implied that the food would be safe while we were being eaten.

Although not openly at the time, I disagreed with this theory.  This scholar either grossly overestimated the protective properties that my ultralight two man tent offered, or dearly underestimated the ferocity that a cougar could potentially unleash on my tent.  My nylon fortress with walls no thicker than onion skin was no match for cougar claws.  I did not like camping to close to trees for fear of a rogue branch tearing my tent.  I’m not a scientist, but I don’t keep my food in the tent when there are racoons around and I hadn’t even read the brochure yet.  Better yet this advice came from the guy handing out the literature.  I might as well have been suggested to store my bullets in the gun for safe keeping by a hunting store.

Nobody is a fan of brochures because the ones written about vacations are always wrong, but the facts on felines are horrifying and true.  For once in my life I did actually read the brochure and had officially decided that the cougar was the scariest animal imaginable excluding the velociraptor, which is really just a more horrifying prehistoric reptile version.  The typed words attempted to offer comfort in that there was probably only one cougar for every hundred square kilometres, but this still seemed like a lot.  They expected me to be relieved when they stated how territorial the cougar was, but what if I was in it’s territory.  Worse yet if they are so territorial then they know the lay of the land better than any other, and could allow for intimate knowledge of where the most delicious campsites are.  The brochure, although meaning well, was a bad idea.

Knowledge is power, but the knowledge that a cougar could be stalking me from every tree waiting to lunge down at my jugular seemed to leave me powerless.  Big scary bears stumble upon their prey and only seem to attack due to surprise and confusion.  Cougars stalk people, they will follow you until they think it is their best opportunity to end your life and make you dinner.  There is no random chance like that of a bear attack, cougars calculate their tactics.  It is wildly unsettling to know that glowing eyes in the night could be focused on me and that the brain behind them is contemplating which part of my body will be the most delicious.  If there is literally nothing you can do to prevent a cougar attack, then ignorance is bliss.  I would rather have been told cougars live off hugs and eskimo kisses.

The idea of being on bicycles in this geographic region put my mind ill at ease.  There was no car to seek refuge in during the coming cougar ambush that I was left waiting for.  All there was between the cougar and I was a yellow nylon tent, which I hoped was a very scary colour for cats.  My physical fitness being elevated could surely help me defend myself, but in cougar eyes  I was looking more delicious by the day.  Cycling had groomed my legs into tightened cougar treats.

That night I did not go to sleep, I laid down in my tent waiting for the sun to rise.  Every twig snap was a potential cougar making a stalking mistake in the night.  And although my tent was more of a self laid trap that kept the cougars dinner warm for the night, I did feel better being inside it.  At the very least I could not see the teeth going for my neck, not that I would have given what the brochure said.  When I peed in the middle of the night I unzipped the tent and drained so close to my home that I could start my retreat the instant evacuation was complete.  If I had bottles to spare I would have peed them.  Camping with this sort of wildlife makes me want to live in New Zealand where they barely have any birds left.

We survived the night, but no thanks to the helpful insight given to us the day before.  People always say that the locals of any given area always know best.  This might be true so long as your tour guide is NOT crazy, senile or stupid.  I can personally confirm that our senior citizen was two if not three of these things.

When I was told in 2010 that their were cougars spotted in my region of southern Ontario, I couldn’t help but think…. they followed me.

A beautiful setting for a terrifying night.

I was attempting to cycle from Victoria to St. Johns in the summer of 2009 in the company of two other friends. In reality I would only make it to Sudbury.  For the month and a half duration of the trip we almost exclusively camped.  There was a split between campsites and side of the road ‘rambo’ camping as some call it.  We had made it to Northern Ontario and had not had a single incident of any kind to disrupt our road side camping antics.

Often the campsites that we created along the road were less than perfect.  The most ideal locations were the road side rest areas marked on the highway by a picnic table.  Not only did they feature flat ground, but they had picnic tables. This rare treat of a seat was a luxury that I savoured whenever possible.  Sitting on the ground sucks, sitting at a table is excellent.

Northern Ontario being particularly rocky did not offer much selection in the flat ground department, but on that day on the edge of Lake Superior we did find a picnic sign.  This meant the potential that I could sit down.  This was quite pleasing.  After a long day I would often be willing to sacrifice a finger for a seat at a sweet table.  Had that option been given and it being a long bike trip, it is possible I could now find myself digitless.  Camping was illegal at the rest stops, however no person ever decided to risk there life by telling me to move along.

The location we had homed in on had little to no flat ground, mostly rock, but that table glowed like it had a spotlight on it from heaven.  I sat and enjoyed.  I put very little thought into where I would camp.  My cycling partners chose their tent site first, it was the premium location.  I was left with few options as most everything was rock.  The least rocky spot was located adjacent to the picnic table.  It was also only two feet from a nice stinky garbage can.  That evening I did not take this into consideration.

I fell asleep before the sun could even set.  My tent was unzipped, I had not made my bed, snacks were sprayed all around me, and I had not gotten my headlamp out while it was still light.  I was poorly prepared to so much as get up and take a shit in the middle of the night.  I woke up to an unholy racket only feet from my tent.  In my first dozed moments I was confused.  It took only seconds to realize that the growls and smashing were coming from a bear that was laying siege to my tent side garbage bin.  It was pitch black.  I could feel the breeze coming through my open door.  Thankfully the door was oriented away from the bear.  I shuffled around my tent and I could hear the crinkle of rappers from open and yet to be devoured snacks by either me or the bear.  I had made my tent into a buffet, the most delicious item on the menu was me.  My home was a prison cell well stocked with a treasure trove of tasty treats.  I was scared shitless.  The dwelling I was trapped in was now my nylon fortress, or so I hoped.  My balls quickly retreated into the safety of my stomach in an effort of self preservation should the bear attack.

I began to let out my own competing racket in hopes of scaring the bear.  While whistling, clapping, yelling, and swearing, I fumbled for my flashlight.  Some how I thought a light would save my bacon from a horrific bear mauling.  The assault on the bin would halt, but I could hear no sign of retreat given that my ears were clogged with the wax of fear.  My headlamp secured snug to head and now fully lit, I popped my head like a periscope out of my tent, the HMCS Dumb As Shit.  There was no bear.  I warned the other members of my group and we ditched all our food in a distant washroom, safe from bears.  While walking around my headlamp cast a bear like shadow.  Had I been twenty years older it would have resulted in a cardiac event.  I went back to sleep.  So much as a squirrel breaking a twig would snap me directly into fight or flight mode.

It was a long sleepless night.  I welcomed the safety of dawn.  When the sun rose, I inspected the garbage bin I had decided to make my neighbor for the night.  It had the scars of numerous bear onslaughts.  How I never noticed or thought of the consequences of this is embarrassing.  I could have very well been up for a Darwin award.  An award given to stupid people, who die as a result of their stupidity.  It is possible that the garbage did save me.  My case being that the garbage being so smelly and delicious from the Bears point of view, it ignored the odours and food coming from my tent.  I offered this reason more so to save face.

I think the lesson to be taken away from this is quite obvious.  Always carry a gun.

The last meal before our attempted smuggling run, confidently displaying our pre smuggle smirks.

It was august 2005, Jared, Neil and myself were driving through the states to get to Halifax where Jared was attending University. Our plan to drive through America was three fold, first and foremost fuel is substantially cheaper south of the border in spite of American’s complaining more. Secondly to avoid going through Quebec, and finally to procure vast quantities of cheap liquor. This was a tasty insensitive given that all three of us were still very much in the binge drink university, party till you puke state of mind.

Our plan was simple drive through the states, buy alcohol, come back to Canada. Flawless in it’s simplicity, or so we thought. Unfortunately, given a lack of research, general laziness and complete naivete, our poorly hatched plan was doomed from day one.

On the initial crossing into America and subsequent stop at duty free we were already heavily encumbered with liquor. When we went to leave the state of Maine for the province of New Brunswick, our haul was approaching prohibition proportions. The saying go big or go home took new meaning, we were going big and we were going home. Who knows, maybe that’s where we went wrong.

Exact quantities aside, we pulled up to the customs booth and told our ‘story’. We anticipated that customs wouldn’t bother searching anyone at the Maine-New Brunswick crossing. This assumption could not have been more wrong, in fact they searched nearly everyone. To make matters worse the story I told them was inconsistent and shaky at best. They were not buying the snake oil I was selling that day. I claimed that we each had one bottle of liqour, having just bought more than that, and that we were in America for the required 48 hours. If we had been in America for this duration we would be entitled to bring said quantities of alcohol back into Canada. We were not in America long enough, and our haul of alcohol ambitiously surpassed the legal limit for importation.

We were instructed to park in one of the bays so our vehicle could be searched. We sat inside while they searched. A variety of incriminating goods were found. For instance, all the alcohol that we didn’t claim. That on it’s own was fairly damning. The thorough officer on our case also found a Canadian newspaper within the car dated as such that made it impossible for our story of being in America for 48 hours true.

The officer called us up to the counter, and showed the evidence to us and demanded an answer from me, the driver at the time of border crossing. My response, “Busted!” and what else was there to say, the jig was up. I’ve seen enough law shows to know when the the fat lady was singing for the criminals and if you play their game it always earned the bad guys leniency. I just never expected to be the bad guy.

We were instructed to sit back on smugglers row while he clicked on his keyboard and continued to search our car. He found more alcohol. He inquired as to who’s alcohol it was, looking at Jared and Neil, I responded, “You can chalk me up with that one.” Even though we were finished my sense of humour was not. We waited what seemed like far to long for our punishment to be anything but the worst case scenario. Everyone who passed us gave us that criminal gaze. One older woman who seemed to be an expert on the ‘art’ of smuggling was passing through and out of professional interest inquired as to what we had done. We explained, she laughed, “I was caught with 40 litres once, you’ll be fine!” Unfortunately the kind words of this seasoned veteran did not comfort my posse or me.

Conveniently situated beside the guilty smuggler sitting area we could conveniently find all the brochures describing how completely and utterly screwed you were, sorry we were. After in depth research things were not looking good. The officer in charge would finally conclude his work and call us over and hand over our punishment. To our shock and surprise, there was no fine. All the alcohol was confiscated, obviously, but it seemed there was no real punishment. We asked, he explained. We were red flagged at Canadian customs for the next six years. This boils down to being searched every time any one of us entered Canada and had our passport scanned. They were not kidding, every time to date that my passport has been scanned my belongings have been thoroughly sifted through. Sometimes they even ask, “Do you know why you are red flagged?” As if I don’t know why I AM red flagged. I find that question offensive. We fought the law and the law didn’t just win, it beat us to death with it’s championship trophy.