Unwind Magazine 2019

UnWIND 2019

55+ MOUNTAIN LIVING MAGAZINE UnWind

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UnWind

UnWIND 55+ MOUNTAIN LIVING MAGAZINE

PUBLISHER/SALES MANAGER

Dean Midyette EDITOR

Steve Hubrecht STAFF WRITERS

Lorene Keitch, Dauna Ditson ART DIRECTION & DESIGN

Justin Keitch, IgniteCreative.ca

Contents 5 6 8 10

ADVERTISING SALES

Amanda Nason MAGAZINE NAME

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Nicole Trigg, NETWAVES Communications MAGAZINE CONCEPT

Dean Midyette, Steve Hubrecht

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N E W S PA P E R

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Box 868, #8, 1008 – 8th Avenue, Invermere, B.C., V0A 1K0 Phone 250-341-6299 | Fax 1-855-377-0312 columbiavalleypioneer.com info@columbiavalleypioneer.com This material, written or artistic, may not be reprinted or electronically reproduced in any way without the written consent of the publisher. The opinions and statements in articles, columns and advertising are not necessarily those of the publisher or staff of UnWind. It is agreed by any display advertiser requesting space that the owner’s responsibility, if any, for errors or omissions of any kind, is limited to the amount paid by the advertiser for that portion of the space as occupied by the incorrect item and there shall be no liability in any event greater than the amount paid for the advertisement.

Vance Rodewalt on Invermere’s funkiest neighbourhood

Down the river

Crucial wetlands of wonder face uncertain future

COVER PHOTO

Jumbo Summer © Howard Smith, mountainwonder.ca

UTTIN’ UP IN PARADISE P HE BIG BACKYARD T WALTZ OF THE WILDFLOWERS THE MEANING OF MOUNTAINS CAORNERSTONE AT CROSSROADS BUGABOO LIFE A HE EXPERIMENTER T IN TANDEM WINIELDING CAMERAS THE WILDERNESS Resident profile: Leo Grillmair

Resident profile: Leslie Rowe-Israelson

Resident profile: Lyle and Dianne Wilson

Resident profile: Pat and Baiba Morrow

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OUTHBOUND S REAL T HE ORIGINAL ESTATE SCAM Travel: Cycling Patagonia

History: Dubious dreams of fruit fortunes and forests of fir UnWind

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editor’s note If there was any doubt as to the dynamism of those in the Columbia Valley’s 55+ demographic, the overwhelming response to last year’s inaugural edition of UnWind sure put ’em to bed.

phony of wildflowers. And in the magazine’s new Big Backyard section Claire Dibble ruminates on her upcoming paddle down the mighty Columbia, from source to sea.

The magazine was launched on the premise that local 55+ residents are more active, outdoorsy, artistic and involved with their community than ever before. It hit newsstands at the start of the new year and by mid-summer every single copy printed had been snatched up, proof positive that the premise was on the money and that in the valley ‘mountain living’ is not just for the young.

But that’s not all. Your favourite features from last year are back in new iterations. Through another batch of resident profiles, you’ll once again get to meet a few lively locals who encapsulate the valley’s ethos, and who just happen to be 55+.

The Puttin’ Up in Paradise column returns, written this year by former Calgary Herald editorial cartoonist Vance Rodewalt, who along with his wife Susan left Cowtown for one of Invermere’s funkiest neighbourhoods. The history section delves into the Columbia Valley’s original real estate scam, perpetrated by none other than the revered — and, as it turns out, wily and somewhat unscrupulous — Invermere founding father Robert Randolph Bruce. And in this year’s travel feature Toby Benches resident John Niddrie sets off with his son Nick to cycle the rugged wilds of Patagonia.

So UnWind is back again this year, with a whole new lineup of content. This year’s edition has a bit more of a nature and environmental focus, taking a closer look at the rivers, wetlands and mountains that define the Columbia Valley landscape in a series of think pieces by local writers. Katie Watt recounts a canoe trip through the upper reaches of the Columbia River Wetlands, peppering her narrative with scientific insight into a unique ecosystem that may just be the jewel in the valley’s natural crown. Jesse Bell offers a meditation on the meaning of mountains. Dave Quinn tunes into the valley’s splendid sym-

So dive right in, it’s time to UnWind.

Steve Hubrecht

contributors Open front and back covers for full panorama Howard Smith

Jim Smith

Justin Keitch

Claire Dibble

Dave Quinn

Jesse Bell

Vance Rodewalt

Elizabeth Segstro

Katie Watt

Pat Morrow

Tracy Connery

Kyla Brown

John Niddrie

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P U T T I N ’ U P I N PA R A D I S E

the Funky side of town

I L L U S T R AT I O N B Y E L I Z A B E T H S E G S T R O

B Y V A N C E R O D E W A LT

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hen I retired from the Calgary Herald in 2010 our reasons for staying in Calgary were greatly reduced.

Calgary has always had traffic problems, but with the surge in population in recent decades it was getting even worse. It seemed to my wife Susan and I that everything was a hassle.

We decided to put our house up for sale in 2012 and it was a tough sale. Our lot was three quarters of an acre on a river, which sounds pretty good, but it was also beside the railway tracks and a trestle. We finally sold in 2013, exactly six days before the flood of the century hit Cowtown.

There was more than $6 billion dollars in property damage across the city and the only road to our property was underwater. We were told to get out and had to remain evacuated for more than a week.

Still we feel lucky — many of the houses on our streets were destroyed, but when you looked down at our neighbourhood from a high hill on the other side of the flooded river, you could see our house sitting serenely in a patch of green. We found out later it was dry thanks to having a crack in the foundation fixed the year before. Lucky indeed.

We moved to Invermere and never looked back. I can’t say we miss the big city hassle. In 1993, a business partner of mine convinced me to buy a small old cabin in an area of Invermere that local oldtimers called Chinatown. It was called that because at one time Chinese railway workers were housed there in skid shacks. Later these shacks were sold off separately as cabins. Ours was a bunkhouse. Our neighbour Bob’s cabin was a washhouse and up the hill where the Weir lodge was is where all the workers ate. I’ve heard our little area called “funky” and a lot of other less diplomatic terms, because it truly has a hodge-podge kind of layout, but to us that just makes it more interesting.

Upon settling permanently in Invermere, we had our century-old cabin gently lifted and added a modern basement, giving us a nice little home in a great little town. Making friends is easy in Invermere, and we already have many. Just like our area of town, they are interesting and eclectic. In true Kootenay fashion they are always ready to help out.

When we were just seasonal residents here, it usually took me two or three days to calm down after arriving from big bad Cowtown, but now calm is a way of life. Town pride is everywhere and is contagious — and no wonder, when you live on a lake, surrounded by mountains. We love it here.

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down the

RIVER TEXT AND PHOTOS BY CLAIRE DIBBLE

“The river is immense, and it has the capacity to receive, embrace, and transform. If our hearts are big, we can be like the river.”

— Thich Nhat Hanh Editor’s note: The Big Backyard is a new regular feature in UnWind, focusing on the stories of local residents who turn to the horizons just outside their front doors, taking excursions long and deep into the wild and wonderful big backyard of the Columbia Valley. Golden artist Claire Dibble kicks off the feature with a meditation on her upcoming paddle down the Columbia.

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he bridge is long and narrow, old and odd, and begins with a toll person collecting two greenbacks. It stretches across the river in the heart of the gorge, where the wind whips through with serious force. The steel-grated road surface pulls at tires, first to the right then to the left, towards the river or towards oncoming traffic. The hum of tires on steel gives the impression that the bridge is singing, changing tones through the middle section that can lift away to allow large ships to pass.

The mile-long drive on the bridge that crosses over the Columbia River between the towns of Hood River, Oregon and White Salmon, Washington is plenty long enough to allow for contemplation. On one such drive to visit my brother several years back, I found myself contemplating the river itself, and the fact that some of the water flowing beneath had also snaked through my hometown far from here. I wondered how much time had passed between then and now? What had that water flowed through, over, and past? I imagined an autumn leaf falling from a riverside tree near Golden and the journey that ultimately swept it under this bridge.

Somehow, perhaps against better judgement, I’ve decided I’d like to become that leaf.

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T H E B I G B AC K YA R D

Starting in July 2019 I’ll be paddling from source to sea on the Columbia River. One kayak, three months, 14 dams and 2,000 kilometres. The recipe for the trip consists of one part personal challenge, one part photographic exploration, one part art project, and a dash of foolhardiness. Among my many sources of inspiration for this trip is a friend who turned a kayak touring expedition into fine art, which opened my eyes to the possibility of building this long-imagined river trip into my career as an artist. With this in mind, I’ll be creating and presenting a growing series of images in two art galleries along the river as I travel: the Kootenay Gallery (Castlegar) and Columbia Art Gallery (Hood River).

Rather than creating art based solely on my opinions of the river, I’ll allow my process to be shaped by the concerns of people I meet. These concerns may relate to flood control, energy production, fisheries and migration, ecosystems, agriculture and food security, navigation, economic stability and growth, loss of sacred sites, displaced communities, and changes in climate and hydrology. I’ll be inviting people along the way to add to a collaborative trip log by sharing their words, art, or other contributions relating to the river.

I see myself literally carrying the weight of these collected stories downstream, packing the trip log into my kayak and shouldering it as I portage around dams.

I imagine that every interaction with local river residents along my journey will shape the way I view each new section I paddle, creating a kaleidoscope of experience as I travel.

The overall goal is to highlight both the diversity of people living along the Columbia, and the commonalities we all share.

Sometime after I’ve completed the 2,000 kilometres, a final exhibition will show the handcrafted wooden kayak I’m building for the journey, photographic prints, and the collaborative trip log. This will encourage viewers to contemplate their connection to the natural environment, while also allowing people with differing views to see one another through a lens of compassion and interest.

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Wildflowers altz

of the

T E X T A N D P H OTO S BY DAV E Q U I N N

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pring in the upper Columbia Valley is a bit like an orchestral arrangement, with a living, vivid blanket of colourful wildflowers forming the musical notes of the score.

First, solo, pink bitterroot and delicate purple crocus flowers poke their heads tentatively through the thin soil, gingerly testing the spring warmth with the opening stanzas. The tiny potatoes known as Spring Beauty follow soon after, adding melody.

On sunny shoulders in the hills above the valley, glacier lilies break jubilantly through melting snows like percussion, almost as though they do not want to be left out of the fun.

As if on cue, the last of our native grasslands, some of the most endangered ecosystems in British Columbia, unleash their string section into colour as fields of delicate shooting stars erupt to share their riotous purple-pink opinions with the rest of the valley.

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Then the rapture of woodwinds and horns echoes across the landscape as some of North America’s showiest flower spectacles arrive. The balsamroot sunflowers, lupine, larkspur, and a host of other vibrant blooms arrive to sway in the warming breezes as the seasons shift into summer.

Grandmothers and babies alike trundle out to places such as the Buttes near Kimberley and the Skookumchuk prairie to revel in the performance. For most of us, the concerto of wildflowers is like a summer shower after the long white winter.

As the height of summer browns out the grasslands and the valley bottom music fades to a delicate pianissimo of isolated wet gullies and north-facing meadows, the blossoming sonata continues wildly up the mountainsides, chasing the last patches of snow, using these waters to nourish a wave of coloured paintbrush, groundsel, arnica and a hundred other flowers, reaching right to the edge of the impenetrable rock of our mountains.

Even here, on the mineral fastness of the peaks, where gardens seem the last thing you would expect, the indomitable saxifrages — flamboyant flowers whose Latin name means rock-breaker — endeavour to expand the upper reaches of the score by forcing their life into every rocky crack and crag. As the valley fills with heat and smoke, thousands of Columbia Valley residents heed the call of this alpine ensemble and follow their favourite trails above the trees to celebrate the curtain-call crescendo of the East Kootenay flower symphony.

Finally as the first snows fall on the high country, the instruments are put away, and the floral musicians retire for the season, biding their time and energy for next spring’s production.

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THE MEANING OF MOUNTAINS T

BY JESSE BELL HOWARD AND JIM SMITH PHOTOS

he mountains are everything to those of us who live below them, in the valleys where the grass grows long and the rivers meander wide, carving deeper into the earth over time. Below the slopes where the colours of fall morph first up high; deep reds, glowing oranges, yellows more golden than the autumn sun. The colours move downward, as though a painter were casually brushing fresh acrylic over a dry green to the houses whose chimneys begin to billow smoke and vapour, and are then promptly covered in snow.

The mountains are home.

I often ask why I stay. Why, when there are so many other places to be? City streets, museums, historical brick and vast sandy beaches. Prairie winds, extended sunrises and sunsets not hidden behind towering skyscrapers of rock. Why do I stay?

There’s something about metal and glass, cement and sidewalks, that pushes me gently back to age-old cedar and white-knotted poplar. When I leave temporarily, why is it always temporary?

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The answer is that home doesn’t feel like home anywhere else.

The mountains aren’t all I’ve ever known, as I’m sure is the case for most of us, even though I took my first breath in their air, grew up surrounded with them overhead, learned how to light my first fire and pitch my first tent beneath their watchful eye. Still, no embrace by their promise of exploration could give me what I needed at the age of 19. I couldn’t wait to feel the beat of a city beneath my feet, and left my small mountain hometown in the Kootenay in search of a home somewhere else, thinking I might find it on Granville Street, in the depths of sprawling Mexico City, or sitting beneath a statue of a man on a horse next to the Notre Dame Cathedral.

I never found it though, another place to call home, because I’d had it long ago. When I finally returned from my one-bedroom city apartment (the one with the single-pane windows facing a busy street), and from every international trip since then, I’ve come to realize my sense of adventure wasn’t instilled

by the tickets I booked or the planes I boarded. That sense of enlightenment about life, that feeling of home, was fully embedded early on by the mountains, by a way of life that slows and savours when everything else quickens. I give them, with their limestone jagged peaks and snow-dusted ridges, full credit for the foundation of wonderment.

So, like all true mountain-dwellers, we hike. We lace up our boots, fill backpacks with water, snacks, bear spray, maybe a tent, and encounter a deep and beautiful silence from the moment we step foot on a trail, until the moment we step off it. From the moment our bike gears click, and we head for a route that flows through glowing larches in the fall, or when we snap into skis and glide across freshly groomed track, nose-deep in sweet pow, the quiet gives us equal opportunity to unwind, to just be ourselves.

Our minds still and any worry or concern is wiped clear away the moment the smell of pine fills our nose. We are allowed to live simply, wholly.

There’s livelihood; on the banks of the Columbia, atop the peaks of the Purcells, and everywhere in between, livelihood that nurtures our very being. Hunters hunt, set up camp beneath canvas tents and stoke fires before filling their freezers with fresh meat. Tree planters dig their shovels into the mountain’s flanks and restock the forests while harvesters collect huckleberries with the grizzly (though we hope to never encounter one another). We are born, or grow, or retire here, and embrace with gratitude all the mountain gives us, move in unison with each ebb and flow of the changing seasons. The mountain’s chopped wood burns in our fires, burns black to smoke and billows up the chimney to meet again with its peaks.

(Left) Silver Basin Sunrise © Howard Smith, mountainwonder.ca; (right) Bugaboo Blooms © Howard Smith, mountainwonder.ca

“Our minds still and any worry or concern is wiped clear away the moment the smell of pine fills our nose.”

And we could go to Granville Street, could feel the beat of the city beneath our feet, but a deep breath next to a trickling creek as it laps against rocks on the shore is home. The mountains are home.

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Cornerstone at a crossroads B Y K AT I E W AT T | PAT M O R R O W P H O T O S

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ooking at the Columbia River Wetlands, specifically the portion at the north end of Lake Windermere, the sheer size and importance of this landscape is not immediately obvious. At this point the river is thin, its current moves lazily along the banks, and sun-bleached poles of splintering wood poke like fingertips from the surface. When I see the Columbia River Wetlands from this perspective, it’s like looking at planets from a porch — the sheer size and gravity of what’s in front of me is difficult to grasp.

The Columbia River Wetlands are massive — at 26,000 hectares, they are the largest of their kind in British Columbia. The wetlands — the absolute cornerstone of the valley’s ecosystem — stretch 180 kilometres from Canal Flats to Donald, B.C., and the main stem of the river here has been largely untouched by dams, save for one in the Spillimacheen area. The wetlands impress not only due to their sheer size, but also for providing habitat for hundreds of species, for their rich history, and for how they significantly contribute to the physical, mental, social, and spiritual wellbeing of our community. Despite their importance, we don’t always treat the wetlands with as much respect as is

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necessary, and because of this an already sensitive ecosystem has become threatened. By traversing the wetlands, you start to truly appreciate the meaning they add to the community, and gain insight into the value of protecting them.

Wetlands of wonder face uncertain future

Earlier this summer a group of us gathered to paddle through the wetlands. We began our journey in Invermere, loading up at Columbia River Paddle underneath the Althamer bridge, and canoed to Radium. Already, near the bridge, snapshots of the river’s industrial history were visible in the form of faded wooden poles protruding from the water. These were once used to guide the steamboats that travelled the river, shipping substances such as copper to Swansea, Wales; down the Pacific and then across the Atlantic. This section of the wetlands also served as a spawning area and traditional harvesting site for chinook salmon. For centuries local First Nations people relied on the salmon run for food; the ancestors of today’s Ktunaxa and Shuswap Indian Band as well as indigenous groups from Alberta would gather along the banks of the Columbia River each year to catch the run. This tradition abruptly came to an end, however, when the development of hydroelectric dams along the United States’ portion of the river began. This had a massive cultural impact on many First Nations groups along the river, and as we moved through the wetlands I found it difficult to imagine how different the trip would seem if the water beneath us were full of chinook.

As we continued, the landscape began to transform. Thick clusters of white water buttercup blossoms, which often signify the coming of July, sat on the water’s surface, and pale clay cliffs loomed up beside us. These cliffs provide essential habitat for local birds, such as swallows and kingfishers.

The Columbia River Wetlands shelter a diverse selection of species. While it is not difficult to see their dams, beavers are only occasionally spotted. If you’re really lucky, you may even glimpse a river otter. Turtles also call the wetlands home and they often relax in the sun along the driftwood-congested banks.

Sadly, we saw none of these on our trip, but did manage to see bald eagles.

Further along, we started to pass tributaries (a river or stream flowing into a larger river or lake). While she did not accompany us on the trip, Suzanne Bayley, a local scientist who has devoted much of her life’s work to studying wetlands, later informed me that as the seasons push to early spring, and runoff from the four main tributaries in the area (Horsethief, Sinclair, Forester, and Toby Creek) pools in the wetlands, they can flood up to two metres deep. With the onset of summer this then benefits many species, such as elk. Elk calve in the summer, and they do so continued...

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in the newly flooded wetlands because of the natural levees that provide protection from predators. As fall arrives the geese populations move in; they prefer the shallower water levels that accompany autumn. At any time of year there are also numerous other types of birds, as well as fish, reptiles, amphibians, mammals and countless invertebrates. No matter the season, life always populates the Columbia River Wetlands.

As we neared the end of our trip in Radium, it may have seemed as though we left the wetlands behind. But while we did step out of the canoes, pile into a van, and head back to Invermere, the wetlands were still there with us in the sense that this great floodplain is a vital thread in the web supporting the lives of those living on its banks. Without it our world would be radically different.

The Columbia River Wetlands permeate so many aspects of our lives. The area holds deep spiritual importance for local First Nations. The Columbia River that feeds the wetlands, originally named the Chickadee River, directly relates to their Creation Story. The wetlands are also a place of recreational and physical activity, and have become dotted with canoes, kayaks, paddle boards, and fishing boats. But its meaning is more than that; it is essential because it contributes to the overall wellbeing of each and every community along its sinuous length.

The wetlands are a professional multitasker, serving a variety of functions. Without the wetlands, we would certainly be much more concerned about heavy rainfall when it appears

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in the forecast, for instance. Acting like a gigantic sponge, the wetlands help keep us from being flooded by soaking up excess water. Along with absorbing, the wetlands also filter sediments and pollutants from the river water that flows through them.

The Columbia River wetlands are a type of wetland known as a floodplain. Healthy floodplain wetlands are quite rare because most have already been dammed, ditched, or drained from human activity. It is extremely important that we protect the Columbia River Wetlands, but this cannot be achieved without being aware of the threats to them — and, to be sure, our wetlands face some big threats.

Downstream dams have had considerable impacts, as has agriculture, overfishing, and developments such as the ones made by the Canadian Pacific Railway when it constructed artificial levees and bridges around the wetlands. These alterations to the natural landscape have disturbed the floodplain along the entire eastern side of the wetlands, thus changing flooding, habitat, and tributaries. Climate change has also had a massive impact on the wetlands and will for years to come, altering movement of water to and from the wetlands. As the local climate in the Columbia Valley shifts, the timing and depth of the floods that the Columbia Wetlands are dependent on also change. In the last 15 years, flood patterns have been altered, regular snowmelt times have shifted, and there is less precipitation in the area. Many of the tributaries that feed the Columbia River have also been radically modified, which in turn affects sediment input. Human use of the wetlands has also increased significantly, and with that comes increased stress on the ecosystem.

We often hear climate change talked about on a global scale, but it will — and indeed already has — impacted the Columbia Valley on a local level. We may consider other aspects of our lives to be more important, but those areas of our lives would not be possible without an environment to support it; and the Columbia River Wetlands are perhaps the biggest keystone in that environment. What does this mean? It means becoming aware of the state of the wetlands and acting accordingly. It means becoming involved with local decision makers to ensure choices are made in the interest of keeping a healthy wetland.

It can mean joining local organizations, such as the Columbia Wetland Stewardship Partners, who work on various issues affecting the river and wetland. But most of all it means that rather than viewing this ecosystem as a place that serves us, we must shift our perspective to view it as a neighbour, and reciprocate the value it adds to our lives.

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A Bugaboo life LEO GRILLMAIR

BY DAV E Q U I N N | T R AC Y C O N N E RY P H OTO S

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hen I finally managed to catch up with Columbia Valley legend Leo Grillmair, he was just in from a day of heli-hiking in his beloved Bugaboos with his grandson and great-grandson.

“I was just out test driving my new knee,” explains Leo with his ever-present laugh.

“The surgeon was a skier like me. He bumped me up to get it fixed earlier this year so I would not miss the coming ski season.”

Born in the tiny town of Ansfelden, Austria in 1930, Leo has seen his share of ski seasons and, as one of the main forces behind the modern industry of heli-skiiing, has seen perhaps more than his share of deep powder snow. Like all teens of that era, Leo spent his free time in the Hitler Youth. “That is where we learned to ski and to climb. The army was training us for mountain warfare, so skis and ropes were all part of that.”

Thankfully for both Leo and for the world of skiing, the Second World War ended when he was just 15 years old, saving him from an experience at the front lines. “After the War, skiing and climbing became a sort of recreation.”

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Trained as a plumber in Austria, Leo first came to Canada in 1951 and found work helping build the Cold Lake Canadian Forces Base. Just 21 at the time, he convinced his younger friend Hans Gmoser to join him on his overseas adventure in search of a new life, post War. “I thought I had it made, making $1.80 an hour in those days, with no expenses, all my room and board covered,” laughs Leo.

“It might have been my idea to come to Canada, but as soon as we arrived Hans became the ringleader. I had only done seven years of public school and did not speak a word of English, while Hans spoke English fairly well, so he was able to communicate,” says Leo. “I saved up enough to have a holiday home for Christmas in 1954, and by Easter Hans had called me to say, ‘Leo, I need you full time, come help me out.’ And so I left the plumbing behind and started guiding with Hans full time.”

Those early years Hans and Leo led ski tours in the Little Yoho Valley, and climbing trips in the summer months. They had made many new friends in Canada; one was a geologist named Art Patterson. Art was a skier, and spent his summers in helicopters searching out new mineral finds. Hans and Art figured out that the best way to ski and keep the helicopters busy in the winter months might be to use them to access fresh powder snow.

RESIDENT PROFILE

With 25 years managing Bugaboo Lodge under his belt, Leo shakes his head at how the industry has changed. “The last update we did to the Bugaboos Lodge cost $5 million. Guests now have private suites, with bathrooms in every room, and pay up to $15,000 for a week.”

Originally wed to a university professor, a 1975 divorce allowed Leo to marry his wife Lynne, a chef at Bugaboo Lodge.

Their first attempt at a heli-skiing business in Kananaskis failed, mainly due to a lack of good skiers, lack of good snow, and bad weather. But Hans and Leo in the meantime had discovered the incredible climbing of the Bugaboos, and a few ski touring and climbing clients convinced them to use helicopters to access the skiing there.

“In the beginning we stayed in a totally primitive lumber camp. Guests paid $240 per week, and were just happy to have a warm bed and good food,” says Leo. The nascent Canadian Mountain Holidays first used two-seater B1 helicopters, eventually moving up to the Allouette 3 and 4, the Bell 204 and 205, and finally shifting over to the machines still in use today, the workhorse Bell 212.

“The 212s were designed by the US military as gunships for Vietnam,” explains Leo “and some of our early pilots were actually Vietnam veterans.”

Leo built the first lodge in the Bugaboos for Hans in 1967.

The modest building cost $90,000, and included one room with four bunk beds.“Can you imagine! Eight people sleeping and snoring and farting all night! In those days guests were all used to ski touring, sleeping in tents on glaciers, so it was all they wanted.”

“She was tough and could come anywhere. Skiing, climbing, anywhere. Liked exactly the same things I liked,” says Leo, chuckling as he goes on to describe Lynne’s 1969 job interview for the chef position.

“Lynne applied, and was told she had to be interviewed by the boss, Hans. The only trouble was that he was in hospital in Calgary, all broken up after a fall into a crevasse on Marmolata. So she went to the hospital and met with Hans, who was head-to-toe casted. I can’t even remember how many bones he had broken. Well, he asked a lot of questions, and she turned around and asked a lot right back, and Hans gave her the job.”

More than 40 years later, the couple still shares their love of mountains from their Brisco home. Lynne is an accomplished artist whose work has spilled out of the valley. In his spare time these days, Leo tinkers in his workshop, turning out fine-art calibre woodwork, such as salad bowls and platters. Leo had loved carpentry when young, but his mother pushed him into plumbing instead. So while working as Bugaboo Lodge manager he arranged a deal with a frequent ski client who worked in the hardware business. The client got a free week of skiing each year; Leo got a major woodworking tool each year. But the time Leo retired, his workshop was complete.

My short conversation with Leo left me wishing he was my grandfather. And not just because he would take me heli-skiing.

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the Experimenter LESLIE ROWE-ISRAELSON

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eslie Rowe-Israelson looked into the horizon and saw a search and rescue warden dangling from a helicopter mid-mission heading for a rescue on Mount Lefroy. “I’m going to marry that man,” she thought, and soon indeed they were wed.

It wasn’t the first impulsive choice that shaped her life and not nearly the last.

Earlier, after visiting her twin sister Melanie in Lake Louise, Leslie, then 21, went home to Vancouver. Instead of unpacking, she loaded up all of her things, quit her job and headed back to the mountains. There was only one problem.

“The only way you would make friends there was if you learned to ski really quickly,” she says. So Leslie found herself at the top of a mountain pointing the tips of her skis down the slopes. It took six hours for her to navigate the hill, but she was a beginner skier by the time she was done.

“Life is a big adventure,” she says. “You might as well make use of it.”

Leslie and Melanie took a brief stained-glass course in Lake Louise where they realized this would be their chosen passion for life. After years of study at the renowned Pilchuck Glass School, the twins were honoured to return there and to the Corning Museum of Glass as instructors.

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Identical in appearance and ambition, the two new artists, working alongside famous glass artist Karl Lengoweur, partnered with a pair of wood artists (twins as well) and took on a 30-foot by 10-foot (3-metre by 6-metre) project at the Calgary Petroleum Club that combined woodwork and glass. The gigantic creation depicting the history of the petroleum industry took four months to complete. “It actually turned out quite beautiful,” Leslie says, conceding that “it was rather large for a third project.”

After Leslie married Gerry – the man she set her sights on when he was a speck in the sky – the couple embarked on wonderful trips in the backcountry of Banff National Park, traveling from warden cabin to warden cabin, frequently on horseback.

No matter that Leslie hadn’t ridden before, she hopped on her horse, nervous at first, and was soon so confident that she would pack a book to read in the saddle.

Later the couple moved to Jasper National Park, where Gerry ran the search and rescue program. Living at the remote Cavell warden station, Leslie was often alone with their young son Jonathan and newborn daughter Katie while Gerry was off saving lives. They had no phone, limited TV and radio and only wildlife for neighbours.

“We had black bears and grizzly bears moving through the back yard and hanging out once in a while on the porch eating our shoes,” she says. Despite the isolation, Leslie wasn’t lacking

RESIDENT PROFILE

BY DAUNA DITSON | KYLA BROWN PHOTOS

for entertainment while her babies were napping. “It’s not lonely in your head when it comes to designing,” she says.

“I have good company: my glass. I’m never alone.”

Between children and daycare, Leslie and Melanie built their own company – Twin Vision Glass – and Leslie enjoyed challenging herself with her art.

Every time Gerry headed out for a rescue, Leslie knew in her heart that he would return, but also knew the work entailed risk. “There were too many rescues where the danger was high,” she says, adding that glass is equally fragile.

“Things break,” she says like a Buddhist, philosophizing about shattered glass, lives cut short and the lessons she learned each time she kissed her husband goodbye.

In life and in glasswork, letting go of things beyond your control is the key, she says. “You can work on a piece for a month and it will break... If something breaks, start again. I don’t even get sad any more.” It’s quite a statement because 35 years after Leslie got started in the arts her largest pieces can command anywhere from $120 to $10,000.

A glass ball so regal it could have been made of marble sits on her table. A mountain landscape in her kitchen is so ornate, so intricately layered that it appears to be a painting until she flicks on a light that radiates through the glass canvas.

“It’s like Christmas every time you open the kiln. It’s quite fulfilling but you have to let it go if things do not turn out and move on to the next,” she says. “I’m an experimenter. I like the adventure, the intricacies of glass.”

Having gotten a solid handle on glassmaking, skiing and horseback riding, Leslie is taking on more adventures. Last year she started mountain biking. This year, at 65, she’s taking up golf (or at least trying). As for what’s next, Leslie’s not ruling anything out – except cliff jumping. That’s an experiment she’s content to leave to her daredevil son and the next generation.

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In tandem

LY L E A N D D I A N N E W I L S O N B Y S T E V E H U B R E C H T | K AT I E W AT T P H O T O S

L

yle and Dianne Wilson are a team. Everything they do, they do together. Everything they’ve built up, they’ve built up together.

They play as a pair and work as a pair; break horses as a pair and turned an abandoned homestead deep in the bush into a top-notch eco resort as a pair. When they arrive at the UnWind office one fall evening, they come in the door with the identical smiles and cold air-flushed faces of a couple who has spent all day stacking firewood as a pair.

Lyle and Dianne are instantly recognizable to pretty much half the Columbia Valley — partly because of Nipika Mountain Resort and partly because since moving here four decades ago, they’ve helped with too many volunteer and community groups to count (trail building and Whiteway efforts in particular stand

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out). But to watch them sit together, just the two of them, and banter — in one of those fleetingly rare moments when they are not both on the go — is to get insight into a lifelong partnership greater than the sum of its parts.

While Lyle worked odd jobs and coached nordic skiing at the provincial and then national level in the 1980s and 1990s, Dianne put bread on the table working as a high school teacher.

They balanced their strengths to simultaneously raise kids, build Nipika and hoover in all that the valley’s outdoor lifestyle offers. When doctors found cancer in Lyle’s colon and liver in 2017, Lyle says “we never thought we weren’t going to beat it.”

That’s right: “we”. And beat it they did.

And that banter? It’s the sort of repartee that comes from 40 years of marriage between two strong-willed people. In short,

RESIDENT PROFILE RESIDENT PROFILE

it’s bloody hilarious. To wit: Lyle describes how he skipped the World Masters crosscountry ski championship a few years ago, when it was held in Russia, because he’s convinced that decades ago the Russians were cheating their way ahead of the Canadian national skiers he coached. “So I had my own personal boycott (of Russia),” he steadfastly declares. Beside him Dianne rolls her eyes (she’s heard this story before — a lot) before interjecting “Bet they really noticed it too, Lyle. Must’ve stung ’em something bad.”

Lyle and Dianne are quick to point out that these days their kids, Steve and Marni, are as much a part of Nipika as they are.

The kids’ history there goes back to a photo of Steve, not even a year old, getting a ‘bath’ in a stainless steel bucket in the Nipika meadow in 1979. As the kids grew, so too did the resort. Now Steve is the manager and Marni takes care of events, marketing and programs.

“It’s a family business in every sense of the word. In fact, they (the kids) pretty much run it on their own, and sometimes I think I get consulted (on resort decisions) because they’re humouring their dad,” says Lyle with a chuckle. “The only criteria for parenthood is fertility. You hope you’ll do the best you can, but you never know how things will turn out. So to see your kids grow up in this outdoor lifestyle and then as adults choose to make it their own lives — well, that’s really something.”

It’s no surprise Lyle and Dianne have landed where they have. Both were born in Winnipeg and both grew up spending summers paddling the still waters and endless channels of Lake of the Woods. They met at university, then headed west. They daydreamed about establishing their own outdoor centre and so scoured both sides of the Rockies, from Hinton to the border and back, hunting for just the right spot, until a chance meeting over coffee at a Radium gas station and a makeshift map hastily scrawled on a napkin sent Lyle crosscountry skiing down a snowbound logging road into what is now Nipika, where a

plyboard ‘For Sale’ sign was nailed jauntily to a tree. Just two weeks later the Wilsons owned the place.

The resort came together over a period of decades, piece by piece (sometimes quite literally, as in when Lyle and Steve went to Golden, found and purchased the restored century-old barn that is now the resort’s day lodge, took it apart bit by bit, brought it to Nipika and taught themselves how to re-assemble it). It’s been a long haul — not always easy, but often fun. There have been many good times, as well as a few bad ones. Like the cancer, which put Lyle on the operating table for eight and a half hours and required six months of chemotherapy.

“That really beat the crap out of me. At times I couldn’t walk 100 metres without a rest stop,” he says. “At first it (cancer) was a shock. I get a lot of exercise, I don’t smoke, I don’t drink to excess and I eat good food, so why me? It really wakes you up and grounds you, because you realize you’re not immortal. So for me, today was a great day. Sure, it was stacking wood, but we were out there, doing the things we like, living to the fullest.”

While recovering, Lyle set a goal to return to the nordic World Masters (he’s been 10 times) and is on track to do so this winter, although he’s learned to be humble about his performance, at least with his family. He once returned from the championship with two silvers and a bronze, and Marni promptly presented him with a t-shirt reading ‘second place is the first loser’.

“Well, we had to do something,” says Dianne. “We didn’t want to hear all about your medals for months after.”

The pair trade smiles at this, Dianne’s grin a bit devilish and Lyle’s a touch rueful. And in that moment, it’s hard not to think of the two of them as notched logs in the corner of one of Nipika’s beautiful cabins: independent yet interlocking. Sturdy but warm.

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Wieldingcameras wilderness in the

PAT & B A I B A M O R R O W

BY DAUNA DITSON | TRACY CONNERY PHOTOS

P

at Morrow brews a pot of tea while Baiba offers their guest a woolly sweater. It’s chilly in their home in Wilmer, which offers a sweeping view over the wetlands, but the change of seasons hasn’t yet convinced them to turn on the heat. They’ve spent so much time in rustic mountain situations – travelling the world to record its stories – that putting on an extra layer is the most logical thing to do. And besides, it saves on heating bills.

As photographers, writers and adventure partners, they estimate they’ve spent 15 years on the road together. They have been to more countries than they care to count and have cherished more escapades than would fit inside the average person’s imagination.

For instance, during a recent trip to the Windermere ‘share shack’ (or ‘Windermere Walmart’) – a section of the landfill where unwanted items are up for grabs to treasure seekers – Pat happened across a stack of Equinox magazines, some featuring the couple’s cover stories from China, Russia, Nepal and New Guinea.

The magazines brought back a pile of memories from more than 30 years ago and reminded them of the month they spent in Irian Jaya with a local indigenous group still leading a “stone age” lifestyle.

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“It was fascinating to be there and feel totally a part of that rustic culture. Life skills honed from many years of skiing and climbing expeditions make us versatile,” Pat says. “A lot of photographers, writers, especially in this day and age, wouldn’t last more than two days in that environment.”

Like him, Baiba didn’t mind staying in a flea-bitten grass hut, eating roasted yams every day and enduring the rain. They were together and doing what they loved: capturing a culture on film to share with the world.

After studying journalism at the Southern Alberta Institute of Technology, Pat started his career at the Calgary Herald where he says of the daily grind, he “got cured of wanting to be a news photographer.”

Instead he wanted to take the kind of pictures that can only be found in the centre of an adventure: ski mountaineering, canyoneering, and scaling rock faces and frozen waterfalls.

Baiba started out as an occupational therapist but was also relieved of her earliest career ambitions when she realized that a 9-to-5 job would keep her from being with Pat. While the couple first met at the Canmore Folk Festival, Baiba jokes that “it wasn’t until he had climbed Everest that I

RESIDENT PROFILE worldview shifted,” Pat says. “They’ve scratched out a living in a hostile environment compared to what we’re used to in the West. They have so few material things and yet seem relatively happy. I thought: ‘there’s a lot to learn from people like that and, consequently, to share.’”

When Pat went back to the Himalaya, Baiba – who has Latvian roots and has always been interested in cultural heritage – went too.

“Almost from the beginning, our expeditions included a focus on the people and their traditional values,” she says.

Later in their careers — as they witnessed changing environmental conditions around the globe — they moved back to the East Kootenay, joined Wildsight, and shifted toward environmental activism.

Their most recent voluntary community service work took them to Uganda to document grassroots water projects, and they continue to wield their cameras and devote time and energy toward finding solutions for social and ecological challenges with other concerned citizens here in the valley.

With Tibetan “windhorse” flags wafting prayers to benefit all sentient beings through the window behind them, Baiba and Pat say they feel extremely fortunate to have begun their global travels when the world’s population was less than half what it is now. Despite the environmental degradation they’ve witnessed due in large part to over consumption, they hold onto their most-precious belief: that mirroring the world back to itself can create change.

really paid attention to him.”

Pat adds “We formed a partnership that depended on each other. Our ability to take photos and write stories was our ticket to see the world.”

First the pair sought raw adventure, but as they traveled they were changed by the people they met and the cultures they witnessed.

“I was invited to be the official photographer on the first Canadian Everest expedition in 1982 and I went there with tunnel vision, with Everest as my only goal. Once there, I discovered the hospitable Nepalese hill people and my whole UnWind

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SOUTHBOUND

TEXT AND PHOTOS BY JOHN NIDDRIE

W

hoa! I had initially planned a horse trip through the southern Andes. Yet here I was with my son Nick, on our bicycles at a frontier Argentinean border crossing in a wild outback, en route to the Chacaboco Valley and the new Patagonia National Park in Chile.

The border guards were astounded to learn we had cycled the old divide road from Chili Chico.

It was late morning and after getting across a partially washed out bridge, we were unsure if we were actually on the right track. The cool, blustery weather and some old abandoned buildings nearby gave this desolate area an eerie feeling. Finally we came over one more hill to see a couple small wooden buildings that were indeed the border crossing.

One of the guards welcomed us in and I couldn’t help but comment on the wonderful smells coming from the attached kitchen.

Wanting to hear about our adventure and seeing the hungry look in our eyes, they sat us down and fed us warm mutton sandwiches with copious amounts of sugared juice. Shortly after leaving we waved to a guard on horseback — a beautiful sight amongst the wide-open country backed by looming mountains.

Wherever we went on the Patagonian steppes or in the mountains, we encountered hospitable locals. Just two nights before the border post we had stopped at an estancia (sheep ranch) and were invited to spend the night in one of the bunkhouses.

Nick and I were on a month-long bike packing trip. I can’t say I’m an experienced bike-packer, or even cyclist for that matter. At home I get out with the fellas once or twice a week mountain biking, and I have done a

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T R AV E L couple of cycle trips to Cuba. But I have always had this thirst for adventure, at home or abroad.

Our intention was to ride Chile’s southernmost road, the Carretera Austral, with a few side trips – a roughly 1,400 kilometre route. We began mid November, early spring, well before the main tourist season and there were only a handful of other travellers on the ferry to Puerto Chacaboco.

It was physically demanding — we averaged eight to 10 hours a day of cycling, with regular big elevation gains, wild camping much of the time. We took advantage of the long days of spring (15 hours of daylight) and had long relaxing lunches to replenish our bodies. Even at our foot-powered pace there

was still a continuous change of landscape to amaze us, and it was the perfect speed to take in the sights, sounds, and smells.

The spring time flowers, especially the acres of lupines, and the melodies of courting song birds and waterfowl enchanted us.

The further south we went, the more rugged everything got — massive rivers, lakes, and glaciated mountains. The small towns became fewer and further between, and had a real frontier feel to them.

The people you meet en route add to your adventure and meeting them seemed easier while biking. Several times we spent the night with locals at their farms or homes, swapping stories and sharing mate (tea). Most have a basic lifestyle, living in the country, where wood burning for cooking and heating is the norm year-round.

Hampered by high winds and boat mechanical problems we had to finish our trip in the village of O’Higgins, the official end of the Carretera Austral. We had known in advance that there could be difficulties making the large water crossing to Fitz

Roy/El Chalten in Argentina and after five days we ran out of valuable time, opting instead to hitch a ride on a Cessna back north (that’s a whole story unto itself). ‘Wild’ Patagonia indeed.

Patagonia National Park was a true highlight for us. The protected area is one of many made possible by Tompkins Conservation. Starting in 1990 Doug and Kristine Tompkins undertook one of the largest private conservation projects in the world, which to date has acquired more than 2 million acres of land (much of which is privately owned in Chile), restoring and returning these areas to their natural state. Most has been gifted to the government to be co-operatively managed (see www.tompkinsconservation.org). Experiencing it all firsthand was incredible.

Patagonia is ideal for bike-packing — temperate climate, low altitude, pristine mountains, safety, and minimal vehicle traffic.

I’m not ready to give up my horses any time soon, but bike packing will be a big part of my future travels, which I know will include more trips to Chile.

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HISTORY

the original real estate

scam

DUBIOUS DREAMS OF FRUIT FORTUNES AMID FORESTS OF FIR

BY LORENE KEITCH

T

he brochure promised the Garden of Eden. It painted a picture so vivid, the reader could almost taste the juicy apples growing on fertile Columbia Valley lands. Robert Randolph Bruce (yes, the storied builder of Invermere’s iconic Pynelogs) wrote the pamphlet to entice migrants of the ‘right sort’ to the area. There are colourful stories circulating among valley history buffs that officials once even tied actual fruit on trees to entice land buyers (though that succulent detail remains unconfirmed). Either way, the marketing worked. English migrants bit the forbidden fruit without question: they packed up their lives, traveling by steam and rail and horse and wagon to reach the banks of a new tomorrow.

For couples such as Captain John Noel Phillips and his wife Margaret Ann Dionysia, better known as Jack and Daisy (middle and bottom right), the ploy worked. They moved from England to the valley in 1912. Daisy and Jack’s letters home detail the excitement and agony of trying to build a new homestead in a land that was much harder than the brochure (top right) perfidiously pitched.

They had bought 28 acres of thick Douglas fir forest on a steep ravine above Toby Creek. Daisy, in an early letter, writes they paid more than they had wanted, but it would be worth it for the bounty they would draw out of the land. Her letters home inquire of household matters like how to properly wash handkerchiefs, the woes of not having a servant, or the nuisance of needing to order a rolltop desk from England.

The dream soon soured, however, as the Phillips slowly built a subsistence farm with chickens that did not produce enough eggs to cover the cost of feed, and not much else beyond a few heads of lettuce and cabbage – nothing to turn a profit. A short two years of hardship later, Daisy writes: “. . . we are all fighting (Randolph) Bruce and the Columbia Valley Irrigated Fruit Lands company for compensation because our cisterns leak and we have paid too high a price for our land.”

After the First World War broke out, Jack and Daisy left Canada, with Jack returning to his old British regiment. He was wounded during the first battle of Ypres and died in an army hospital. Daisy never went back to the Columbia Valley. After the war, their lot was sold for far less than they had paid; eventually the house was torn down. Today there is little evidence of the Phillipses and countless others, who tried, but failed, to create a new life in the land of promise duplicitously depicted in Randolph Bruce’s fanatastical promotional material.

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the story behind

the cover

Creston-based father-son photographer duo Howard and Jim Smith (see Our Contributors, page 4) have been heading into the East Kootenay high country for more than a decade. Their typical modus operandi is to haul their backpacking gear into a remote alpine spot, settle in for a few days (if not weeks) and absorb the landscape through camera lens.

This deeply immersive approach translates to evocative photos. If you’ve ever paused while picking up a croissant in the Invermere Bakery and stared at the large prints adorning the north wall, then you know just how entrancing these images can be. The photo — ‘Jumbo Summer’ — stretching across the front and back covers of this year’s issue of UnWind is a prime example of their work.

“We’ve been photographing Jumbo Pass for 10 years now.

It’s such a beautiful area with majestic mountains, spectacular glaciers, fields of wildflowers and good accessibility. No wonder it’s so popular,” says Howard. “This particular photo was taken in late July 2015, at the height of the wildflower season. It’s a panorama that captures the wide field of view you get when sitting on the slope above the cabin at daybreak.”

“We backpack in order to catch the early morning and late evening light, the golden hours. As well, staying in areas for days allows us to get to know places intimately and they begin

to reveal themselves to us. The beauty, peace and solitude of mountains keep drawing us back. We love being able to share these values with others and encourage them to have their own mountain experiences.”

Indeed Howard and Jim operate their business (Mountain Wonder Photography) with the mission to not only depict the wild splendour of the Columbia Valley and surrounding regions, but also to inspire others to pull on hiking boots and head into the hills.

Steve Hubrecht

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H E A LT H C A R E

HOSPICE SOCIETY

BY ERIN KNUTSON

Bereavement Programs

What is Hospice and How Can We Help?

The Hospice Society of the Columbia Valley understands that from the time of a terminal illness diagnosis families are on a journey. Many people assume Hospice assistance is only available when a client is at the end stage and palliative however we are available to support clients and their families from the time of diagnosis, through the first year of bereavement with in home visitations.

For those needing support you can access our services directly or have your GP or Home Health Nurse fill out a referral form. If you are in a long term care facility, your residential care coordinator can fill out the form on your behalf.

To provide visitation services we are always looking for interested volunteers to join our team.

If you are interested in any of our programs or joining our team either as a member or as a volunteer, we would love to hear from you.

Please contact us at 250-688-1143 or info@hospicesocietycv.com

“Grief is a process, not an event. You can’t avoid it. You can’t rush it. It’s a walk, one step at a time, and it takes time for this necessary process to bring healing and wholeness back to your life.”

– Michael and Brenda Pink The Hospice Society of the Columbia Valley is dedicated to walking this journey with you. We offer a series of bereavement programs designed to support those struggling with the intense emotions associated with grief, loss and bereavement. Programs include…

• Visitation in the home or at another location (on-going) • 12-week bereavement support group (Next group beginning early 2018. Please call for information) • Walk and Talk Groups (various communities dependent on need June - October) • Resource centre and lending library Open Monday - Friday, 12-4 p.m.

All programs are free of charge.

Please call for more information.

Proud sponsor of the Bereavement Program

Annual sponsors Annual Funder

Proud sponsor of the Lending Library

Phone: (250) 688-1143 Website: www.hospicesocietycv.com

The Hospice Society of the Columbia Valley (HSCV) is in its fifth year as a registered non-profit organization.

In the last five years the organization has developed programming in three key areas — End of Life, Bereavement and Public Education. While end of life is a topic many have a hard time grappling with, the Hospice Society works to help individuals discuss and work through the challenges that come with the end of life and grief processes.

“Our programs help people when they need it the most. We provide a safe space where people can speak openly about their fears, their hopes and the things that matter most to them,” says outgoing HSCV executive director Maria Kliavkoff (new executive director Michelle Neider will take over in January 2019).

Sustainable funding is paramount to keeping the hospice doors open and the programs available to all.

With the creation of an Endowment Fund last year the Hospice Society is working to ensure that residents of the Columbia Valley have the resources they need for years to come.

Volunteer recruitment is a huge priority for the organization as there is an ever-increasing need for services in the valley. “We are fortunate because we have the best volunteers with the biggest hearts. So far volunteers that have been able to meet demands, but the truth is that need is ever-increasing,” says Maria. “By 2030 one in three residents in the valley will be seniors. To stay ahead of the curve, we have to be continually training new volunteers.”

Male volunteer visitors are particularly needed for both the end of life and bereavement programs and volunteers for the various committees that make the hospice a reality are also required, including all events committees.

Maria reminds all “whether you are interested in becoming a member by purchasing a $20 annual membership, becoming a volunteer, or becoming a donor, we welcome everyone who wishes to be part of Team Hospice.” If you are interested in more information or require end of life or bereavement support, please call (250) 688-1143.

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