FLAG FLAPS

It’s June again. Pride month. Thirty days to celebrate but also to irk certain people. I’m not talking about the obvious homophobes. I think they’re irked year-round. A decade after the right for queers to marry was affirmed by the U.S. Supreme Court, there are plenty who grumble amongst their group while sampling cheddar at Cracker Barrel, eating sandwiches at Chick-fil-A or letting their eyes wander at Hooters. Instead, I’m thinking about people in our own ”community” who can’t process—or even actively reject—all the progress in terms of queer culture this century.

 

I’d like to think they’re not selectively homophobic; rather, they’re stuck. They like and accept what they were familiar with during their twenties and thirties. More recent changes in queer culture are too wonky for them. They don’t understand how evolution continues without them on board. This is old-person thinking. Sometimes it can feel challenging to keep up with the times. 

 

I recently finished reading Jeremy Atherton Lin’s GAY BAR: WHY WE WENT OUT (Back Bay Books, 2021). It was a slow read. There were several thought-provoking comments which I flagged with Post-its near the beginning and the end, but it would have read better and had greater potency as an essay instead of a book. Still, I plan to write about a few of the Post-it posits in a few blog posts over the summer. The comment I thought about as Pride month begins is as follows:

The closing gay bars had me thinking about the finitude of gay… By 2018, an opinion piece in the Israeli newspaper Haaretz declared, “Being Gay Is Passé.” A few years prior, one poll showed half of young people in Britain were identifying as not completely hetero, with most of those placing themselves in a nonbinary area on a scale of sexuality. So, not completely gay. I came across a statement online by a woke young person expressing his consternation that cis gay males remained the most culturally validated type of queer. 

 

This, to me, feels like the latest incarnation of a tale as old as time. There will always be a generational divide—a gap, if you prefer—where younger people bemoan dominate culture, i.e., that established and/or embraced by an older generation. Why should it be any different among queers, especially when identity is what defines the group in the first place? Younger people are fighting for their place, trying to dissociate with older folks, agitating for changes to ways of being they perceive as stuffy, stifling and just outdated. There will always be a push and, in turn, the older set will often push back, sometimes mocking or dismissing change initiatives as pious, naïve or, to use an aging term, tomfoolery. 

 

I can readily embrace the term nonbinary in terms of my own gender identity. Still, I rarely use it and I won’t wave a nonbinary flag at any Pride events this year or, likely, any year. (The flag, FYI, is comprised of four coloured stripes: yellow, white, purple and black. Yes, I had to Google.) I’m good with the flag. Let whoever wishes wave it, fly it from a pole, tack it to a wall so as to conveniently cover a persistent, undefined smudge. Let it be present in Pride parades along with a range of other flags associated with specific queer identities—aromantic, pansexual, transgender and many others. 

 

All these flags get a lot of my queer contemporaries in a tizzy. I’ve sat through many a brunch listening to them grouse about the proliferation of flags, most consisting of different stripes for different types. The argument I hear the most is, “Why do we need more on the flag? Why do we need new flags? The rainbow includes EVERYTHING.” For these gay men, it’s a one-flag-fits-all stance. They truly believe it to be the case.

 

However, I think it’s important to consider when the flag came about and what identities were commonly recognized at the time.

 

My own perception of the dominant queer community when I was coming out in the mid to late ’80s was that the two main categories of queer were gay and lesbian, defined by one’s birth gender. Bisexuals were doubted with derisive comments about “wanting it both ways” and having “one foot in the closet.” Transgender existed but the numbers seemed too small to have much of a voice at the table. Then, as now, some gay men saw trans issues as a distraction or even a liability to making inroads regarding gay and lesbian acceptance. To deny this would be to whitewash queer history, painting a false image of a community united—happy happy, forever and always. 

 

The rainbow flag came into popularity in the late ’70s. The familiar flag, created in 1979 with six coloured stripes—red, orange, yellow, green, indigo and violet—is not, however, the original incarnation.  In 1977, activist Gilbert Baker had created a flag with eight coloured stripes, hot pink on top and turquoise wedged between green and indigo. I point this out to emphasize that the six-striped flag so many traditional queer people accept was itself a modification. Yes, folks, that flag is not the original just as the Starbucks people line up at across from Pike Place Market in Seattle is not the original café. (It was in a building that was demolished. As well, a few other locations opened and closed before the 1976 location was established.) The rainbow flag was subject to change from the outset. Love the flag. See yourself in it if you will but recognize its an adaptation from the original.

 

At the time both these rainbow flags were created, they represented identities encompassed, at best, by the LGBT acronym. No extra letters or numbers. 

 

Since then, queer identity has not been static. Neither has broader society. At some point a flag may become universally accepted, but there has been rapid change in defining queer identity in the decades since. Flags change over time. The American flag is not what it was in 1776. The current Canadian flag only dates back to 1965. Moreover, more than one flag may connect with a person. (In terms of where I live, I recognize both the Canadian flag and British Columbia’s provincial flag.) 

 

A rainbow flag may be perfectly fine for gays and lesbians but it is entirely possible—probable, even—that some queer people only see the L and G in it. The don’t want to be included as part of “et cetera.”

 

If the six-coloured rainbow flag doesn’t connect with you, embrace another… if flags have any importance to you at all. 

 

Fly your own flag, I say. Fly it with your own sense of pride. And, when my contemporaries insist on one flag and only one, keep calm. Some fuddy-duddies just like things simple…the way they were in one particularly heyday.

 

  

GNARLY NAILS

Oh, such beautiful toenails.
Not a fetishist; just envious.
(But don't those clippers look like 
they're for pruning roses...or
cutting through wire fences?)

In general, my body is holding up well for sixty. No arthritic joints. No unusual aches and pains from my runs and bike rides. (There will always be normal aches, won’t there?) I have dark rings under my eyes which have been there since I was twenty. Not an age issue; just a bad sleeper. Even my hair has (mostly) hung around with grayness confined to the neckline and sideburns. I’m a lucky man.

 

But then I look down at my feet. Egad! Put some socks on.

 

Why did the generations before me only speak of sore joints, receding hairlines and expanding waistlines? (Do senior men drink more beer, move about less or is there a natural aging process that makes six-packs pack up as a rising midriff plateau moves in?) These are legit topics that bring humility to aging, but I could have used some forewarning about toenails. Mine have gone from toppings on “little piggies” to ghastly beasts in and of themselves.

 

Good grief! Is this
my new beach look?

Will I ever wear sandals again?

 

As I began to type in my Safari search window, it quickly autofilled: “toenails old people.” A-ha! So it’s not just me (and my Dad). It’s a thing. Those dang toenails change. Yes, I’m putting this topic front and center. We need to talk toenails.

 

I skipped over the AI response. As a writer, I have a hate-hate relationship with AI. No thanks.

 

Instead, I clicked on a report from the U.S. National Institutes of Health. Much better than scary YouTube videos which I’m sure are out there. Nope. I shall not watch zombie movies, slasher flicks, anything with Tom Cruise or clips about toenail fungus. Like I said, I’m already a bad sleeper.

 

Here’s a little reading material from the NIH:

 

Older people are at an increased risk of nail alterations, including normal age-related changes and disorders that more commonly affect this specific population. Secondary factors are important contributors to pathologic nail changes, including impaired circulation at the distal extremities, faulty biomechanics, infections, neoplasms, and skin or systemic diseases with nail manifestations. These factors can affect primarily the nail plate or involve other components of the nail unit such as the matrix, nail bed, hyponychium, or nail folds with secondary abnormalities in the nail plate. These nail changes can either cause serious symptoms, impairing the daily activities of this older population whose activities might already be restricted, or be asymptomatic but associated with substantial cosmetic problems, leading to negative psychological effects. 

 

Okay, enough of that. Gross. And tragic.

 

By far, not the worst
Google Image pic.

Next, I did a Google Image search: older toenails.

 

I lasted seven seconds. Some version of my big toenails was there. Thicker, hardened nails. Chipped. Slightly gray and/or yellow. 

 

I took solace in seeing much worse. Much, much worse. 

 

If a zombie ever comes for me, I shall take off my shoes and socks, stand on one foot and flash him my particularly creepy big toenail on my left foot. Back, zombie! If my toenails are this bad, imagine how unappetizing my brains and flesh are. Go track down a thirty-year-old with regular toenails. Yummy.

 

The NIH report was written with family doctors in mind. It anticipates that patients will seek medical advice from their doctor. It stresses the importance of early intervention, possibly involving referrals for specialized care. Is this within a podiatrist’s domain? Yeesh. I thought urologists had it bad. 

 

I have not mentioned my toenails—or exposed them—to my family doctor. He’s retiring. I don’t want the poor guy to end his career with frightful images of my toenails. The new guy doesn’t know what he’s in for. I will NOT make a good first impression.

 

Something I didn’t know about aging toenails is they seem to grow slower, too. I suppose that’s handy once your ninety and bending over to clip them feels as strenuous as running a marathon but, for cosmetic reasons, I’d like my nails to speed up their growth.

 

Not my actual foot. But the
purple part bears a resemblance.

As a regular hiker, especially in summer and fall, I hit the trails often. In hitting these trails, I repeatedly hit exposed tree roots and small rocks with the toe of my hiking boots. This happens more often in the final hour or two of my longer hikes. Presumably my feet are as tired as my legs. I must not pick them up as much. Bash. Bash. Bash! My toes, especially the two longer ones on both feet, take the brunt of it. Purple crescents emerge at the base of the nail on both my big toes, presumably something to do with bleeding or bruising. (I’m not Googling that. Anything blood-related makes me prone to fainting.) 

 

Gradually the purple part of the nail grows out. When I say “gradually,” I mean slooooooooowly. In the past few years, I finally get to clip off the purple bits in June, just as I’m hiking again, working on a new purple formation at the base of the nail. With June nearing, the purple splotch has only moved halfway to the nail’s edge. This is proof my nails are growing even slower than last year. As long as I hike, I shall have some part of my already gnarly big toenails that is purple. It’s a little off-putting but the least, I suppose, of my toenail angst.

 

Perhaps the only useful part of this week's 
blog post: long-handle toenail clippers. 
(I fear I would sustain significant injuries.)

I’m glad I never was a foot fetishist nor have I ever dated one. My toes shall not be sucked. Not back when I was twenty and most definitely not now. How does such a person handle this phase of life? Maybe there’s a support group. I’m not Googling. I’ve Googled enough.

 

In fact, I’ve written enough. If you have aging toenails that are a tad wonky, I commiserate with you. If you’re older and have perfectly okay toenails, I’m totally jealous. I may send the zombie your way. If you’re younger, consider yourself warned. Love your toenails as you clip them at regular intervals. You are blessed. 

ROOM AT THE INN

I’ve been going to New York City for a decade now and finally crossed Item #1 off my gay travel itinerary. Evan and I, along with his New Yorker friend, Saul, had a drink at the Stonewall Inn. 

 

Over the years, I’d walked by it several times, strolled through the teensy Christopher Park that is a national monument across the street, even peeked in once or twice, but I’d never lingered. I have a complicated relationship with gay bars and, generally, the thought of parking it on a stool or leaning against a wall by a pool table has zero appeal. 

 

But this was the site of the Stonewall Riots beginning June 28, 1969, the symbolic, if not true, beginning to the gay rights movement and LGBTQ people standing up for themselves. A drink, we agreed. To commemorate history. 

 

As we walked in, a drag queen was beginning the first round of Bingo Night. I ordered a cider, grabbed a stool and didn’t bemoan this low level form of entertainment. We’d make an hour of it, twice as long as I’d anticipated.  

 

In addition to Bingo, the event included free popcorn—topped with M&Ms—and no cover charge. The drag queen called out and often sang Bingo numbers (e.g., “B-10…No, B safe.”). Lady Gaga’s “Abracadabra” and Billie Eilish’s “Birds of a Feather” played at a respectful volume rather than with a pulsing beat. This was Monday, after all.

 

In terms of game, the highlight, for me at least, was seeing Evan’s excitement as he won a round of four-corner Bingo. For this feat, he picked a rubber duckie shower speaker from the prize collection. That’s something, right?  One of those things a person doesn’t know they needed until there it is in a flashy box just begging to be picked before the Pokémon stuffie and the Mr. Potato Head set. Let his grin be enough of a prize for me (although Mr. Potato Head would have been my clear choice if B-11 had been called before the game-ending B-5.

 

Did I feel greater empowerment as a queer person from Bingo at the Stonewall? No. Not at all. Did I regret going? Of course not. It turned out to be an innocuous evening but, because it was at Stonewall, I shall always remember it. 

 

Christopher Park, now part of
a National Monument

Drag Bingo Night at The Stonewall will never be as epic as an uprising against the NYPD. It was a perfectly tame Monday night at a rather ordinary bar which happens to be gay. I’m grateful for the ordinariness. More than that, grateful for Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera and others who’d shown up at the bar in late June 1969 just looking for a safe space to hang out for what should have been its own normal, uneventful night.

THE DOCTOR IS OUT

The doctor-patient relationship comes just after hair stylist relationship for me in terms of familiarity. I guess it’s fortunate that I see my stylist, Melissa, considerably more often than I see my doctor. Let good health keep it that way.

 

But a change is coming. Last Wednesday, I saw my family doctor, Scott, for the last time. (Yes, we’re on a first-name basis. It’s one of the things I like about him.) Scott is retiring. I knew this day was coming. Selfishly, I’d hoped it would be later rather than sooner. Sooner happens to be next month. 

 

I’ve been seeing Scott for thirty years. By comparison, Melissa’s only been cutting my hair for nine. 

 

I have no doubt I present challenges to doctors. Prior to Scott, the last family doctor I saw was in Santa Monica, a name I got from a list provided by the HMO that served my employer. That doctor—let’s just call him Dr. No-Go—said at the end of my (first and last) appointment, “I never want to see you again.”

 

I was startled. Did I hear him right? 

 

What was there to mishear?

 

Clearest, perhaps harshest breakup ever. Was he allowed to do that? What would be the point of asserting, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.” Presumably, those little hammers to test knee reflexes could be weaponized. 

 

Scott knew how to deal with a squeamish, quirky patient like me. As I told him last week, he always regarded me with proper amusement, including the fact I’d show up for appointments in the early years drinking from a bottle of orange juice. “Someone told me it’ll keep me from fainting,” I explained. As he’d ask medical questions or share medical information, I gulped my OJ. 

 

I never fainted in Scott’s office. (Now would be a good time to belatedly apologize to an ophthalmologist and that guy who thought I’d passed out from a seizure during a hearing test.)

 

For at least the first two decades of seeing Scott, I had the biggest crush on him. He had—and has—classic good looks of a quintessential Scotsman: curly auburn hair, freckles, green eyes. My legs would shake; I had a hard time making eye contact. My awkwardness was no doubt seen as squeamishness. Oh, how it was so much more complicated! 

 

Despite the crush, there were a couple of years when I didn’t see Scott. It should come as no surprise that I avoided medical professionals. But then I got melanoma at thirty-four and I’d have to go in for, at the very least, referrals to dermatology specialists to get chunks of skin cut out. Fun times.

 

It wasn’t until 2014 when visits to Scott became considerably more frequent. I fell apart in his office before Easter, dropping from a chair to the floor. It wasn’t on account of fainting and, to this day, I’ve never had a seizure. Instead, I was suicidal. I was having a major mental breakdown. 

 

Scott gave me an Ativan, then asked if I needed to go to the hospital. “Yes,” I said through shakes and tears. His office was only three blocks from St. Paul’s so I did not want to go by ambulance. Instead, he called ahead to alert doctors of my pending arrival and current condition. He had an employee escort me to Emergency. My last words before leaving his office: “Don’t let them send me home.”

 

This week, I had the pleasure of thanking him once again. “You saved my life. I’m certain of that. I have lived eleven years longer—so far—thanks to you. I am immensely grateful for your care that day and since then as well.”

 

Of course, I was crying as I shared this with him. His eyes welled up, too.

 

That was my first stint in the psych ward. I was readmitted in 2017 and I’ve been on long-term disability ever since. In 2019, I was hospitalized for six weeks due to an eating disorder and then spent eight weeks in a group home. In 2021, I had a stay in a crisis care group home. I turned down another eating disorder hospitalization this year. (I’m receiving extensive outpatient support.) 

 

Scott has been the one constant as I’ve navigated my mental health journey since 2014. In that time, I’ve seen a dozen psychiatrists, a half dozen counselors, dietitians, occupational therapists, countless nurses and others in the medical field. So many introductions. But I always had Scott. What will I do without him?

 

Survive. I know that much.

 

“You made a difference,” I repeated several times during my last appointment. “I appreciate you so much. I am full of gratitude and I need to share it.” 

 

I’m guessing Scott is sixty-two. His husband, already retired at seventy, is awaiting full-time experiences together. They are planning a triathlon in the near future…at his husband’s insistence. Scott has always been very active and has gone on many adventure-packed vacations. “I’m so happy for you!” I said, setting aside tears for a joyous laugh. “So many good times are ahead for you. Enjoy retirement!”

 

A final thank you. One long, tight hug. 

 

And with a colonoscopy referral in hand—suddenly much less joy—I said goodbye.

 

Thankfully, there is a new doctor in place to take over the practice. No shoes to fill. Not possible. Just new shoes. I’ll do my best to behave. And, yes, there will be a bottle of orange juice in my backpack. Just in case.

If you are feeling suicidal, there is hope. There is an OTHER SIDE after getting proper support. In Canada and the U.S., the Suicide Crisis Hotline is 9-8-8. Also, 911 is available and medical staff are ready to connect you with support--and care--in hospital emergency rooms. 

 

 

  

PLAYING THE AGE CARD WHILE HIKING

First view from Killing Time
mountain bike trail

Sometimes we make assumptions, we jump to conclusions, we are triggered over what may be innocuous. This happens more frequently when a comment or action seems to touch on our identity. I’ve had many occasions where, rightfully or wrongfully, I’ve taken a perceived shunning as homophobia when, well, maybe I just forgot to put on deodorant. 

 

Did I forget?! I can see myself applying the stick to my underarms but perhaps that was yesterday. Time blurs. Routines sometimes come with blips. As I get older, I’m not as sure of my memory, even regarding what I did five minutes ago. 

 

And, yes, age is the subject of yesterday’s incident that had me feeling too sensitive…and humored at the same time.

 

I consider myself a hiker, but I’ve only done a handful of outings during the past six months. Most of my hiking is in the mountains and I hike far less when trails are covered in snow and ice. It’s not so much the snow and ice—adding crampons to my hiking boots produces miraculous results—it’s the fact the trails are covered. On the hikes I did, the route was less clear in patches where there was only one person’s tracks to follow or, in a couple of cases, the tracks veered onto a trail I wasn’t taking and I had nothing to give me an assured sense I was still on a trail. 

 

My favourite hikes are still snow-covered for at least the next month, but I am now finding trail reports that there are options—no snow; just water and mud. (Hiking boots are themselves amazing… bring on the muck!) 

 

Yesterday, I ventured to Sumas Mountain Regional Park, about an hour from home to do what was supposed to be a 2.5-hour hike, a little bit on the short end in terms of what I like but, hey, I needed to recognize that my hiking legs were out of the habit of being just that. Start small, build up. How responsible of me. 

 

I pulled into the trailhead’s gravel parking lot just before ten in the morning. It was otherwise empty. I’d literally have the mountain to myself. Hurrah. No one’s music, no drones, hopefully no gunshots. (On a hike I did a couple of years ago in the area, there happened to be a shooting range at the base of the mountain. I was especially motivated to do the ascent!) 

 

I did the responsible things prior to taking to the trail. I took a photo of the trail map at the parking lot and texted Evan with a selfie that included what I was wearing and my license plate along with indicating what time I expected to return to the car. Please, let there be no cause for search parties. Or camera crews zooming in on a bug-bitten hiker with a sprained ankle, hauled out on a stretcher.

 

I can be dramatic.

 

My destination: Chadsey Lake and a loop hike taking me past Baker Rock. There was no Baker Rock on the trailhead map but I figured I’d come across a disproportionately enormous boulder and exchange greetings (“Hello, Baker!”), with the noteworthy rock staring back stone-faced.

 

As it turns out, I missed the Chadsey Lake turnoff, a tiny white sign at knee height two minutes from the parking lot. Instead, I found myself on Killing Time, a mountain biking trail that had me going downhill, not uphill. Checking my map photo, I would connect with a Centennial Trail and still reach the lake. No problem. 

 

Somehow, despite a considerable descent, I blocked out any notion that I’d have a considerable ascent as well. Stay in the moment, they say, when hiking. Mindfulness in motion, I call it. Yes, behold the ferns! Wonder how many mountain bikers have broken limbs—and how many per person—after going airborne on the many wooden ramps built on the trail. Er… maybe just focus on ferns.

 

Chadsey Lake

It took two hours to reach the lake. I texted Evan, surprised to have phone reception. It was looking like my 2.5-hour hike would be 4 hours. No problem. This was more in line with the length of hike I like to do. After I sat on a log and viewed Chadsey, I began my return trek, deciding to take a trail marked as “Parking Lot,” most likely the trail I’d missed in the first place. Maybe I’d cut off a bit of time, avoiding another prolonged descent-ascent sequence and coming upon some sprawled-out biker with an arm extended at an impossible angle. (Being squeamish, I’d be no help at all, just fainting at the scene. Sorry, biker dude.)

 

I was suddenly picking up signs easily. In addition to “Parking Lot,” another sign indicated the “East Lookout” was farther past the lake. I had no idea what I’d be looking out at but, figuring I wouldn’t be repeating this hike anytime soon, I decided to seize the day and hike onward. 

 

Much more muck. (Another shoutout to hiking boots!) Much more ascent. 

 

As a hiker or, more broadly, a human being, I’m not a fan of sweating. Ascents mean lots of brow wiping and shirt fanning. I would get used to this as hiking season picked up, but I will never embrace it. (I contend spin class and hot yoga enthusiasts are masochists.)

 

The problem with the trail signage was it failed to provide distances. Was the East Lookout half a kilometre ahead or was it in New Brunswick? The park map also failed to have a scale and the route to East Lookout included many wiggly lines which would make any scale (had there been one) challenging to use to create a distance and time estimate.

 

I’d gone over an hour, still ascending, sweating profusely, hoping I was still on the path to East Lookout but unsure. Knowing I’d taken the long route to Chadsey Lake in the morning didn’t boost my confidence about being on track. I simply kept following little orange squares intermittently nailed onto trees to mark a trail presumably to somewhere. 

 

I heard voices coming toward me and suddenly two labradors were sniffing my legs. Presumably they were piddled out with so many red cedars on offer and the ferns had taken on a redundancy. I was a new find. Very exciting!

 

Two young women (Late twenties? Early thirties?) hollered the standard apology given when off-leash dogs oblivious to personal bubbles offer hearty greetings and close-up knee exams. 

 

No problem. Much better than a bear encounter. Much, much better.

 

“Did you go to East Lookout?” I asked. “How far is it?”

 

“Yes,” one woman said. She looked at her hiking companion. “How long do you think?”

 

“Twenty minutes.”

 

Ah, well. Good. I was hoping for a number less than five, but I wasn’t going to turn back now. So close! The trek up continued. I would not be hiking to New Brunswick, after all. Whew!

 

At the twelve minute-mark, post knee-sniff, I observed a clear trail going straight up on my left. East Lookout? (Please.) No sign. No orange markers. Instead, a trail continued meandering to the right, orange markers aplenty. As I often do on hikes, I hesitated. I pondered. I wanted to take the unmarked path. I sensed it led to East Lookout. But I’m directionally challenged in the best of times. My senses regarding which way to go consistently fail me. Stick to the marked path. Let there be no search parties. 

 

My final piece of logic that kept me on-trail was the fact I wasn’t at the twenty minute-mark. Not even close. Forty percent more time on trail. Keep going!

 

About eight minutes later, I came upon three BC Hydro towers up one final hill. Yes! The towers marked the lookout. Made sense if not something especially scenic. There would be a clearing. I’d have my back to the fenced-in towers and the posted signs warning of possible electrocution. Whatever the view from East Lookout, I would take a few pics, dammit. I’d ooh and aah even if it were strictly performative. “You have reached your destination.”

 

But, no. All around the towers were trees. Just like all the trees along the trail. Nothing distinct. Not even a rock I could call Baker. (That thing was still in hiding, too.)

 

Okay, I know I began this post mentioning that my age may have made me sensitive, presumably on this hike. ’Tis true. Let’s get back to that.

 

The fact is that access to East Lookout was at the twelve minute-mark from when my knees went through doggy inspection. Due to all the looking around I did at the twenty minute-mark—no, I did not climb fences and risk electrocution—I didn’t actually arrive at the lookout until almost an hour after asking how much farther. I’d checked out yet another mountain bike trail (and scored a peekaboo view). I’d circled all around the towers, a couple of times inadvertently. Yes, very directionally challenged.   

 

Here’s where my being sixty and sporting a clearly white beard (finally) comes into play. I wondered if age was a factor when I was told it was another twenty minute-schlep to the lookout. Maybe they looked at me, some guy decidedly in the “sir” range from their assessment. Older guy. Sweating profusely. Gosh, yes, another twenty minutes. For him. 

 

Now, I know that’s ridiculous thinking entering my brain. Blame it on excess perspiration and not enough hydration. I’m the worst at hydrating. If I Google dehydration, one side effect must surely be paranoid thinking that one is too old for whatever activity is contributing to dehydration. 

 

Objectively, twelve minutes and twenty minutes are not far apart. It’s entirely possible that the woman who went with twenty gave that as a valid estimate of the time it had taken them to walk back from the lookout until they came upon me. Maybe she’s bad with time. Maybe they’d truly lost track of time, talking about the dynamics at work, relationship issues or the hot yoga class they were taking that evening. Yes, mascochists. 

 

Maybe there were doggy delays on account of the whole off-leash nature of their hike. Maybe the dogs continued marking red cedars even though the pee stream was running on empty. Maybe they sniffed and tried to track a mole or squirrel. I neither saw nor heard small animals the entire day, but I don’t have a dog’s sense of smell. Maybe an entire warren of bunnies existed between the lookout and the point where we came into contact. 

 

So many maybes. Why did I even entertain that they’d added on extra time for a sweaty, grey-bearded oldster to reach East Lookout? 

 

Why hadn’t I just followed my gut and gone up the unmarked trail in the first place. I’d have just been pleased to arrive early and would have applauded my fitness. I’d never have gone down the I look old tunnel because there wouldn’t have been a setback. 

 

Good grief—clearly an oldster’s expression—sometimes hiking isn’t mindful at all. Sometimes it offers too much time for obsessive thought.

 

View from East Lookout

My 2.5-hour hike turned out to be a 6-hour endurance test. Oh. My. Quads. I took a few Advil when I got home. And belatedly hydrated. But way to go, old guy. I’m readier for hiking season now. Let the muscles ache less next time.

 

Was East Lookout worth it? Absolutely! See for yourself.

 

 

  

NESTING

Hello. Goodbye.

These words have as much meaning in my relationship with Evan as “I love you.” 

Being a long-distance relationship, our time together always has a beginning and end date. It can feel unsettling. A perpetual sense of “just visiting.” To be sure, there is a positive side to that. It’s like being Fun Dad who has only weekend custody after a divorce. His time with the kids means pizza for dinner, extra time playing videogames and no early bedtimes on account of it being a school night.

 

My stints with Evan are chock full of good times. When he arrived Thursday night, we talked of bike rides, looking into a harbour cruise and maybe catching a view of the city from the tower downtown. Lots of Whee! Time in We Time. 

 

Yes, we went for the bike rides. How could we not with rare April sunshine in Vancouver and so many springtime plants in bloom? But the cruises don’t begin until May and the tower idea fizzled out. Someday. 

 

It would have been easy to pack the extended weekend with other inherently fun things. This was especially possible since, due to a break in our relationship, Evan hadn’t visited me at my place since January 2024. Since COVID lockdown back in 2020, I’ve become an expert in touristy and “secret” things to do in Vancouver. I pack in a lot of Whee! Time even when it’s just Me Time.

 

But our visit took on a different tone. I’m highly challenged in terms of doing handyman tasks. Whether it’s lack of confidence, lack of knack or perpetual procrastination, everyday fix-its don’t happen. Due to a VERY LARGE blind spot, I don’t see what needs to be done. 

 

This photo overwhelms me.

As an architect and interior designer, Evan is highly visual. He sees everything. We’ve spent much of our visit doing typical weekend tasks. We bought a new wall sconce to replace a hideous one that’s been in my stairway for the entire two and a half years I’ve lived in my loft, partly due to my indecision regarding which one to buy and partly because I knew I’d never be able to install it myself. (Fear of electrocution.) We bought a new mirror to make my place look more open. We got a bike rack for my car so both our bikes can join us on adventure weekends. We spruced up my balcony with new plants and removed some of the clutter that finds its way to such a space. I bought a funky painting for the freshly lit stairwell. 

 

We drove my car to more places in three days than I typically drive it in three months. (I tend to walk and bike everywhere.) 

 

“I like this,” Evan said midway through Saturday afternoon. “We’re nesting.” 

 

How timely. In the tree across the street, two crows spent their weekend coming and going from a nook in the branches as they built their own nest and sounded ominous caws to utter threats to pedestrians passing underneath. That nook, that tree and everything below it was, in their minds, theirs. (Just wait till the babies hatch!)

 

Our weekend of errands was highly constructive and well-coordinated. Everything clicked as we worked together when needed and alongside one another when tasks could be split up.    

As Evan transplanted clematis on the balcony I sliced and diced for our taco bowls that we took to the beach for a picnic where he sketched and I wrote. (Yes, a bit more inherently fun time.) While he fiddled with the wiring for the sconce, I scrubbed smudge marks from the wall where the previous sconce had been. 

 

We crossed off a lot of things, many of which I didn’t even realize were on my To Do list. The time felt intimate; the nest looks more inviting, more functional. 

 

Alas, Evan flies back to Denver later today. We’ll spend two and a half weeks apart once again before meeting up in New York City where he has a conference. No nesting opportunities there. It will truly be more like a Fun Dad weekend. Broadway! The High Line! Shopping!

 

In the meantime, I know our daily FaceTime calls will include me flipping the phone cam so he can see how the clematis is doing, so he can peek at my new painting, so he can remain connected to, not just me, but our Canadian home. 

 

I’ll have to tend to the nest on my own but, as much as it can be possible, I’ll feel his presence in the space as well. Let his return to the roost come much sooner.