Practice - Touring Freiburg

Yesterday morning I took the boys, or rather Johann took Fritz and I into downtown Freiburg to do some light shopping and sightseeing (while their parents got some adult work done.) Johann led the way down to the S Bahn (tram) and made sure we got off at the right stop downtown. We had to buy a PlayMobil birthday present for Donald's birthday party, held the next day. At the shop both boys received a balloon. We then spent a few minutes out on the street blowing them up and letting the air out before we straddled one fo the "bachlein" (little creeks) that run through the downtown. Balloons were filled with water and drained, balloons floated down the bachlein and were chased, feet went into the bachlein and got wet. All great fun.





Then Johann tooks us to the Munster (the cathedral in the market square) and we climbed to the top of the tower - a very narrow circular stone staircase with people going both directions. We had to stop for a rest a few times on the way because the steps are high and Fritz's legs are still pretty short, but eventually we made it all the way to the top and had a splendid view of the market and surrounding core of Freiburg.





Then back on the tram and a walk home, the long way, past the farm animals and playground, both of which required lengthy stops. Having no agenda beyond giving the parents some space for their work we had a relaxed and entertaining time. Good practice.

The Pleasures of Freudenstadt

Freudenstadt (literally Joy or Pleasure City) is in the northern Schwarzwald,a region of many small Schwabishe villages and quite big hills. A holiday resort area with spas and hill walking, though not yet in season so no big crowds. The flowering trees in town are all open so beautiful blossoms. Asparagus is in season so it is the special at many restaurants. I dined at the hotel owner recommended (their own restaurant is closed on Wednesdays so I'll be there tomorrow) "Im Schlupfwinkel", a colloquilism that was explained in gesture and actions and might translate as "Canoodling Corner." It was cozy and romantic but I dined alone with my Weekly Guardian.



The town does focus on how much fun you can have during your visit. The website has ten pages:
* Holiday Pleasures
* Travel Pleasures
* Eat & Drink
* Hiking Pleasures
* Sporting Pleasures
* Water Pleasures
* Health Pleasures
* Winter Pleasures
* Pleasures of Life
* Exploring Pleasures
Apparently only eat and drink are obviously pleasures. I must check to see what the "Pleasures of Life" are.






The town, already established in the Middle Ages, underwent a considerable rebuilding during the 17th century as an early example of town planning. It has a huge market square and the town hall and church anchor down opposite corners. Quite a striking colonade of shops and restaurants surround the whole square. However these are all new. During the Second World War the Wehrmacht (German Army) built their western headquarters there and it was the base directing the attack on France in 1940. In mid April 1945 (just three weeks before the end of the War) the French First Army arrived to fight a determined SS military force. Consequently the town was completely destroyed by artillery, air attack and fire. The church in 1945 can be seen at bombed church. Over the past sixty years, with the bulk of restoration taking place in the 1950s, the town has rebuilt it self on its historic lines. The church bells I listened to this evening were only replaced in 1999.

Looking for Home: Reflections from a Canoe

Our four canoes swept around another bend in the Yukon River. It was late in the day. All eyes scanned the shores for a campsite. But the flat, uninviting walls of straggling black spruce along the river showed little promise. The sun, angling down behind the surrounding hills, offered only another hour or two of light. We had to find a place to set up camp and make supper before dark.

Ahead, on the nose of an island silhouetted before us, we could see a couple of tall white spruce, a sign of higher and better drained ground. We renewed our paddling and crossed the river current to swing towards the trees. As we closed on the island we were disappointed. The river banks were high and deeply undercut, trees and great clods of earth crumbling into the current rushing by the face of the island. Avoiding the sweepers hanging drunkenly over the current we looked further down the bank. A few hundred metres downstream, a stony beach offered a place to land and we eagerly scrambled ashore.

On shore we followed footprints up the bank and into a gloomy recess cutoff from the river by the black spruce. A fire pit, still warm – Owww! Hot actually, and a tent site were a relief to find. But the place was so unappealing we returned to the beach and scanned the the river banks downstream with binoculars. Straight across the river we saw what we were looking for.

We moved the canoes as far up the beach as we could and began to ferry across. Bows upstream, we cautiously angled the canoes across the current and let it push us to the other shore. With paddles digging deep, it was almost possible to hold our place against the powerful current of the river. We landed, scattered downstream from the chosen point, but were able to line our canoes back upstream.

The camp was delightful – a dry, open site surrounded by tall white spruce with a well placed fire pit and dry wood near by. We eagerly emptied the canoes, hauling our gear up the gentle slope as dusk settled. Soon a warming fire was blazing, tents set up and the camp kitchen was in business.
We awoke to bright morning with fat banks of fog hanging just above the water with the opposite hill tops seeming to float in the sky. As on every morning, we sat by the fire, relaxing with our hot coffee, and admired the view. And like every morning we evaluated our campsite. Over the course of the week-long trip we developed quite a list of what made a good campsite; the chance to watch the sunset, morning sun to warm us and dry out the tents, a hearth and firewood, a flat beach and easy access from the river, dry, flat ground for the tents,shelter from the near constant wind of the valley, a nearby creek for fresh water and as a safe haven for our young water sprites, and an absence of bear tracks. Along the Yukon River there were many places suitable for camping. However, there seemed to be indescribable qualities that made some sites more comfortable and attractive than others.
What we were working up was not an arbitrary list of camp site features. Rather we were gradually identifying those qualities that meant home – a place to provide us not only the necessities and safety, but which also offered us a connection or relationship with the environment and people around us. We wanted to be able to see the river valley and be aware of changes in weather and water. Those sites that seemed to do this best were also those used by earlier travellers. The signs of previous habitation – the pile of dry wood, the stump dining room suite and the worn tent pads, all welcomed us. And we did our best to ensure travellers following us also felt welcome. It was this chance to establish and respect the connections to a place and the people, both before and following us, that made for a memorable campsite.
Yukon First Nation Elders emphasize the importance of protecting and perpetuating such connections to place as central to the health of a society and the land they live on. The maintenance of those human skills and practices ensuring the health and cleanliness of the environment are crucial parts of all our responsibility in finding and keeping home.Originally prepared in October, 1996

Chilkoot Hike - Planning

Hiking the Chilkoot is an exhilarating experience. Although a rugged and challenging back country trail, the character of the pathway, fine camping facilities and the watchful eyes of the Rangers and Wardens make it a safe trip. With some preparatory fitness training and a decent outfit you can have an unforgettable adventure.

The Chilkoot Trail Hiker Preparation website has a lot of worthwhile information. You can also download the webpages as a printable brochure at the bottom of the page if you like.

http://www.pc.gc.ca/eng/lhn-nhs/yt/chilkoot/activ/activ1a.aspx

Bear Safety information is available at:
http://www.pc.gc.ca/eng/lhn-nhs/yt/chilkoot/activ/activ1a/activ1c_g.aspx

If you'd like to review my hike over the trail last August see my entries for August 21 - 23 at:
http://yukonrambles.blogspot.com/2009_08_01_archive.html

And if you are really serious about enjoying your hike read the book:


Chilkoot Trail: Heritage Route to the Klondike
David Neufeld and Frank Norris. Only $25 atMac's Fireweed or the Parks Canada office

The proposed itinerary for the hike:

June 26 Saturday afternoon, to Skagway, enjoy dinner (yummy curry) and a good sleep at comfy hotel or B&B.

June 27 Sunday, Dyea to Canyon City (12.5 easy kilometres)

June 28 Monday, Canyon City to Sheep Camp (8.5 kilometres, some grunting)

June 29 Tuesday, Sheep Camp to Happy Camp (12 kilometres, about 8 hours, very healthy!)

June 30 Wednesday, Happy Camp to Lindeman (9 kilometres, great views)

July 1 Thursday, Lindeman to Bennett (11 kilometres, pleasant)
And train to Carcross or charter plane to Whitehorse.

I look forward to getting together to plan the trip in early May.

Earth Day +1 Spring Arrives

How do we mark the change of seasons? What turns winter into Spring? For a Carcross-Tagish First Nation Elder I worked with, the first sign of spring was the hardening of the snow in February. This change allowed everyone to travel. People could get back out on the land after three months of darkness and soft snow so deep it swallowed any attempt to go much further than the outhouse.

In Japan the blooming of the first cherry blossom marks the start of spring, but not just any cherry blossom. Last month Andrew and I visited the Yasakuni Shrine in Tokyo. This sometimes controversy-stirring Shinto shrine was established in 1869 to enshrine the souls of those died fighting for Japan. The cherry tree in the courtyard of the shrine is the site of official spring for Japan.












At our home in the Yukon we also look for a flower. My Manitoba roots tell me that the first sign of spring in the blooming of the crocus. Earth day saw the stems and fuzzy buds up but it was only the next day that the first flower cautiously opened to announce spring. And immediately the boreal pulse started, a wasp was in the blossom collecting nectar and pollen to urge on reproduction before the arrival of fall.

Earth Day 4:20 PM 7'C Looking for Spring

Well, I wandered around this afternoon looking for spring again. The signs are subtle but coming. I found more fuzzy crocus, but they are all being careful about coming out. About noon I let two flies out the window, if the house was were Noah's Ark they would've been back if they didn't find summer. Didn't see them again. There are lots of busy ants on the hillside and there are boats, lots of boats waiting for water.

Earth Day, 8:20 AM -2'C Looking for Spring

I went to look for spring. The last traces of winter are fast disappearing but this morning the mud track, clacking hard under my rubber boots, held yesterday's footprints like fossils in stone. Ice still covers the Takhini River. On the way back though I noticed the dirt starting to shine with wetness under the sun and I found the signs I was looking for.

This afternoon I'll check and see what's happened.

Going to the Cemetery - Mourning and Remembering

Last Friday my step-mother, Nettie, passed away. I flew to Winnipeg to be with Dad and step-siblings. Nettie and Dad, both widowed, married in their retirement, well after my brothers and I had left home and started families far from Winnipeg. And while we rejoiced in my Dad's happiness with his second wife, we had limited connections to our three step-sisters and step-brother. This changed over the next fifteen years as Nettie contracted Alzheimer's disease and the network of family drew tighter to support Dad in his diligent (a favourite word of mine, Latin for “twice loved”) and complete attention to Nettie. Gradually I've come to realize not only how much my step-siblings in Winnipeg have cared for my Dad, but also that he is grandfather to their children. He has extended the family that loves and cares for him like we do. But these things only become obvious when the web of relations are weighted by need.

Amidst the bright sunshine of a windy prairie spring and chorused by honking Canada geese, we had a brief ceremony on Thursday afternoon. Dad, and my step-brother, Nettie's eldest, gently lowered Nettie's remains alongside her first husband. Final words - a silence - and photos of the gathered family brought closure to the funeral and interment. Dad was quiet as we headed back to the car.

We agreed it was a good time to visit Mum's grave across town. Brookside is a large venerable cemetery in Winnipeg. When established it was a long way out on the prairie. Now. although bracketed by airport, Red River Community College and an anonymous landscape of warehouses and asphalt, it retains its charm. The open vista over the runways looking west and the size and forested nature of Brookside preserves a tranquil atmosphere. The afternoon light of the spring sun on last year's grass adds a golden aura broken up by trunks of prairie oak, elm and cedar, reflected by the polished black and red grave markers.

Dad drives by memory (almost) to Mum's grave site. We walk between the rows of stone reading off the names. It takes awhile before we see the large NEUFELD scribed beneath a sunset on a prairie farm landscape. I don't remember the stone so large. In the lower right is “Helen” with a some musical notes accenting her continuing presence. Dad stops, thinks a moment, and then says, “I'd like a hockey stick or a baseball bat.” I promise to pound in a hockey stick next to the gravestone so we can find it easier next time. He seemed satisfied things would be done correctly.

Then we headed off to find Oma and Opa's graves. Dad remembered them between two cedar shrubs but after sometime we gave up and visited Grozsma's grave beside Uncle John with his two wives. His first wife, Helen, was Grozsma's cousin. Grozsma lived with us for many years. The death of her husband and the subsequent challenges of raising four children through the darkest years of the Great Depression broke her spirit. Consequently Mum was raised by Aunt Helen, her namesake. Just after I was born Grozsma moved in and I had the privilege of growing up in a tri-generational household, learning my mother tongue of German and hearing incredible stories about life in Czarist Russia and the horrors of the Bolshevik Revolution visited upon the Mennonites in the Ukraine.

The cemetery office provided a map to Oma and Opa. We'd been close, no longer between two shrubs, the stone was enclosed by the branches into a private niche. Aunt Betty's remains were added to the grave last year and, as with the other grave side visits, the memories of Christmas dinners, my aunt's love for painting, the clean soprano of my mother's singing, the times as a small boy I was brought to tend the grave of her brother Henry, my namesake, and a host of other experiences growing out of the relationships invested in the landscape of Winnipeg came flooding back. Perhaps a little bittersweet, but how poor would be our lives without these memories of challenges overcome, lives lived and the bonds of live tieing us together across geography and through time.