TAKE ME OUTSIDE
Running Across the Canadian Landscape That Shapes Us
COLIN HARRIS
Copyright © 2021 by Colin Harris
First Edition
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Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada
ISBN 9781771604659 (softcover)
ISBN 9781771604666 (electronic)
Cover design by Lyuba Kirkova
We would like to also take this opportunity to acknowledge the traditional territories upon which we live and work. In Calgary, Alberta, we acknowledge the Niitsítapi (Blackfoot) and the people of the Treaty 7 region in Southern Alberta, which includes the Siksika, the Piikuni, the Kainai, the Tsuut’ina, and the Stoney Nakoda First Nations, including Chiniki, Bearpaw, and Wesley First Nations. The City of Calgary is also home to Métis Nation of Alberta, Region III. In Victoria, British Columbia, we acknowledge the traditional territories of the Lkwungen (Esquimalt and Songhees), Malahat, Pacheedaht, Scia’new, T’Sou-ke, and WSÁNEĆ (Pauquachin, Tsartlip, Tsawout, Tseycum) peoples.
We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and of the province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.
For my parents, Ray and Cathie Harris
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1: Growing Convictions
Chapter 2: Winter on “The Rock”
Chapter 3: Learning Outside
Chapter 4: Spring Awakening
Chapter 5: A Hard Goodbye
Chapter 6: Alone
Chapter 7: Like Father, Like Son
Chapter 8: Prairie Skies
Chapter 9: Homestretch
Chapter 10: The End and the Beginning
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Selected Sources
About the Author
PROLOGUE
When you think about Canadians, you might ask yourself: Why are we the way we are? Well the answer is lying right under our feet, literally. Fact is, it’s this land that shapes us. There’s a reason why we run off the dock instead of tippy-toe in. It’s because that water is frozen six months a year. And that frozen water brought on a sport that we can call our own. This land is unlike any other. We have more square feet of awesomeness per person than any other nation on Earth. It’s why we flock towards lakes, mountains, forests, rivers and streams. We know we have the best backyard in the world. And we get out there every chance we get. Because it’s not just the great outdoors we’re chasing, it’s freedom. And this place gives it to us at every turn. Here, we’re free to chill out, unwind and free to wind up.
—Molson Canadian beer commercial, YouTube, 2010
For many, there’s a sense of pride in being called Canadian. For others, it’s a label that doesn’t resonate; it’s become tainted or even rejected. There are numerous issues that divide us and make us different from one another, be it politics, socio-economic status, cultural background or even gender. So it seems rather naive to think that anyone, including a beer company’s advertising for the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver, can encapsulate what it means to be a Canadian in a few phrases. But what unites us? What binds all of us who live in this country together? Exploring what it means to be Canadian helps to tell the story of this country. It is these stories that help shape our history and culture, or rather histories and cultures. As this country is discovering, some of these stories aren’t easy to tell. They involve pain, misgivings and decisions that have proved harmful. But working through these stories can help make our collective identity as a diverse country stronger.
The common ground that connects us all is this land we’re so fortunate to live on. Our geography shapes us, not only as human beings but also as a nation. Our identity as Canadians is rooted in our relationship with the land and the time we spend outside. But, increasingly, it seems as though this relationship might be in jeopardy. We are no longer getting “out there every chance we get.” Our relationship with the outdoors has shifted. We seem more disconnected, retreating into an interior world of streaming, gaming, scrolling and shopping – it’s all too easy. A recent study showed that 74 per cent of Canadian adults would rather stay inside than head outdoors, even though 87 per cent know that going outside is good for them. Should we just accept this new reality? Are we even conscious of this shift? Is it making us less Canadian? And it’s not just adults who are spending less time outside; younger generations are too, and it’s a cause for concern. So why aren’t we spending as much time outside anymore?
My desire to engage young Canadians in this conversation about our shift away from nature and spending time outside manifested in a combination of two goals: a dream to run across the country and a desire to launch a nonprofit organization to help contribute to the conversation. The seed for running across Canada was planted when I was a young teenager. It grew slowly but steadily, weaving its way in and out of my consciousness for years. Starting a nonprofit was a more recent goal, but I wanted this journey to have a sense of purpose, which I found not only through my work as an outdoor and environmental educator but also through my collective experiences throughout childhood. I was ill-equipped for either goal – but my convictions were sound and irrefutable. My commitment to this was unwavering, although I had yet to tell my parents. For good reason, I procrastinated in sharing my latest vision with my mother and father. The number of times I approached them with various life plans and half-baked ideas were too many to count. When I was 14 years old, I professed my desire to be a professional baseball player.
“But you don’t currently play baseball, Colin,” my mom said, flatly.
After the 2000 Summer Olympics in Sydney, Australia, I proclaimed I would be heading to a future Olympics.
“For what sport?” my dad asked.
“Marathon or table tennis,” I replied, although I had never run a full marathon and my trophies from junior high Ping-Pong were collecting dust in a box.
A year before I was to begin my journey across Canada, I asked my parents to join me at their dining room table when I was home for Christmas. I had a new plan.
“What would you say if I told you I was thinking about running across Canada?”
CHAPTER 1
Growing Convictions
How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives.
—Annie Dillard
Perhaps embarking on a journey begins first from a meaningful story. Whether it’s an accumulation of experiences or a collection of beliefs, the story helps shape the journey’s course, causing it to evolve into something more substantive. Our convictions matter. At least that’s what my father instilled in me. My convictions became a journey of their own, carving their way through the Canadian landscapes I grew up in.
I was too young to remember the harsh winter winds that blow through the Red Deer River Valley 150 kilometres east of the Rocky Mountains. I can’t recall the thin spires of rock rising from the flat, grassy fields that continue to reveal buried remains of prehistoric creatures. Yet I’m certain this landscape started shaping me from my first breaths.
As I was the first-born in my family, my mother was inundated with unsolicited advice on how to raise a well-rounded child, despite her degree in nursing. In those first weeks of my life, amid the fog of sleepless nights and countless diaper changes, the advice she took to heart came from an opinionated accountant with jet-black hair who lived in the house beside my parents.
“Take him outside every day, so he gets used to the cold,” she offered, unapologetically.
It wasn’t bad advice for being born in Drumheller in mid-December. However, those daily outings in the heart of the Alberta badlands required time, effort and commitment from my mother and, to this day, she continues to take credit for acclimatizing me to the cold, harsh prairie winters, of which I would experience many.
As our family moved from city to city over the years due to my parents’ shared vocation, my childhood was unknowingly impacted by the time I spent outside. In those early years, it was my parents’ dedication to daily outdoor time that presumably formed the basis of my convictions to come decades later. My father, not knowing what else to do with me while tending to laundry, would put me in a clothesbasket on the porch as he hung bedsheets and sweatshirts to dry in the backyard. On one such occasion, he discovered that a 6-month-old has the dexterity and determination to roll a flimsy piece of plastic on its side. He found me at the bottom of the porch, still intact. At family dinners it too is something he continues to take credit for, always with a sly smile.
I became a brother when we moved southwest to the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Calgary is where I discovered my love for playgrounds. I built sandcastles, slid down long and shiny strips of metal and yelled, “Higher!” as my mom pushed my sister Kristen and me on the swings. I learned how to throw rocks into the Bow River and mold the mud from its banks in the palms of my hands. My mother promises we were taken to the mountains on occasion, but I have no early memories of those dramatic peaks.
I was too young to have any real awareness of the oil sands or the surrounding boreal forest and rivers as we moved north to Fort McMurray, where I again became a brother to my youngest sister, Alison. Rather, I had an obsession with playing marbles in the backyard, running away and hiding after ringing neighbours’ doorbells, and learning to ride a bike.
When my family moved to the peninsula of land north of Lake Ontario, the main gathering space for my friends and me became the yard outside of our apartment building in Toronto. There was a fenced-in playground with swings and monkey bars, but it was a maple tree standing tall just beyond the enclosed playground that captured our attention. We scrambled high and swung from its branches, but more often than not the extended arms of the maple offered an invitation to simply sit. It was there we solved the problems of the world, or at least those deemed important by 10-year-olds.
It was our move a few years later to the eastern edge of the prairies, into the Red River Valley, that opened the floodgates for me. Snowdrifts taller than my father were perfect for digging snow tunnels at the side of our house in Winnipeg. When it wasn’t winter, quiet alleyways were conducive to bike rides and hushed conversations among friends. My family lived across from a small park where activities ranged from box baseball to bantering bullies – I excelled at the former and was a target for the latter. Further down from the small park were Sturgeon Creek and wide open spaces that were once covered in tall prairie grass. Every kid I knew, including me, seemed to have an expansive radius from home to roam, explore and play. In today’s vernacular, we were all free-range kids. It wasn’t a conscious choice by our parents; it’s just how it was.
In 1988, as I was navigating junior high in Winnipeg, Calgary hosted the Winter Olympics. The Olympic torch relay was making its way westward across Canada before the start of the Games, and our school, Ness Junior High, was let out at midday to watch the torchbearer run along historic Portage Avenue. We all had miniature Petro-Canada torches in hand, eager to have them lit by the official torch. Portage Avenue was more electric than I was accustomed to. My friends and I stood outside of Hilmar Venture, one of the world’s greatest candy stores (that also happened to make trophies), eagerly awaiting the first glance at the Olympic flame. Security measures were either carefully hidden or simply nonexistent, so as the torch passed in front of me, I began to run with the small entourage surrounding the torchbearer, as did many of my classmates.
For most, the anticipation of having their miniature torches lit fizzled out rather quickly. After a couple of hundred metres, coldness and boredom set in simultaneously, and my classmates veered off to walk back to school. However, my legs kept running. Fuelled by the crisp December air, a blue prairie sky and the sugar rush of ten-cent candies, I ran quietly beside the torch, unaware of the diminishing crowds as we approached the city limits. I wanted to keep running, but at the overpass that marked the perimeter highway and the western edge of the city, the torchbearer hopped into the back of the support vehicle. Within moments, the flashing lights faded and I stood alone on the shoulder of the Trans-Canada Highway. The walk back to school felt long, but as time passed, a seed was planted. That winter, I watched athletes on TV like Michael Edwards, better known as Eddie the Eagle, Britain’s failed but beloved ski jumper who won the hearts of people around the world. I was drawn in by his story and his dream and realized I wanted to create a dream of my own.
After I’d built some solid friendships and a sense of belonging during my years in the prairie capital, our family was unexpectedly relocated from Winnipeg back to Toronto. I had lived in Toronto years before, but moving this time was considerably more difficult. Leaving good friends behind and foraging for new ones at the beginning of my high school career seemed a daunting task. Another family who worked for the same organization as my parents lived five doors down from the house we moved into and they too had a son my age. Our mothers conspired, as I needed some friends, and Dave needed some new friends – the crowd he was hanging out with found trouble on a daily basis, the kind of trouble that keeps parents waiting for the phone to ring at night. On a humid July afternoon, there was a knock on the door and my mother called me up from the basement. I’m sure there were similarities between this grunge rock fan and me, but first encounters leave an impression and I couldn’t hide my look of disdain. Dave wore cut-off jean shorts and purple Doc Martens, and his gelled hair added the length of a choice finger to his height. Who was this skateboarding punk at my front door? Our mothers introduced us and a forced “hello” was uttered, but our moms carried the conversation from there. It was awkward and embarrassing, not to mention a waste of time. I was sure I would never become friends with him.
My mother relentlessly pursued her hidden agenda, telling me I should call Dave and do something with him. I’d rather do anything than something with him, I thought. But I could only ward her off for so long – my mother has a knack for persuasion. Within a week of our introduction on the front porch, I begrudgingly called Dave and asked him if he wanted to go for a bike ride. He agreed, likely because of his own mother’s convincing ways. I rode over to his place and we headed down into Sunnybrook Park, which dipped into a valley behind our neighbourhood.
“So, do you like sports?” I asked quietly, as we started riding.
“Nope, not really,” he replied.
For the next 45 minutes, we rode in silence. Not another word was spoken, only the chains on our bikes saved us from the roaring silence. As we made our way through the park, tree branches swayed quietly in the wind. The Don River was not in good shape, pollution had taken its toll, but the current was mesmerizing as it wrapped around rocks and over ledges. Birds made their nests above, and dogs fetched sticks in the lush grass. Alice Kilgour gifted this 175-acre property to the citizens of Toronto in 1928 in memory of her late husband Joseph, and it would become a place where children played daily and made new discoveries. The serenity of that park would prove monumental in the years to come, but in that uncomfortable moment, Dave and I were lost for words. We didn’t speak again that summer.
Over the course of the next year, our friendship slowly found its way. Due to the fact of being neighbours and our parents’ similar work, our families saw each other numerous times a week. A strong bond began to grow as the seasonal cycle of birth and death repeated itself each spring and fall. It was a friendship that would see the purchase of our first vehicle, a 1970 Volkswagen camper van we named Finnegan that spent more time in the shop and the driveway than it did on the open road. It was a friendship that would see cancer consume Dave’s father in the upstairs bedroom of their family home. It was a friendship that would see road trips and canoe trips, more bike rides and even the occasional run in Sunnybrook Park. It turned out Dave was more outdoorsy than he let on. However, countless evenings were simply spent sitting on the curb outside his house, spitting puddles onto the cement between our legs as we talked about music, relationships and the hardships of being a teenager. It was here where, among many stories shared, I voiced my dream of running across Canada. Dave was the first person I told.
In the years to come, my experiences outside would not only mold me, they would begin to direct the path I would travel. My uncle’s family owned a small, rustic cabin north of Toronto with a composting toilet and a clear set of rules for its use tacked to the adjacent wall. The cabin was on a relatively small lake, and so on one summer visit, I felt compelled to take the canoe out on my own. I had paddled before with a partner but never alone. As I headed south, the lack of a partner to share the paddling with wasn’t a concern. I had read stories and watched movies and documentaries that all involved the canoe. At the time, this seemed a rite of passage to my identity: I was proud to be Canadian, and I revelled in every stroke I took to the end of the lake.
That pride quickly vanished as I turned the canoe north to head back. Paddling against the wind, a wind I did not notice on the way out, was an obstacle I had not expected nor was prepared for. The bow of the canoe was at the mercy of the wind as I fought to keep a straight line. I had no semblance of a J-stroke, my skill was limited to paddling as hard as I could. Even with all the strength my puberty-stricken body could muster, the wind had full control. After several minutes of getting nowhere, both the canoe and I were relegated to the rocky shore. I clambered out, knee deep with my running shoes on, and slowly started to wade back along the shoreline toward my uncle’s property. Feeling defeated and humiliated, I kept my head down as I passed other cottages, residents smiling wryly behind their pickled Caesars and cedar decks. Although I felt defeated in that moment, it would not deter me from my growing admiration for this beloved form of Canadian travel.
I had settled into life in Toronto, but my runs through Sunnybrook Park, with or without Dave, were inconsistent at best. I dragged my feet through high school and then dragged them some more through university. After four years of studying music at the University of Toronto, I craved something different – a change from the black and white of reading music, looking at fractioned notes on pieces of paper. There was a job fair on campus promising employment for the coming summer, and a company hiring tree planters caught my attention. I was hired on the spot despite my complete lack of experience. In early May, I reported to an open patch of field outside of Chapleau in Northern Ontario. I didn’t know anyone, and although comfortable among friends, I was painfully shy and introverted with others. But spending every day outside evoked my romantic vision of long hard days connecting to the land while fighting black flies, mosquitoes and maybe even the odd black bear.
Romance trumped reality in those first couple of days of toiling to exhaustion and collapsing in my small tent, surrounded by 40 others in an uninspiring, nondescript field. However, reality would soon appear as I calculated my earnings from my first couple of days. I had not been briefed on the financial bottom line of tree planting as a rookie. By the third day, I was close to my tipping point, wondering if this was viable. With meticulous effort, I had planted my allotment of seedlings into the scarred land. Despite apparently delusional confidence in my technique, dozens of trees were flagged for subpar planting. After ten hours of work, I had successfully planted enough trees to earn $16. Camp costs were $25 a day – which included some of the best meals I’ve ever eaten – but even for someone who struggled through math class, the numbers did not add up. At the end of the day, I found my supervisor shovelling down his dinner in a nearby trailer, and, staring at my dusty work boots, I humbly presented an excuse of a family issue back home. Relief washed over my tired body as I drove south toward civilization. However, not long after my departure from the wilds of Northern Ontario, regret would find me. I yearned to dirty my hands and feel the warmth of the sun on my skin, regardless of the pay.
I ended up in Parry Sound that summer, sheepishly serving fresh fish and expensive wine to Toronto’s cottage country. I rented a garden shed complete with a thin mattress on top of a plank of wood and a posse of scurrying mice. Every free moment outside of the restaurant was spent exploring the waters of Georgian Bay. I learned to fish and navigate rocky shorelines by kayak. I soared off cliffs caught by cool, pristine water and breathed in remarkable sunsets night after night, my love for the Canadian Shield deepening with each adventure. Afternoon runs along dirt roads were plentiful, and as my legs pounded out a steady pace, I often revisited that cross-Canada dream, wondering what it would take to run from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific.
As summers in Canada tend to unfold, it was over just as it was getting started. On a whim, I applied for a volunteer opportunity in Fort Smith, just across the Alberta border in the Northwest Territories. Having never been to the North before, I was awestruck as the plane landed in the tiny airport some 1100 kilometres north of Edmonton. The landscape was barren yet magical. The Slave River was mighty yet serene. My supervisor collected me from the airport and delivered me to a small campus where I would spend the next five months, working with Indigenous students from small settlements throughout the territory. The high school–aged teens were partaking in a leadership program aimed at attaining high enough marks to earn a post-secondary opportunity. My job was a cross between a live-in tutor, chef and counsellor. The leadership program filled my evenings and weekends, so I was able to add some daytime work as a substitute teacher at the local elementary school. Weekends were spent camping with the leadership students and connecting with the land. I became the student in those moments, learning Traditional Knowledge passed down through the generations of Indigenous people who had inhabited the land for centuries.
One evening in late September, after darkness had settled in, the students at the residency called me outside. I walked through the front doors into the cool night.
“Look up,” they said in unison.
When I did, I couldn’t comprehend what was happening. For a moment, I thought the students were projecting a laser show onto the starry night sky, but it was the aurora borealis like I had never seen it before. The northern lights were so low in the sky it felt as though I could extend my arm and touch the gloriously dancing hues of reds, blues, purples and greens. Its energy was overwhelming. In the five months I lived in Fort Smith, I was fortunate to see the northern lights many times, but never again as powerful, close and colourful as that first night.
In time, I found a partner to join me on harsh winter days running the long open expanses of small highways with little traffic. Laurie Dexter had one of the worst running forms I had ever seen. Hunched over, with short powerful tree trunks as legs, he quickly proved his endurance and stamina. I learned that Laurie had skied for 91 days from Russia to Canada via the North Pole. He had also skied to the South Pole, run 600 kilometres in six days, made numerous first ascents in the Arctic and had been to Antarctica more than 90 times. For his efforts and the work he did in the North, he received the Order of Canada. My recollection of those conversations while trying to keep up are few, but his inaudible perseverance was an example of human possibility, a sense of hope for this dream of running across the country that continued to have a grasp on me. Amid all these accolades, I simply remember him telling me to shorten my stride.
By February, I was back in Toronto, living in my parents’ basement and working at a running store. It didn’t take long for the restlessness to set in. By spring, I was applying for summer jobs, and at the top of the list was a desire to be a canoe tripper. Ontario camps were hiring and, before long, I was sitting in a living room in Toronto, chatting with Margaret and Marcello, the owners of a Lake Temagami–based camp. Over the course of an hour, they never once asked about my canoeing skills. I was thankful since my most recent experience was the failed attempt at my uncle’s cottage. In mid-May, I boarded a school bus full of staff, most of whom were several years younger than me, and we drove toward Temagami, with its interconnected lake systems and rugged Canadian Shield, hours north of Toronto. Had the bus not pulled right up to a dock, our gear tossed directly onto a boat and immediately shipped off to an island, I would have surely bailed. This time, I was stuck. My introverted tendencies would have to find a way to cope.
The first canoe trip I led that summer was a four-day venture through the waters of Temagami with a group of 12-year-old boys and their two counsellors. As we paddled eastward away from camp, I felt a twinge of excitement: I’m actually doing this. No one knows about my paddling skills, or lack thereof. About 20 minutes into our trip, Marcello pulled up beside our canoes in the rather sizeable camp motorboat.
“Did you forget anything, Colin?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied, scouring my brain for the meaning behind his line of questioning.
A camper slowly emerged on the deck beside Marcello as he pulled him up by his lifejacket.
“You forgot a camper,” he said sternly, his stare boring into me.
I didn’t know what to say. I was embarrassed and dumbfounded. To be fair, the camper’s actual counsellors hadn’t noticed either, but the blame seemed to lie squarely on my shoulders, according to the direction of his stare. Marcello uttered some reassuring words that were directed more at the kids in the canoes than at me and then motored away leaving a wake of remorse. I laughed it off and the incident was soon washed away in the cleansing waters of Lake Temagami. We arrived at our destination later that afternoon and chores were delegated to establish camp. Firewood was to be collected, vegetables chopped for dinner and tents needed to be pitched.
“Where are the tents?” a counsellor inquired.
A flurry of activity followed as I ripped through the canoes. My second mistake of the day felt more reprehensible: I had forgotten all the tents in the tripper cabin, a five-hour paddle away. Panic set in as I realized the only solution to this situation involved paddling to a cottage I had spotted on a nearby island, hoping there was a phone and calling back to camp, more precisely, calling Marcello. I cringed as I waited on the phone for someone to find him. How could I have messed up so badly? Would I be fired before my first trip was even under my belt? He listened as I explained what happened.
“Start paddling back the way you came.”
“Yes sir,” I replied.
Thanks to horsepower more formidable than our paddles, we had our tents within an hour. We arrived back to camp four days later, boys happy, well fed and tired. The rest of my trips that summer went without incident, but I was elbowed and ribbed daily as a reminder of that first adventure, always with a smile.
Spending my working hours outside rather than sitting at a desk for eight hours appealed to me. After a summer leading canoe trips, I devised a plan to spend even more time outdoors braving the elements instead of staring at a computer screen. That fall, I was introduced to an outdoor education centre in Haliburton, one of the higher points of the Canadian Shield in central Ontario. Students from cities mostly to the south would venture north for three to five days, stay in cabins, eat at long communal tables and learn outdoor skills like how to paddle a canoe, use a map and compass and build a proper fire. And I got to teach these students how to do it.
It was a dream job. I would often pause in the middle of a canoe lesson, watching students practise their draws and pries against the backdrop of red and orange maples that lined the shores, processing that I was getting paid to do this, albeit not very much. That wasn’t the point though – in my mid-20s, a desk job seemed unfathomable. I had found somewhere I thrived. I stayed on for a winter season, teaching students how to cross-country ski, as well as the history of the region’s Indigenous Peoples and their use of landscape-dependent varieties of snowshoes. Winter was transformational, for both the students and me. I watched students who were new to Canada learning to skate for the first time on a frozen lake and play broomball on a meticulously flooded basketball court. I taught the importance of building a single-match fire and allowing a quinzhee, a carefully crafted snow shelter, enough time to sinter. Above all, students discovered the wonder winter could bring in Canada.
After years of wandering, I had found a place to call home in Haliburton. My physical home was tucked offsite, a small cabin with cedar walls a stone’s throw to the lake. But it felt somewhat empty. So I adopted a small red husky from a shelter in Peterborough and I named her Koona – a Cree word for snow – as she had patches of beautiful white fur to accent her ginger colouring. My hope of a consistent new running partner was short-lived; Koona was an uncharacteristically lazy husky who preferred sprawling in the shade of the large maple towering beside the cabin to joining me down the winding dirt road.