Tag: Canada

Kayaking on Oyama Lake – kajakiem przez jez. Oyama

Kayaking on Oyama Lake – kajakiem przez jez. Oyama

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

(English) Traveling from Kelowna toward Vernon you will pass two wonderful lakes connected by a bridge: Kalamalka and Wood. Despite the fact that both of them are almost connected (at high water they definitely are) – both own a distinct and different hue. Years ago, on my visits to Kelowna, I used to swim in Kalamalka. If you go across that little bridge separating these lakes and turn left going up a gravel road full of turns and potholes – you would eventually end up on the shores of hidden gem – Oyama.

For kayakers and boaters it is truly wonderful experience, dotted with numerous little islands – some with easy access by kayak – there you can have a lunch or dinner as some have a firepits. Please be very mindful, though – in this type of total wilderness and remoteness fire could be a catastrophe of unthinkable consequences. From Oyama Lake I strongly recommend paddling to the left through an amazing channel covered with lilies, reed and acorus. That path offers amazing solitude and meandering for long time through narrow water channels. Eventualy you will enter anoter lake – Streak.

(Polish) W Kolumbii Brytyjskiej jadąc szosą 97 na wschód od Kelowny dojedziesz do dwóch bardzo charakterystycznych jezior: Kalamalka i Wood. Nie ma wątpliwości, że kiedyś był to jeden obszar wodny a i dziś w sezonach wyjątkowo deszczowych (co nie jest tu częste) jeziora się łączą starym kanałem. Mimo to, patrząc na nie ze wzgórz jedno ma charakterystyczny kolor zielonkawy a drugie zdecydowane stalowo-szary. Jakie są tego powody geologiczno-morfologiczne nie mam pojęcia, ale jakieś być muszą. Obecnie dzieli je mały mostek-grobla. Przejeżdżając ten mostek i skręcając ostro w górę na prawo od mostku wjeżdżasz w świat dziki i piękny. Bita, wąska i pełna wybojów droga zaprowadzi cię do klejnotu natury – jeziora Oyama z dziesiątkami mniejszych i większych wysp, a dla wioślarzy raj długiego, meandrującego pośród wodnych lilii i trzcin kanału. Ten wielokilometrowy kanał doprowadzi cię do jeziora Streak. Kanałem należy wiosłować ostrożnie by nie wbić się w błotnisty brzeg lub nie nadziać za szybko na zapadłe po wodą konary i pnie zatopionych drzew. Wszystko to jednak warte wrażeń widokowych. Wracając zatrzymaliśmy się na jednej z większych wysp na Oyamie i na istniejącym już palenisku zrobiliśmy wyśmienity lunch/obiad. Po prawdzie ‘zrobiliśmy’ to eufemizm, bo zrobił przyjaciel mojej kuzynki, Mike. Nie zabrakło kiełbasek na patyku ale były i krewetki, i cudownie przygotowana w grubych plastrach lekko zarumieniona cebula, duszone plsterki kartofelków. No i coś do popicia, naturalnie. Nie, nie była to woda jeziorna, LOL.

Kayaking on chain of lakes in wilderness above Okanagan Valley – kajakiem przez jeziora w puszczy wysoko ponad doliną Okanagan

Kayaking on chain of lakes in wilderness above Okanagan Valley – kajakiem przez jeziora w puszczy wysoko ponad doliną Okanagan

Ze wschodniego końca Kelowny wyjeżdżamy w utwardzoną szosę Beaver Lake. Jadąc bez przerwy w górę mijamy malownicze pastwiska dla ranczerów dla ich bydła. Krówki i byczki spacerują leniwie lub po prostu leżą w słońcu. W dole rozległy widok na miasto i jezioro Okanagan. Kolory jesieni przepyszne. Co jakiś czas droga przecięta jest tzw. Texas Gate, czy li metalowymi rurami, które mają uniemożliwiać bydlęciu przechodzeniu na inne pastwiska lub w lasy. Nie zawsze się to widac udaje, bo wjeżdżając w te lasy spotkaliśmy kilka krówek spacerujących po obrzeżach kręcącej sie drogi. Teraz już tylko lasami do ośrodka nad jeziorem Dee, gdzie wynajmujemy drewniana daczę i odnosimy kajaki na brzeg. Od Dee naturalne wodne kanały łącza nas do kolejnych jezior: jeziora Island (faktycznie ma wyspę na środku), następnie Deer Lake, Crooked Lake – przy Crooked Lake robimy pełny lunch na naturalnej tamie-grobli, która oddziela go od jeziora Bobra (Beaver Lake). Zbieramy też troche maślaków które rosną na obrzeżach puszczy. Po lunchu powrót tymi samymi jeziorami do jeziora Dee i naszego noclegu. Inny świat wokół – rozległe puszcze, pełna cisza, ryby skaczące przy brzegu. Wielogodzinne wiosłowanie przy takiej pogodzie to przyjemność ogromna.

Zdjęcia poniżej własne i mojej kuzynki Luli (która w naszej daczy z tych maślaczków zrobiła świetne danie, a potem smażyliśmy kiełbaski na patykach nad ogniskiem).

A two day trip to a chain of wonderful lakes Dee, Island, Crooked and Deer surrounded by deep forest on all sides. Many hours od kayaking and enjoying the peaceful world of Nature in the southern part of BC, above the Okanagan Lake and Valley.

Góry Skaliste w Kanadzie – Rocky Mountains

Góry Skaliste w Kanadzie – Rocky Mountains

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Wyjeżdżając w kierunku zachodnim z Calgary w prowincji Alberta otwiera się natychmiast widok na jedne z najpiękniejszych na świecie pasm górskich – Rocky Mountains, lub po polsku Góry Skaliste. Potęga, masywność tego pasma jest oszałamiająca.

Od pierwszego mojego spotkania z tymi górami zimą 1982 roku byłem pod ich wielkim wrażeniem. Pamiętam jak dziś spacer doliną rzeki Pipestone pod Lake Louise i pierwsze widziane w życiu ślady potężnych łap niedźwiedzia – widać miał kłopoty ze spaniem, bo śniegu było sporo i winien już chrapać w swojej norze, LOL.

Wspinaczki trudne i łatwe, dziesiątki długich szlaków turystycznych – bardzo polecam fantastyczną trasę od brzegów Lake Louise do brzegów jeziora Moraine prowadzącą przez Dolinę Rajską (Paradise Valley) i nie bez kozery – to trasa raju górskiego dla kochających góry – a zimą białe szaleństwo narciarskie. Wszystko to zaczyna się ariergardą Gór Skalistych – pasmem Kananaskis z wielkimi jeziorami i niesamowicie malowniczą trasą. W samym Kananaskis jest obecnie bodaj trzy ośrodki narciarskie i niezliczone trasy dla miłośników narciarstwa biegowego. A nieco dalej, we właściwych Górach Skalistych, resorty narciarskie zaczynają się już u wjazdu do nich, u podnóża kanadyjskiego Zakopanego – miasteczka Banff. A za nim oszałamiające trasy i widoki w ośrodku Sunshine Village, niecałą godzinkę dalej rozległe tereny ośrodka Lake Louise. Każde z nich oferuje dziesiątki tras zjazdowych: od bardzo łagodnych do najbardziej skomplikowanych. Mogą bez problemu konkurować o palmę pierwszeństwa z najlepszymi ośrodkami świata.

Przejeżdżałem tą całą trasę wzdłuż tych szczytów i dolin dziesiątki razy w ostatnich kilkudziesięciu latach i za każdym razem widoki po obu stronach szosy nr. 1 (Trans-Canada Highway) – podobnie było w tym miesiącu: zachwyt, jak za pierwszym razem. Natura w swym dzikim pięknie jest oszałamiająca.

A small gallery of pictures taken during my latest drive through the magic of Rocky Mountains – a territory of immense natural beauty and massive splendor. Drove through this lands so many times in the past 40 years, that it would have been impossible to count. But every time it feels like the first time – overwhelming feeling of awe. Whether the massive peak of Mt. Temple, long and solitary walls of Castle Mountain or any other range of towering giants – the feeling is always as being in some huge gallery of beautiful paintings

Walk through time

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski-Graham

We are coming back. Yes, to the very beginning, when our god said: let it be light. And light happened. We were no longer blind. And our god thought for a second: what use is of light if they can’t see Love? And the god said: let there be Love. And Love happened.

Remember? Come, give me your hand, I will lead you to a little night dancing bar in south-west Calgary, close to a bridge hanging above fast mowing waters of Bow River.

But how can you make it happen? – you asked – will god move back time for us? Of course not, silly you – I answered. But our god will let us see through time, see the moment in time when Love happened.

You see My Dear Boy; you don’t have to understand everything. I don’t. But I trust our god of Love. If you are sitting in the car next to me, talking to me – we both know it is strange and not normal –than just accept it. Just take my hand, follow me through the dark 10th Avenue toward the bridge on 14 Street. Recognize the small dark square building? The one with little flickering rainbow. Of course you do. Let’s peak through the dark thick glass at the door. It is almost empty inside. It is not Friday or Saturday night when it fills in with crowds of hungry young men seeking each other to quell that ancient hunger. No, that was a regular weekday evening. There was just three young men sitting by the bar on tall stools.

You were silent for a second. Looked at me with sad smile, looked through the dark glass again and you whispered: that’s you, myself and my brother. I asked: and what do we do? My Boy answered:  we talk, then we get up and go to dance floor and we dance. I exhale: Aha! But it only looks like just a dance. In truth we are love bearing. It is a lovebirth. Our god answered yours and my pleas. He gave us Love and we saw it through the Light. He didn’t lie. A promised fulfilled.

Wiping off a tear

A tear runs

through your

cheeks like

a stream of

clear pearls.

A flicker of sad

smile dances

in your eyes.

I kiss and

and wipe them

with a touch

of my fingertip.

No sadness please,

I plead with you.

Cry with happiness,

not with sorrow today.

Rejoice with that

memory, with that

journey in time.

Moment of coming

back to that town,

that place, that night.

Your flesh is warm

tonight, your eyes

are dreaming again,

your lips are trembling

and waiting for a kiss.

Tonight is our time

again, our gods

are giving us the gift

of Love, of promise

eternal to keep.

It won’t be broken

and it won’t be buried.

Just as you are real

tonight, sitting in a flesh

next to me, sending

quivers of anticipation

down my spine

and making me

sing again psalms

of thanks for

passion known

to young hearts

and old souls.

Be with me.

I had so many

long nights

of despair and

emptiness of

that vast bed

left only to

my body getting

smaller by the day,

by the night,

 by the hour.

It was vast indeed,

that empty space

of our bed,

that turned into

the desert of Gobi,

 the desert of Rumi’s

lover wandering

days on end

and nights under

stars flickering

above – for whom?

 I have built

a fort of our Love

on forgotten,

lost and wild

beach of North Atlantic.

Because I couldn’t

look at the vast

empty bed of ours.

Even that was

not enough.

Not even the friendly

powerful waves

I swam in.

Although, they did

took pity in my sorrow

and offered graciously

the peace of cold

vastness of their depths

far from the shores

and noise of human

plights and pitfalls.

 I run from them, too.

 I run nonstop

for hundreds and

for thousands of miles.

I run the way we came

to these northern shores.

But I run opposite way,

I run back to our home,

and back to the beginning

of our time,

our Love

 its birthplace –

where we emerged

from the cool and fast

waters of Elbow and Bow

Rivers, from the singing

mermaids of Fish Creek

at the foot of snowy peaks.

And I found you

wondering aimlessly,

blindly where all the waters meet

to become one.

And I grabbed you,

I hold you,

And I kissed you.

I won’t let go.

We will go again

to the other ocean,

to our home,

our waves,

our lovemaking.

Maybe we will go

On Capitol Hill there,

And walk to the small

trail down to

the inlet and find

the rock we liked

to seat on while

watching passing ships.

And we will plant

our souls there,

by that rock, under

that sky and moon.

Our souls will stay

there forever,

nothing will disturb them

separate them.

They will wave at

the shadows

of our bodies,

and will smile saying:

thank you. We will stay here.

And now you can go free.

Do you see now, My Boy,

why I did all of it?

The searching?

The running?

The travelling to

the beginning of time,

to the birthplace of Love

and Lovebearing?

Now you can’t

be sad anymore.

I can’t despair, either.

We were just vessels

for our souls

and our souls are

together again

till the end of times.

Our mission is done.

Let the sadness

be happy, fulfilled.

And smile at me once more.

I will kiss your

happy tear, too.

Thus, the saga ends.  A saga of Love I had, a saga of Love I shared with My Boy. Or Love he had and shared with me.

I have written about it, that Love we shared, many times on these pages. At times it was a scream of pain and despair; at times pleading with Fates to turn time back, before that tragic day when My Boy died in my arms; at times it was rejoicing the time we had; or proclaiming urbi et orbi that he is alive in me, is part of me. None of that was a lie or imagination. We search for words and ask our imagination to name things we can’t truly comprehend or fully accept.

But the simple and honest answer is that my life have changed few times irrevocably: I was a different person before I met my Lover and become a different one after that meeting, absolutely and instantly understanding that I just can’t exist anymore without his presence in my life; the day My Boy ceased existing in a material world – I become once more a different person. I remembered, I resembled that previous versions of me, shared our common life – but I wasn’t IT anymore. And I know that it never will. Wish that it wasn’t like that – but accept that it is. Mostly – I’m filled with awe that I found my soulmate, soulsharer. A gift so rare and precious it escapes a name. But you do know and recognize IT the moment it appears.

One of the greatest poet of Romanticism,  Adam Mickiewicz , wrote in his major drama “Dziady” famous sentence ‘Gustavus obitt – hic natus Conradus’[i] that begins the spiritual transformation of the main character of his long poem. But that transformation starts and continues for a very different reason  and goals. The hero (Gustav) has a vision and proceeds to become a different person. I did not have any visions, nor did I planned to become someone else. Indeed – I never had become someone else. Emotional events have made major changes in and of my life. It changed me very much so, but it did not erased my past. I still carry it with me, the good and the bad.  A gift of great love – if you receive one, and it is a rare occurrence – carries great peaks of pleasure and happiness … but it also could carry an immensely deep pits of darkness and sorrow. So dark and so deep it could swallow you whole. Am I advising you not to seek such love, not to try? No. But if I can be bold, I will say that walking up and down pleasant hills is not the same as climbing Mt. Everest. And many who did neither reach the peak nor returned. My climb or rather descent is only two years old. And I am still not sure if I will return to safe shelter.

[i] (translation from Latin) Gustav dies – Conrad is born

In local Native tribes they call it: a place where the rivers meet. Or shortly – Calgary

Bogumił Pack-Gamalski

Olympic Plazza in Calgary

Of all the cities of Canadian prerie provinces (Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta) – Calgary is the best known and in many ways perhaps the most influential way (in both: good and bad ways). Many eons ago it used be my first Canadian home for almost a decade. And Calgary’s main walking and social promenade was Stephen Avenue Mall. Roughly speaking a district in the middle of the city, between City Hall and 6 Street S.W. Entertainment and commercial heart of Calgary. Not the only one (17 Avenue SW is also important ) but historically speaking the main one.

Hence my walk ‘down the memory lane’ with a dear friend. Apart from everything else it is a pivotal part of my entire life. Not only my Canadian life – but my whole life. It is where I met the love of my life, my soulmate.

That personal aspect will be explored in a more poetic language in my next post. Now, that walk through the Mall in September 2024.

Journey across Canada – Wielka podróż kontynentalna

Journey across Canada – Wielka podróż kontynentalna

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Edmundston, New Brunswick

Another big journey. Fitting in as it was, as it allows me to say slowly a goodbye to my country – Canada. Would have been most likely My Country to the very end, but Fates wanted otherwise. I will be eventually going to the country of my childhood and youth.  That is another story though, and a reader who follows my Blog – knows it.

The Story today is Canada, it’s nature and huge expanse. It started by driving from Halifax in Nova Scotia, through New Brunswick, and finally to grand old Montreal. A city built at the mouth of powerful St. Lawrence, surrounded by smaller rivers and water channels. The proper old Montreal was itself an island of land (not a very large one) constricted from all sides by flowing faster or slower water. Hence the grand city is very dense, streets are narrow. It reminds me a bit of an old Paris, an island around Notre Dame, and on the other side closed by the old medieval Royal Seat of Louvre as it was, long before becoming one of the most famous museum and gallery.

From Montreal the highway took me through the capital, Ottawa. It has changed tremendously since I have been here about seven years ago. Not that long ago – but it did. A maze of new skyscrapers.

Pass Ottawa and Petawawa (a city of storied military history) the highway takes us through Ontario’s Cottage Country and numerous small towns and settlements. A glorious Fall colours od forest and Laurential Mountains.

But nature’s through splendor awaits us a bit further, the road will lead us through enormous in size Northern Ontario, alongside the shores of enormous Lake Superior. And a visit to an old Polish settlement of Wawa – in shortened version it simply means ‘Warszawa’ – the capital of Poland. We will finish in the prairies of Manitoba and Saskatchewan.

(in Polish / po polsku)

Gdy ma się dwie ojczyzny, dwa domy rodzinne, odjazdy z jednego z nich z nich bywają trudne, bolesne. Zwłaszcza, gdy oddzielone są olbrzymią przestrzenią oceanów i pasm górskich.

Tym razem wracam do tej pierwszej ojczyzny dzieciństwa i młodości. Za mną zostaje całe dorosłe – długie już – życie w tej drugiej, w Kanadzie. Więc i pożegnalna wielka podróż przez Kanadę. A podróż przez ten wielki kraj, to podróż kontynentalna dosłownie: od jednego oceanu do drugiego; przez pasma wielkich i mniejszych masywów górskich; olbrzymie rzeki, wzdłuż jezior, które łatwo by nazwać bez zbytniej przesady morzami; przez puszcze niekończące się, prerie wielkich łanów pszenicy, kukurydzy. I prerie białe od potasu i odkrywkowych kopalń. Naturalnie nie sposób takiej podróży odbyć w dwa lub trzy dni. Jest wielodniowa, a powinna być wielotygodniowa. Drugi raz taką tu odbywam. Od Halifaksu do Vancouveru.

Zdjęcia załączone obejmują trasę od Halifaksu, przez Nowy Brunszwik, Montreal i Quebec, rejon Ottawy, Północne Ontario, trasę wzdłuż wybrzeży jeziora Superior, założone w XIX wieku przez polskich osadników urocze miasteczko … Wawa. Tak, Wawa od Warszawy. Z Wawy zjazd w dół kręta szosą wśród skał i niekończących się małych jeziorek (słowo ‘małych’ w kontekście Kanady jest właściwe, ale małymi de facto nie są) aż do Kenory. A potem Manitobą i w Sakatchewan – otwarta, płaska niekończąca się preryjna przestrzeń. I wiatrach (częstych) te morza pól wzbijają tumany kurzu i tumany białej soli potasowej. Inny świat.

Montreal

Northern Ontario, Wawa and Lake Superior

Prairies / Prerie

Moon – once more

Moon – once more

Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski

I know I have said in previous post my goodbye to the Moon in Halifax. But today, while sitting at night time on My Rocks, the Moon yelled at me: hey! I have seen your post the other day. If you are saying ‘goodbye’ than might as well take my full portrait, not just part of my face. And he did smiled broadly and showed me his round full face. Wont be any closer soon, so here we go once more and few pics of Halifax’s waterfront as seen from Dartmouth.

Fort Needham – a tribute

Bogumił Pacak-Gamalski

Bell Tower on the hill

Fort Needham

It sits upon a hill.

Peacefully, pleasantly

offering a nice view

of Bedford Basin to the left,

and the Narrows to the right.

Time is dangerous –

First world war raging somewhere in

mud of France and Belgium.

Canadian boys are gassed

to death as they jump

from their trenches

in an effort to gain

few feet of that foreign soil.

If the gas is not used,

they are cut in half by

Mauser machine guns.

Time is prosperous In Halifax:

The Harbour bustling with

sea and train traffic from

all over North America.

Shops are full of local

and foreign sailors,

merchants and buyers,

fishermen sale their

daily fresh catch straight

from their wooden boats.

Powerful artillery guns

protect the entrance

to Halifax Harbour

from any attempt by

Emperor Wilhelm Imperial Navy

to conquer the entrance

to entire North America.

The Fortress of Halifax

safeguards Boston and

the rest of United States.

It is not a bad day

in the Harbour

on December 6, 1917.

The Norwegian ship ‘Elmo’

filled with fresh relief supplies

for the war-torn Belgians in Europe

slowly begins its voyage

from Bedford Basin, enters

the tight waters of the Narrows.

But the war in Europe needs

more than bread and flower.

It needs also munitions, gun powder,

chemicals to make bombs.

Comes another vessel,

the French war supply ship,

– ‘Mont-Blanc’.  

Like the snow-covered

peak in the French Alps.

It is sailing from Halifax

to Bedford Basin.

People gather on the Richmond Hill,

on the slopes of Fort Needham

to watch the passing foreign ships.

Fathers hold their children

by hand and explain to them

the colours of the flags,

the foreign ensigns.

Boys are particularly exited.

Scared, but excited even more

when the two ships collide.

As boys all over the world do,

when they see an accident happening.

The ‘Mont-Blanc’ burned for half an hour.

Then the world collapsed.

Upon the ships,

upon the boys on hill

and boys playing in their homes,

in their backyards,

seating on their grandmas laps.

It collapsed on the grandmas

 and grandpas, too.

It collapsed on their city.

It is late summer, 2024.

I walk the slope of Port Needham

to it’s flat top.

In the middle seats a large structure

of modern bell tower.

I see the Tower from my window

on the other side of the Narrows.

It’s 2 o’clock.

Time for the Bells to sing,

to cry and to remember.

Every day and every boy,

who perished than.

Every girl and uncle,

and mum an pop.

Even the lonely

older chap, whose name

no one knew and no one will.

All one thousand

nine hundred

forty six.

The largest explosion

Prior to Hiroshima

and Nagasaki.

A poet remembers, too.

(Bogumil Pacak-Gamalski, 09.09. 2024)