An Anniversary Gallery

January 31, 2017: ten years since my husband Craig’s death. In a whirlwind of last minute planning, my daughter Kyra and I found ourselves observing the date in Bangkok, Thailand. I had packed one of Craig’s colourful shirts, hoping that my vague concept of marking the anniversary in some profound manner would somehow coalesce. We brainstormed, disputed, tried a plan that didn’t work…yet a solution emerged.


An unexpected brightness, a wry humour, a gentle invitation to look more closely: in his person and in his art, in our lives and memories, Craig was and continues…to be.

Photo credit for central photo and gallery images 1,3 and 5: Kyra Parker ( click here for Kyra’s instagram and more of her gorgeous images!)


An anniversary

So…it’s January again. It’s not my favourite month. For so many years, January has meant loss. It started with the death of my husband Craig and then continued, year after year – nephew, uncle, parents-in-law, parents, brothers – gone one by one in the early months of the year.

Ten years – of loss, yes –  but as many to reflect on what remains and learn to treasure it. We endured the worst we could imagine and we lived. Life did go on – in rich and unexpected ways. Craig’s loss shaped and refined each of us and his presence in our lives is a current that continues to bear us.


So here it is one more time: Craig’s signature symbol of defiance. He took to wearing such colourful tie dyed t-shirts as his own sign of hope in the face of a terminal illness. I’ve posted this bright little square for a number of years now in his memory – and as an encouragement to others to share that defiance and hope. Kick at the darkness until it bleeds daylight. Find the crack where the light pours in.

I’m posting this a little early. Tomorrow morning I’ll be boarding a plane, winging half-way around the world to meet my daughter in Bangkok. We’ll observe the anniversary there – on January 31. Years ago, we reflected that Craig would have hated to be the cause of sadness year after year, so we began to look for ways to make the day a celebration. I don’t yet know how Kyra and I will mark the date, but there will be tie dye. And hope. Stay tuned.

Hitting the button…

Previously on this blog:

I’ve been back nearly three months and creating this record is taking far longer than I imagined. Meanwhile I’m trying to get a house ready for selling and down-sizing for a move, so my time has been occupied elsewhere. Heartiest of apologies for making you wait for the instalments! I’ll keep plugging away…

Well, I didn’t. I didn’t keep plugging away. Instead I vanished beneath the tide of downsizing and packing up and moving out and moving in and unpacking. Sorry. Here I am, nearly a year away from the events of that last post, dressing again for a morning hike. Framed in my bedroom window, the crest of the hills across the valley is dusted with last nights’ snow.

No, I’m not in the Himalayas.

I’m at home – my new home in the Okanagan valley in British Columbia, thousands of miles west of where I wrote that last post. Although the slopes that frame this valley are not mountains in any Himalayan sense, they are an inspiring new context for the simplest aspect of my existence. Walking to the post box, driving into town for groceries, dropping off a book at the library – I look up to a horizon crowded by beauty.

Previously, I’d only seen the Okanagan in sunshine – endless brilliant days of light glinting off water and orchard and vineyard. Since my arrival in August, there’s been an unusually high incidence of wet and misty days. Now that daylight savings time has ended, darkness descends far too early. Nonetheless, I am finding myself endlessly spellbound by the myriad colours of the mountains – emerald and gold and bronze shading in the fading light to navy and indigo. The rising angle of the sun splinters a silhouetted range into a succession of peaks and then blends them again into a single inky mass. Some days the clouds mosey down the valley like a rag tag herd of sheep; other days the mist flows over the peaks in ribbons, pooling in the hollows. I might wake with the world shrouded in a cotton mist; by noon the fog has sunk and I am marooned on an island of cloud. Rain or sun or cloud, it’s all new and novel and endlessly delightful. The friends who convinced me to move here gaze from their window and tell me that after seventeen years, it never gets tired. I’m warned by others that the winter will be grey and tiresome. I look at the hills this morning, made newly strange by their dusting of snow and can’t imagine that.

What brought me here? What wind uprooted and blew me across the country? I’m hard pressed to pinpoint exactly what or why, although there are tales to tell now that I’m settled in. When asked a similar question, a woman in my walking group shrugged and said it was just time to hit the ‘reset’ button.

“Yes,” I thought. “Exactly.”


Day 9


Yak Kharka to Thorung Phedi and High Camp

I awoke refreshed with no altitude headache and a renewed appetite for the ‘French toast’ I’d ordered for breakfast. We headed out in bright sunshine for Thorung Phedi – and High Camp if we remained in good form.

The trail followed the contours of the steep valley, a gradual but steady climb. The slopes were gravelly and the path narrow; signs were posted cautioning of the danger of landslides. The landscape was a little bleak – not much vegetation, but enough to sustain the flocks of Himalayan blue sheep the guides pointed out to us. It was the busiest day on the route so far. We all looked like we were moving in slow motion – the altitude effect was pronounced. I remembered something I had read and tried to follow my breath as I walked, matching it to my pace. Whenever I felt winded, I stopped for as long as it took to normalize my breathing. This worked, but by the time we reached Phedi I’d nearly run out of steam. Neil, Ria and I brought up the rear, but three of the porters who were crossing the pass for their first time – Jaluna, Primila and Kalpana – kept pace with us.

The door to the  dining hall at Phedi opened onto a warm, noisy room filled with buzz. It was so like a ski resort that I was momentarily disoriented. We enjoyed a hearty lunch and recovery period. Patrick (characteristically) discovered a musical connection with the proprietor. Bhagawati pronounced us ready for the climb to High Camp for the night, assuring us that she’d be monitoring everyone carefully. There were some misgivings, but we knew that continuing would shave off considerable time and effort for crossing the Pass in the morning.

High Camp was almost visible from Phedi; we were only on route briefly when we caught a glimpse of the flags waving at the crest. Gazing up the 45° slope as we set out looked a little silly – a scattering of brightly coloured figures wandered (seemingly) aimlessly back and forth across the face of the hill. What one couldn’t see because of the incline was that the track switchbacked constantly, turning the steep climb into a gentler trail. I recalled reading a description of this section: it’s only 45 minutes – but you will remember every one of them!

I was the last to arrive as light flurries began to swirl and found the others huddled around a table in the dining hall. The only heat came from the press of bodies – and the room was filled. After hot drinks, we dispersed to our rooms to – supposedly – warm up. The snow was now falling in earnest and the toilets were across the courtyard from sleeping quarters. I suited up in my thermal layer for the night – determined not to be naked one single time more in this cold!!

I’d enjoyed some lovely conversations with Kathleen over those past days. This day we had touched on identity and our perceptions of self. I’d come to view myself as strong and independent, so being sick had taken a bite out of that. I was, as yet, the only one remaining in our party who had no symptoms of altitude sickness – and the only one not on Diamox – and that had become inordinately important to me. Fingers crossed for a restful night.

Midnight. Dinner was a little dismal – the antibiotics were making things taste strange so I had chosen something fairly bland and disappointing and choked it down. I needed the calories. I’m huddled now in my sleeping bag, cradling a tin cup of hot mint tea. The warmth is a pleasure, but I’ve drunk only enough to ease my pills down my throat. I’ve just returned from my third foray to the far-too-distant facilities (another side-effect of altitude is frequent urination) and I don’t want to make another!! Trudging through the newly fallen snow, I’m grateful that I splurged on the purchase of a new sleeping bag. Sandwiched between two Nepali quilts, it still retains a trace of warmth upon my return. The stars are peeping through here and there. Hoping for a clear morning!

Note: I’ve been back nearly three months and creating this record is taking far longer than I imagined. Meanwhile I’m trying to get a house ready for selling and down-sizing for a move, so my time has been occupied elsewhere. Heartiest of apologies for making you wait for the instalments! I’ll keep plugging away…

Day 8

Manang to Yak Kharka

Our second morning in Manang dawned bright and clear – a hopeful sign for the road ahead. We were only two days from crossing the Throrong La pass; snow would be a potentially serious setback now. No worries – the day was soon warm and the layers were peeled away.

At 3,519 metres, Manang sits at twice the elevation of the Lake Louise, Alberta, the highest settlement in Canada. While our bodies were definitely acclimatizing, altitude decidedly affects athletic performance. The feeling is something like perpetually slogging through deep water; this would only grow more pronounced. Our first day’s goal was to reach Yak Kharka – a half day’s hiking and a gain of more than 500 metres. Bhagawati would decide over the next day whether we were managing well enough to push on to High Camp the next day, or remain overnight at Throrong Phedi for a bit more adjustment. The second scenario would mean a more gruelling climb to the pass, but perhaps a safer alternative.


Looking back toward Manang

The trail swung away from the Marsyangdi River that had been our companion for so long, turning up the Jarsang Khola valley – so we still had a chattering, watery accompaniment below. Above, our journey was punctuated periodically by rumblings from the Gangapurna glacier as avalanches thundered down the distant slopes. We walked now in arid sub-alpine terrain, the slopes cloaked in autumn-coloured barberry shrubs, low spreading junipers and sparse alpine grasses. The climb was gentle but unrelenting and continually up.

We took our morning tea break on a roof top with an unobstructed view back toward Annapurna III and Gangapurna stretching across the mouth of the valley, splendid in the full sun. Time to catch our breath and soak in the light then back on the path, past a chorten stacked with exquisitely carved mani stones and on to our destination.

Until now, we’d seen relatively few other trekkers, considering we were traveling in peak season. Manang had been something of a gathering point, and we were definitely encountering more traffic. Fighting the altitude seemed to have levelled our own group’s disparate speeds and our porters, too, were slowing. On previous days we’d have ended up strung out over a fair distance; now we were traveling as more of a pack, resting together in little clumps and more frequently. I had more opportunity to chat with our ‘girls’ and learned that for several of them this was also their first time over the pass – and also the highest altitude that they had experienced. Bhagawati was not only monitoring our adjustment, but theirs as well – and the porters were carrying our baggage as an additional challenge.


Our intrepid porters

We reached the Himalayan View Hotel at Yak Kharka in time for lunch. The tea house offered an ambitious menu, and although Nepali pizza was credible, the moussaka was something of a stretch.

The recommended afternoon action was a short hike to a higher altitude, then back down for the night, but we staged a minor mutiny. Neil and I made personal health decisions to rest and nurse our virus. Ria very kindly offered me an Indonesian massage – a welcome addition to my recovery regimen, but sadly not as relaxing as we hoped because I coughed through the entire process. Then, blessedly, I slept – curled up in the afternoon sunshine streaming through my window. Nightfall brought us all together in the toasty warm dining hall. The porters gathered around a melodrama on the television; the rest of us huddled near the fireplace, variously occupied with journaling, reading, charging devices, treating water, drying socks and staying warm. Much of our conversation circled around our itinerary for the next days. None of us were having serious difficulty but there was an even distribution of early symptoms of AMS – mild headache, loss of appetite, nausea, sleeplessness – although it was hard to tell if these were also cold symptoms. No one was experiencing all of them, but nearly everyone had elected to take Diamox as a precaution. Ironically, while I was still recovering, I seemed mostly unaffected by altitude. Bhagawati was encouraging us to consider reaching for High Camp the next day and I think we were all anxious about gaining the extra altitude, which maybe accounted for our sleeplessness? In the end, we were in her hands; she would make the decision as our lead guide.

As pleasant as the day had been, nights were growing increasingly colder; the expanding thickness of the quilts at successive establishments testified to this. We left the warmth of the dining hall early to burrow under those ample quilts and await the next day’s decisions. Tucked up in my room with the requisite thermos of mint tea, I huddled by the window, tenting my sleeping bag around the steamy warmth. The stars – and later the moon – were spectacular. So many! So bright!

Day 7


I’ve often found that the surest way to overcome a minor ailment is to make a doctor’s appointment. I’m not claiming that miraculous cures result from the ambiance of medical waiting rooms – but rather that my tolerance for being ill usually falls just a little short of the time needed for my immune system to kick in. It would follow then that after several days of feeling quite miserable on the trail, the very morning I was about to visit an actual clinic I would awake feeling considerably better.

Sunshine was streaming through my window, warming the floor and giving a spicy wood-scent to the white-washed room. Drawing aside the curtains, I was treated to the glorious view of snow-crested Gangapurna filling my window. Just around the corner from my door, the courtyard opened into a sizeable garden and rows of frost dusted cabbages. I hung my laundry on the rail fence to dry in the sun and headed off for a hearty breakfast. My sense of taste – and my appetite – were returning!

Despite my nascent recovery, Neil convinced me to go along to the clinic. My cough persisted and by this point others in our party were also showing symptoms; it might prove valuable to us all if I sought out medical advice. So, after breakfast he accompanied me down the street to the international travel clinic run by the Himalayan Rescue Association. 

The HRA operates in three popular trekking areas of Nepal. Along with educating visitors about Acute Mountain Sickness, they also run a medical clinic in trekking season. Trekkers are charged a fee for consultation, funding the staff to provide free health care to local Nepalis. The doctors work on a strictly volunteer basis. In Manang at the time of our visit there were three doctors on staff: two from Britain, one from Nepal and a Nepali assistant.

Dr. Emma Forsyth greeted us barefoot. She was engaging and casual and generous with her time. Like most patients arriving from Kathmandu, I had a virus, likely exacerbated by the dry, cold air. She affirmed that I also likely had the beginnings of a respiratory infection, but the amoxicillin I was taking would target that effectively. Mostly, she reinforced the common sense advice that Khim and Bhagawati had been offering:  hot, soothing drinks of mint, lemon and ginger; staying well hydrated and ‘cough sweets’ to soothe the throat. To that regimen she added twice daily ‘steam baths’ with Tiger Balm (I am a total convert now!) and regular doses of both ibuprofen and acetaminophen. Chances are the virus would play out in a couple of weeks (!) Meanwhile my lungs were clear, my oxygen saturation was normal and there was no reason not to continue over the pass.

Reassured (except for that bit about the virus lasting two weeks or more!) Neil and I rejoined the others at the hotel. I grabbed my day pack and we headed out for a short morning hike. Manang was larger than any of the communities we’d been in so far and had a frontier sort of ambiance, sitting high on a plateau. We hiked down through the gated and across the valley. The terrain was dry and eroded, reminiscent of the badlands of Alberta, re-inforcing the ‘wild-west’ feeling of the town. Our path followed a narrow crest overlooking a small lake and then continued up the side of the mountain. Somewhere above us was the glacier-fed Lake Gangapurna and we were on our way to have a closer look. Unfortunately, in my haste to join the group I had come out wearing my casual, indoor shoes: sturdy enough for walking, but as we reached a height where there was snow on the trail I didn’t have enough traction to continue. Khim supported me, slipping and laughing, back to the dry trail and I headed back alone along the smaller lake to await the others.

The path back was the narrowest I’d followed up until then – a thin, flattened track along a crest of loose scree. It wasn’t far, but I took it cautiously. I’d only just reached a problematic section when Ria and one of the porters, Subash, caught up with me. We parked ourselves at the lip overlooking the lake; I was regretting that I’d relinquished my pack earlier when I started slipping. Here I was with ample opportunity to draw and no sketchbook! Instead, I soaked up the sun and the scenery and it wasn’t too long before the rest of the party re-appeared on the slope above us and we headed back to town.

Lunch, more laundry and later in the afternoon we attended the lecture at the Himalayan Rescue Association on Acute Mountain Sickness. Less than 1 in 1000 trekkers experience serious consequences from this, but that is due to being prepared and being able to recognize symptoms. It can be fatal and the HRA evacuates several serious cases each season. We’re warned to control our ascent, taking time to acclimatize to the altitude and to pay attention to symptoms that don’t resolve. We were heartened to learn that we had one thing that made AMS less likely to affect us – we’re all over 50! Who knew that age would actually be an advantage? At the conclusion of the lecture, our oxygen saturation was checked; we were all at healthy levels. Onward and upward!

The broad main street seemed quite busy as we headed back, people lining the road. I browsed a few of the shops and bought a string of prayer flags for the Throrong La pass, then opted to join some of the others at the bakery for a cappucccino and chocolate brioche. We came out onto the street just as a rush of brightly decked ponies went barreling by, bells jangling. There were horse races in progress! I may have gone without my sketchbook earlier, but my camera was ready this time! Wild west indeed!

Evening found me in the warmth of the dining hall, head under a towel, inhaling steam and Tiger Balm. Into this enforced meditative state seeped the voices of my companions: Patrick at a nearby table deciphering a Nepali folk song with some of the porters, Kathleen describing a meaningful purchase she’d made, Neil discussing a visit to the monastery at Braga. We share another meal of international cuisine and our Nepali companions once again round out the evening with music. Basking in the warmth, I realize I’ve felt like myself today, as though all this really is possible… even if the virus does hold on for two more weeks.wp_1_26

Day 6

Lower Pisang – Manang

Morning dawned clear but somewhat colder than previously – the socks I’d left to dry on the railing were frozen stiff. We warmed up somewhat before breakfast, hovering near the juniper scented fire in the dining hall.

There are two routes from Lower Pisang to Manang, Bhagawati explained to us over breakfast. One follows the river, gently ascending toward Manang. The other climbs higher for the view. Some of our porters would take the lower, faster route to go ahead and make arrangements for our accommodations. We would take the higher, longer route. It would be hard, she admitted, but it would be worth it.

I was at my lowest ebb at that point and would gladly have accompanied the porters. Miserable with cold symptoms, I was tired, achey and coughing continually. Ria, our Dutch recruit, had slipped me a course of amoxicillin the day before – out of pity, no doubt – but I wasn’t showing any improvement as yet. I could spend this entire entry telling you how miserable I was.

Misery is not what I remember of Day 6 and the high route to Manang.

The trail started out relatively gently through town and past an elaborately carved and decorated prayer wheel wall. The trail wound through soft needled pines and along the edge of a tranquil, turquoise lake.

And then we began to climb – two and a half hours of zig-zagging up the face of the hill, a gain of 500 metres in elevation. There was no chance of my keeping up in my state; I had to rest each time the trail offered a place to perch. Bhagawati relieved me of my day pack, but I still struggled – partly from illness but, as we were approaching 3700 metres in elevation, likely some of the fatigue was due to the thin air. My thoughts kept circling around the presence of a clinic at Manang. If I really was seriously ill, would I be allowed to continue over the pass? What would it mean for everyone else if I were sent back? What would it mean for me? Would I have to travel back along the road in transport of some kind? That was terrifying to contemplate. I slogged along, step-by-step, keeping my own pace but well behind the others. All my training and strength seemed to have deserted me.

At last, the trail brought us to the town of Ghyaru and tea-time – and it was worth every hard-fought, fatiguing, hacking, aching moment. Facing us across the valley Annapurna II blazed brilliantly in full sun – so close you felt that you might lean out and touch the mountain face. The sunshine was warm and luxurious on our faces as we rested and soaked in the wondrous beauty of the view. The day continued clear and warm, despite the snow that lingered here and there on the trail. The Annapurna massif accompanied our every step, looming over the day. (I don’t think I had a proper understanding of the word ‘looming” before this; there is just no other word for that weight of presence!) That view – that’s what I remember. That’s what I will always remember.wp_1_13c

The path continued up from Ghyaru; I continued to struggle. My companions encouraged me, tussling with Bhagawati for their turn shouldering my pack. Michael and Juliet reassured me that before the trek was done we’d all have had similar low points – this from the experience of their previous trek. Patrick and Kathleen made much of stopping for frequent photos, something that allowed them to slow down legitimately and keep pace with me. We lunched at Ngawal, a leisurely stop that allowed me to catch my breath. From there the trail began to descend towards Manang and I found my energy returning somewhat, but I was still the last traipsing into Manang – or I would have been had Janet not hung back to keep me company.


Day’s end found us in the Yak Hotel on the main street of Manang. Imagine a scene out of a western movie, if they filmed westerns in Nepal. The building was multi-storied and rambling with a confusing array of balconies and staircases. I was guided to my room, bundled into my sleeping bag and left to sleep until Bhagawati came to fetch me for dinner. Up the dimly lit stairs to the uppermost level, my legs barely lifting me, the door opened into a wonder of warmth and light, delicious odours and the bustle of kitchen staff and roar of conversation. The fire was crackling, the dining hall was filled to bursting with trekkers and the menu was an international hodge podge: pizza, burritos, rosti, dhal baat….in my memory the evening remains surreally magical.

Warm, fed, restored, I stumbled down through the labyrinthine levels to my cosy suite. I snuggled back into my sleeping bag, a thermos of steaming mint tea to see me through the night, awaiting a visit to the clinic in the morning.