adventure Archives - Heather McLeod

Once Upon a Time

It was early May and we were at the hot springs: steamy water, flowing from between 100-pound rocks into a series of pools. Lussier Hot Springs, one of many natural hot springs in the Columbia Valley, has been discovered but not yet developed, aside from the stone retaining wall and fenced path from gravel parking area to pools.

No admission fee, no lifeguards, no posted rules. Sometimes, no bathing suits.

We live less than an hour’s drive away from this little spot of paradise. It’s a must-do when guests have time for the drive.

In summer, these springs are so popular that a line can snake up the trail: urbanites and international tourists, towels in hand, await their turn to experience this natural phenomenon of sulphur-scented water trickling from the rocks through pools to a glacier-fed river.

Instagram tags have made these once-secret hot springs a popular, often over-run destination.

In early May we were there to revel in the hot water and alpine beauty before the tsunami of summer tourists and part-time residents engulfed our little community.

Despite the early season, we weren’t alone. We chatted with a couple from Alberta. Nodded to other locals.

A trio of young women arrived, stripped to bikinis and toques, and stepped carefully over the massive rocks. They squealed at the water’s heat, which is the temperature of a hot bath. They perched in the upper pool on folded legs, so as not to get their bikini tops wet, and took photos with their cell phones, as so many do.

It’s part of our job as parents to pass the traditions down, so my boyfriend and I lured his pre-teens and my five-year-old to the river.

I set an example: I waded into the icy current, then lay carefully on the slippery stones and leaned back. Not enough to float away. Enough for goose bumps to rise.

Then up and back to the river’s rocky edge.

A normal human being would immediately climb up to the hottest pool, to recover from the immersion in glacier run-off. But we’re parents and so we waited on the rocks, shivering and cheering on our kids, applauding their bravery as they too dunked in the river.

A rite of passage. Like rolling in the snow between soaks at the Fairmont Resort hot springs. Like walking through the shin-deep river at Marble Canyon, and back again, on numb feet. This is how we raise the next generation of mountain kids.

Finally the trial was over and we began picking our way carefully over the slippery stones, back up to the hottest pool. One extreme temperature to another.

We crossed paths with the young women, who were on their way to the river.

ME: “Are you going in too?”

WOMAN: “No. We’re just here for the pictures.”

What?

My heart broke for her then, and I’ve spent four months trying to articulate WHY her response made me feel so sad and disturbed that day.

“We’re just here for the pictures.”

After our exchange, I watched the women as they “experienced” the springs. They did not dip themselves in the icy river. They wandered upstream at one point and took turns doing classic Instagram poses: arms out. Backs to the camera. Sexy bikini poses with the forest as background. Toothy smiles for the selfies.

And then they left.

My Gut Reaction

I was sad for this woman and her friends. They’re young: they have a lifetime of possible adventures and experiences ahead of them. And yet, appearances seemed to matter more to them than their sense of adventure. If they were only there for the photos, were they really experiencing the natural hot springs?

If you stop to take a picture of you smelling a rose so you can post it on Facebook, and don’t even bother inhaling its scent, did you really stop to smell the roses?

It’s always an internal battle as to whether I bring the phone along when snowboarding.

So Many Questions

I wondered: if they’d driven the 37 minutes on the narrow gravel road to the hot springs, risking life and limb with the ever-present logging trucks around every sharp corner, and then discovered in the parking lot they’d left their phones behind, would they have simply turned back?

And: was their need for external validation something they would grow out of? Would these young women change when they matured?

But some people never grow out of this mindset. Consider the many, many subdivisions in Calgary (and other cities) where mansions rub elbows with mansions, their garages and off-site storage bays overflowing with speedboats, jet skis and other mechanical toys. For some of us, appearances and peer-defined success are what bring us meaning, direction and (we hope) happiness.

I wonder: when this woman at the pools said those words to me, did she startle herself? Could she hear how superficial and empty she sounded? Did she have a restless night, tormented by existential doubt? Or maybe she doesn’t see anything wrong with living a life merely for the images.

And maybe I was, and am, being judgemental. Maybe it’s fine to live as these young women do. Maybe a collection of photos and lots of Instagram followers and Facebook “likes” are valid goals, or at least just as valid as my own.

Ripples

Maybe this woman didn’t think twice about her words that day.

But they resonate with me.

Since that day, I’ve been more thoughtful about bringing my phone (which is my only camera) along on adventures, or not.

Sometimes, camera-less, I wish I could take a picture — like when we found that beach of gleaming mica dust south of Nakusp — and I have to settle for the memory.

I’ve found that, when we don’t have pictures to help us remember our adventures, stories and words become more important:

“Remember when the teenage magician emerged from the forest and healed cousin Matthew’s leg when he fell?”

“Remember how terrified we were on the log ride at Calaway Park? Remember how many bad words I said when we plummeted?”

And sometimes I test myself: right now, experiencing this super cool thing, do I NEED to take a picture? Do I NEED to share it on the Interwebs, to make this experience any more special?

It’s my new Stoic meditation. Regardless of the answer, I learn new things about myself. And, more often than before, I decide to leave my phone behind.

Obviously I NEEDED to get a photo of Optimus Prime, when we met him while in a line-up for the ferry.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Is a camera/phone essential for your adventures? Do you wrestle with how much to share via social media, or keep as a personal memory? How would you respond if someone said they were only there “for the pictures”? Please post a comment, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

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When I was planning our alternate life, and then in the long months after Brock died, at no time did I expect to be attracted to someone else ever again.

In fact, I looked forward to being a happy nun for the rest of my life, spending my evenings building Lego sets and watching mysteries on BritBox. I would write, and bake cookies for Isaac’s bake sales at school. We would have epic adventures, hike the Bugaboos and be a Power Team o’ Two. I never even considered the idea of dating someone new.

And so, this summer, when I ran into a guy I’d known growing up and was unexpectedly attracted to him, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

I felt guilty and ashamed that I was attracted to someone other than my husband. I ate Tums to calm my stomach and couldn’t make eye contact with our pictures of Brock.

I wondered what people (you) would think, if I started dating someone within a year of Brock’s death, or ever.

And I worried about how Isaac would feel if he saw me canoodling with a man other than his daddy.

I told myself it was too soon, because I hadn’t had enough time to work through my grief over Brock’s death.

In order to avoid the drama of dating again, and dating as a widow, I hoped I was misreading his interest in me. I hoped I’d find some fatal flaw in him that would make him less appealing.

I really, really wanted to talk about all this with someone, but I assumed my friends and family would be as scandalized as I was by the idea of my dating.

But Then

I realized I will never, ever “be over” Brock’s death, no matter how much time I give myself. Our life together and his death will always be part of me. My challenge as a survivor is to expand my new life beyond that life, to make room for new experiences and new people.

(As per this excellent video …)

I asked myself what a normal single woman would do if she were attracted to an available man, and I decided she would go for it. So, after weeks of angst, I relaxed and let myself enjoy the butterflies.

The Response from the Crowd

The first time I told a friend I was dating someone, she responded with: “It’s about time.”

When I pointed out that Brock had died less than a year ago, she said: “You’ve been grieving for three years.” Fair point.

In fact, all the close friends I (eventually, nervously) confided in were happy for me. They were glad I’d opened my heart again and found someone I liked that much.

Happily Ever After … Again?

This new relationship fizzled and flopped within weeks, but I learned a lot about myself from the experience.

For example: at some point, I realized I’m not only a “widow,” but also a “single mom.” Those two labels have such different connotations:

WIDOW

A “widow” is a woman whose spouse has died. (How interesting that we don’t call people like me “widowed moms.”)
Widowhood is all about loss: you had a husband, and now you don’t. It implies all that grief and messiness and emptiness that I feel: it’s a wonderfully handy word. You don’t even need to hear the details of how I became a widow, you just need to know I am a widow and you can safely assume there’s baggage there.
A widow never stops being a widow. Even if a widow dates, or finds a new partner, or gets married, that loss still happened and is still there: the new person is her “second husband,” her “second marriage.” (Interesting factoid: when someone dies in Canada, their spouse can qualify for a “survivor’s pension” if they’re old enough and/or if they have a child. I receive a small “survivor’s pension” every month from the government, and I will receive it until I die. Even if I remarry someday, the Canadian government will always consider me a widow.)

SINGLE MOM

A “single mom” is defined by her lack of a partner. It’s actually a paradox, since “mom” means you have a child, and it takes two people to make a child, and yet — you’re single.
To lack a partner implies you need one, and/or are actively seeking one.
You are no longer a single mom once you have a partner. You’re not even a “partnered mom” or a “married mom,” because our language makes the “married” part redundant. Now you’re simply a mom. (And no longer paradoxical. Good for you! Sigh.)

In many ways I resent this new layer of self-identity.

For one thing, I really liked the peace of believing I would be alone for the rest of my life. Before we moved from Duncan last fall I visited a senior friend in her home. She’s been a widow since early motherhood, and in her house I saw just how great a widow’s life can be: the rooms of her home were full of her hobbies. Looms crowded the garage, while baskets of wool and knitting needles waited in the corners of every room. She occupied that house fully, without having to make concessions for a husband who might protest using the dining room table as a permanent craft space.

I wanted a house like hers.

However, now that I’ve remembered how exciting relationships can be, now that I’ve had that fresh thrill of gradually getting to know someone, now that I’ve shared a bottle of wine and watched a sunset from my deck with an interesting man … now I realize I’m only 38 years old and, yes, there might be a second Big Love in my future.

Everything is Different Now

Dating as a 38-year-old widow could be wonderful. In many ways my standards have been raised, thanks to Brock: I know what a healthy relationship looks like and I know how to be a good partner to a worthy man. I’m perfectly happy on my own, so there’s no imperative to actively look for a relationship, or settle for less than I want or deserve.

At the same time, what I’d want in a relationship now is different from when I met Brock. In my twenties, I was looking for someone to marry and have a family with. Brock was my chosen life partner.

But now I have a kid, we have our ideal house, and I don’t care if I ever get married again, or even live with someone again. I know there’s no such thing as “happily ever after,” despite the best of intentions, and that’s okay. At 38, all I want is to write, to have adventures, to raise my kid to be a good person, and to spend time with my family and friends. I don’t need a partner of any sort.

This changes what I’d like in a relationship. He would have to be someone kind and fun to play with, who has his shit together to a point that we can have a healthy, symbiotic relationship, and who could be one of Isaac’s (many) positive male role models as my son grows older. (Bonus points if this guy stepped up as a dad-figure.)

I’d like someone to travel with. Someone to help me push my limits:

HEATHER: “Let’s go skydiving today.”

ADVENTURE PARTNER: “Yes. And to Greece tomorrow.”

BROCK: “Let’s road trip across Canada for two months.”

For Now

How lucky I am, to have met Brock and had 11.5 years loving him. And I still have him with me, or at least the echoes of what he’d say throughout the day. Last week, he reminded me to add peat moss to the garlic beds. He congratulated me when I submitted to a mystery novel competition. We talk all the time: me random and buzzing, Brock thoughtful and insightful. I hope I never lose this habit of anticipating his responses. I love growing older with Brock still in my brain.

And I’ve learned it’s possible to have Brock with me on the inside, but still have my heart open to someone new. I’ve learned it’s okay if the future ends up different from the independent widow-heaven I had planned. Either way, I’ll be happy.

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Please post a comment below, share this post online or read more posts on this website.

To join me on this epic adventure of being a writer, subscribe to my monthly email newsletter: click here to sign up.

Heather McLeod

Tag Archives: adventure

We’re Just Here for the Pictures