Vicarious Vicissitudes

“We have seen the enemy and he is us.”

Everything somehow came together in that split second. The football arrived at his feet. He hit it on the volley and it sailed into the topmost corner of the net. The goalkeeper barely moved. It was over in an instant but the memory remains.

The West Coast Trail on Vancouver Island is stunning, majestic, beautiful and arduous. It is a 6 day hike from Port Renfrew to Bamfield. There are beach walks along the sands, trail walks through forest within earshot of the breaking waves; banks above beaches; there are river crossings. There are migrating whales wending their ways up the coast, 100 yards off the shoreline. There are steep stairs on sheer rock. There are sunsets to witness; wild campsites to experience; the generosities of strangers; camp fires to savour. There is that final gentle stroll through that pine forest on that last day when approaching are three young Italians beginning their hike from the Northern end. After the brief greeting, they waft past leaving the unmistakeable aroma of clothing fresh from the drier. Finally there is the open café and the welcome breakfast which, incidentally, just has to be eaten twice.

Over the years there have been many hikes in different places and varied climates. There are the weighty backpacks, the leg muscles which ascend and scream and burn. There is the gulping thirst, the voracious appetite. There is the reaching of the trail’s end and the sitting on a rock and the removal of boots and the calm tranquillity that only comes when an hike is achieved, a summit is reached, and grueling exercise is completed. The tired smile is there. The satisfaction is immense. Every step, every bead of sweat, every muscle ache, all are a part of an whole experience, whole in its gratitude, whole in its sense of worth, whole in its joy of achievement, whole in the knowledge that it will be a memory. These are but days but as time has passed they have become years and they sit with me still.

Dear Friends, it is important to live one’s life and not dream about living it, is it not? Things, of course, change as we get older. For me, with age, comes more appreciation and interest in the achievements of others. I still live my life happily; I still do things. But, Dear Reader, I make no apology for living some of my experiences vicariously through the lives of others. I do not want to live my life leaping excitedly and grinning inanely at the mundane. Amazing that the toast is browned on both sides. Yawn! Oh look, there’s a Tim Horton’s coffee cup stuck in my gutter, I wonder who put that there. Snore! The price of gas has gone down by 5 cents per litre. Must go on a long drive so I can fill up. Yippee! No, no, no. I will not soap opera my life into some snore fest of pedantic pettiness. I want to see Jim Packer’s magnificent photographs; Walentyna’s European trips. Erin’s time in Iceland. Kelly’s Australia, Katie’s concerts,  Bruce in Scotland, Rob and Carol at the British Library. I could go on. I am very happy to be a fly on the wall watching the exploits of others. But, Dear Friends, I can still fly .Mind you, these days,  It’s just a bit more of a precarious glider seeking an uncertain thermal  than a jet plane, a bull midst china booming its carefree way through a glen. Head down and charge is now more head up and knee creak.

So, Dear reader, if somebody whom I once taught scores the winning goal in the Stanley Cup Final, if my son shows me pictures of the outstanding piece of concrete or woodwork he has done. If our daughter, Alison, is running one of her long races. If Bill shows me a picture of a salmon he has caught If my brother, George, is walking a long distance hike in the North-West of Scotland then I want details. I want to pull out a map, I want to see his photographs, I want to know what he carried in his pack and, most of all, I want to hear his stories. If my friend, Anne, is in France or Scotland or both then I want details of her holiday, I want her perspectives and thoughts. I want to hear her excitement, know about her frustrations, I want to know that I feel that I have seen what she has seen.

I cannot play rugby any more but I can watch it. I can see it with an analytical eye. I can discuss it. Most of all I have some minuscule muscle memory of the sport. I still enjoy it, just not in the way I used to. I can still walk some distance. I can walk uphill but coming down is painful. I am curtailed. But I can remember the feelings and I can hear of the treks of others, their trials, trails and tribulations. I can be with them being eaten by the West Highland midge, the most vicious creature on the planet. I can hear the rain pattering on their tent, the wind driving an horizontal soaking. The slog upwards, the fatigue at the end of a long day. I can see the heather, smell the heather, touch the bark on a Scots pine in the Cairngorms, or a Douglas Fir in Lighthouse Park. I can feel the thrill of turning the corner and seeing a grizzly bear in the Rockies, watching a brown bear in the berry patch at Red Heather, watching a cougar leap across the road in front of Keith and me, pause in the undergrowth to look back at us and to show off its muscled magnificence before disappearing into the bush. I have been a little bit there and done a smidge that. And now I can sit and hear about others who are going there and doing that and know that some part of me is there with them. And that, Dear Friends, is really, truly fine. It is almost enough.

“And now you have come in my awakening which is my deeper dream.”  Khalil Gibran

I guess, Dear Friends, that I am an old snake who has shed his skin for a new one. You will think that I ‘doth protest too much” but I am very happy where I am at 72 years of age. My youth and middle age were truly lucky, fortunate and wonderful. My old age is a time of appreciation of what was and, indeed, of deep appreciation of each new day and each new experience. I can still get up when I fall over although I creak in the process, (although going into school on the one day there was an earthquake drill is a time under a desk I could have done without!) I can still lift and move things from one place to another, though there are aches in places where I used to play. I can still walk at a brisk pace but it has to be when the little man is flashing on the pedestrian crossing. I think I still have wit and banter although many will scoff and quibble at that claim! I certainly am a mine of useless information which I find fascinating but nobody else does!

“For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is a beginning.” T.S. Eliot.

And as you can see, Dear Reader, I can still produce a boring, long winded blog and be grateful that you have stuck with it until the end.

Thanks for reading.