Preamble: Why Canada? Why solo? Why not?

In the spring of 1978, around half-way through my 27^th year, I made a decision that changed my life.  The decision was in some ways not a voluntary one but more, as Simone de Beauvoir would say, due to Force of Circumstance.  As a young female professional in an almost exclusively male dominion (environmental consulting, with an unavoidable, it seemed, component of political activism), I had been working at a frenzied pace, determined to not just keep up with my male colleagues, but to do better, as defined, of course, by them.  That meant putting in long days, working week-ends, and being available for meetings at a moment’s notice.  Being the age I was, and the person I was, I was also playing hard.  I was a single gal, living in one of the most happening cities in Canada – Vancouver – during the peace, love and Woodstock years.  Once I finished work I was out pretty much every night, partying too hard, drinking too much, smoking cigarettes, and definitely not eating healthily.  And I was pushing myself physically, starting my mornings early by riding my bike from Vancouver’s Kits area to the downtown core, swimming a mile at the Y, then running up the 10 flights of stairs to my office.  Back home late afternoon or early evening and heading out for an hour’s run along the beach.  And somewhere in there I found the time to practice an hour of flute, which I’d recently taken up and was keen to mistress (as it were).  I don’t recall doing much in the way of relaxing, although I did do yoga whenever I had a ‘free’ moment.

Even when I might have been relaxing, say at my mother's house, where there was a pool, I brought my work – and my trusty electric typewriter – with me.  

So it ought to have come as no surprise to me – but it did – that in the fall of 1977 I ‘lost my voice’.  Literally.  Lost.  My. Voice.  My throat hurt – my voice box and all the muscles around it – ached.  I was seen by an ENT specialist who advised me that I had damaged my vocal chords, and needed to completely rest my voice (not that I had much other choice, as if I tried to speak above a whisper it came out as a croak.  He suggested I stop working and referred me to…. a speech pathologist.  She was a lovely South African woman who likely recognized the root of my problem the first time we met, but who patiently worked with me, twice a week, helping me to change not just the way I used my voice, but the way I was living my life, and the way I perceived myself in the world.  During this time I spent most of my time alone, as conversation was difficult; talking on the phone was almost impossible. I wrote a lot, mostly introspective musings that now read like rubbish, but then were important in helping me come to terms with who I was, what I needed and wanted to do, and how and where I wanted to go.  

 

In the spring of 1978, after six months of therapy, I was a little more able to use my voice but still not able to work.  The speech therapist advised me that my vocal chords needed a further six months of rest – not speaking above a whisper, continuing my vocal exercises, and focusing more on relaxing activities such as yoga, and less on activities where I was pushing myself to achieve greater heights.  My doctor agreed.  Given that I still needed to spend much time alone, and couldn’t work at any job that required vocal communication, my options were somewhat limited.  But fortunately I had been working so hard I had amassed a fair chunk of change, and living in Vancouver then was cheap.  I had a new-ish car – a Toyota Corolla – fully paid for, and an apartment I could sublet.  There was no reason for me not to go on an extended holiday.  But where?  The answer was predictable: why not start from home, and go where the roads took me.  

And that is how my decision to embark on a solo sojourn across Canada – the great nation of my birth – was hatched.  As a keen environmentalist and avid camper, I decided I would take my time, drive back-roads as much as possible, and camp wherever possible.  I’d take my bike to do some riding.  And my flute, to do some playing.  I should have known then that my cross-Canada trip would be a voyage of discovery, not just of Canada, but of myself.  That understanding was confirmed on the back of a packet of sugar I picked up on my travels that said:  “Discover Canada.  Discover Yourself.”   Indeed. 

 

I took many photographs during this trip, all developed as slides that I have recently converted, through the wonders of modern technology, into digital format.  Some of the sharpness of the images has been lost, but the colours, I am happy to say, have remained true.  Viewing them again, and re-reading my journal from that time, has rekindled many memories, and reminded me of one of the things I learned on that adventure, and that is what a great country Canada is, how vast and beautiful it is, how varied its geography and its people are, and how much I appreciate being a citizen (by birth, as it happens) of such a wonderful nation.

 

Enjoy.