What’s with the cranberries this year?

I was walking through the grocery store the other day, when I noticed a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. She was standing in the check-out line; I went over and said "hello."

She wasted no time on irrelevant chit-chat (like "hi, how are you?").

"Have you been cranberry picking this year?"

"Yep," says I. "Last weekend."

"And . . . ?"

"And I don’t think we were the first people to hit the berry patch. We only got half a zip-loc."

She pursed her lips, shook her head. "No, no, it’s just like that this year. The berries aren’t where you expect them."

"Well, I thought I saw some evidence others had already been there: broken mushrooms and footprints in the lichen where someone had been walking."

She shook her head again. "No. It’s the berries. They probably weren’t there in the first place."

The conveyor belt whisked her groceries toward the till, and I moved on.

Later in the day, I had an appointment with my massage therapist. After the customary "where does it hurt?" conversation, she got straight to the point.

"Have you been berry picking this year?"

"Yes."

"And . . . ?"

"And when we found berries they were great: clusters of beautiful burgundy fruit, just like little grapes," says I. "But I think I chose a spot too close to town – someone beat us to it."

More of the lip-pursing and head-shaking. "No, no. It’s just like that this year. The berries aren’t where they usually are. We went to our favourite spot and . . . nada."

"Then where are they?"

She waved a hand. "Somewhere else."

So there you have it. Something strange is going on with the cranberries around Yellowknife this year. We all had high hopes. This summer’s weather was perfect for a bumper crop: long hot days, lots of rain at nights. And as noted above, when you find the berries, they’re great. It’s just that they are surprisingly elusive. Is this a permanent shift? Will we all have to find new preferred picking spots? Are the berries going to settle in their new locations for the long-term, or will they be migrating to different locations every year? We await the answers . . .

(Photo above was taken in 2002, a much better year for cranberries.)

Weekend at Blachford Lake Lodge

I'm trying to chip away at a new story, but autumn in the North provides too many distractions.

The most recent was a two-day trip to Blachford Lake Lodge, a 20-minute float plane ride from Yellowknife. I've been to the lodge a number of times, and know better than to take my laptop, story drafts, or even my yoga mat, for that matter. You have to make the most of your Blachford time, and when you're not eating (waistline warning: chef on site), you need to take advantage of the walking/skiing trails that loop out past the lodge, or the fishing opportunities (by boat in summer, through a hole in the ice in winter), or skating, sliding, dog sledding . . . whatever the season has to offer.

This was the first time I've gone fishing at Blachford. I didn't catch anything, but Pierre caught three pickerel at a nearby lake. He turned them over to chef Marc-Andre, who served them almondine-style on Sunday. Both guys were considered heroes by the lunch crowd.

The never-ending cycle of meals is a blur, but I remember whitefish, smoked char pasta, tomato soup flavoured with local juniper, apricot and white chocolate scones, braised red cabbage, rosti potatoes, fruit crumble, and ever so much more.

Spending time in the outdoor hot tub is one of my favourite year-round activities. After sipping champagne under the stars, it was a relief to get out of the water without worrying that my wet feet were going to freeze to the deck before I found my flip flops, or that my robe - wet from my pre-tub shower - was going to be frozen stiff, and therefore unwearable. (A hazard when tubbing at -40.) On the other hand, the northern lights tend to be better in the winter. It is quite cool watching them as the steam from the hot tub freezes into frost on your hair.

I took a book to read, but spent a good deal of time going through the lodge's eclectic little "northern library," which includes a number of books from the 1940s, '50s, '60s and '70s. Interesting to see how the North has changed over the years . . . and how it hasn't.

We arrived home yesterday evening, and so it was back to reality. I really should spend some time on my story, though, because cranberry-picking season is upon us, so guess what will be distracting me next weekend?

(Top photo: the main lodge. Bottom photo: rear of the original cabin on the Blachford property, now called "Trappers' Cabin," after Henry Cadieux and his wife, whose families are long-time residents of the area.)

An evening cruise on the Norweta

Pierre and I spent last night cruising Yellowknife Bay and Back Bay. Not an unusual circumstance in itself, but instead of bobbing along in our little boat, we plied the waters aboard the Norweta. A small cruise ship based in Hay River, NWT, the Norweta frequently makes its way across Great Slave Lake to Yellowknife, as well as up the Mackenzie River to Inuvik. The Mackenzie River cruises are particularly popular, attracting people from all over the world.

Last night’s event was a dinner cruise to raise funds for the NWT Mining Heritage Society. It was a great opportunity to visit with old friends, and to make some new ones. Cocktail hour was spent on the ship’s upper deck, while float planes took off and landed not far from us. There was a bit of a breeze, so we also got to watch sailboats gliding along, as well as the ever-present motor boat traffic.

After dinner below deck in the dining room, we were treated to quick history of mining in the Yellowknife area by Geddes Webster, a former mining engineer and public servant who lived in Yellowknife during its early days. Mr. Webster has carefully recorded his stories of Yellowknife, and the people who founded our community, in a book called The Prospectors' Pick. Needless to say, a copy now resides on our bookshelves.

Pierre and I live across the street from Yellowknife Bay, and have seen the Norweta slip past our front window many a time. Its movement is so silent and stately that we've taken to calling it "the ghost ship." I’ve been on day-cruises on the Norweta two or three times over the years, and appreciated the chance to go aboard again last night. The family that owns the boat is planning to retire, so have put it up for sale. No one’s sure what the future will bring for the little ship. It’s a part of our history, and like many other northerners, I hope it will stay in the NWT.

(The photo above was taken at the government dock in the Old Town; the one below was taken from our front deck this evening.)

Oxford on my mind

Ten years ago today, I was preparing to say farewell to one of my favourite places: Oxford, England.

I am a university geek. I probably should have been a professor, but that's not an option when you live a thousand kilometres away from the closest university. My first encounter with Oxford University occurred towards the end of my English degree with Athabasca University; a history prof and an English prof decided it would be fun to hold three-week summer courses in Oxford, so I signed on for the English course.

It was, sadly, a credit course, so I spent much time in my room labouring over my assignments. It occurred to me later that I needed to return and see everything I'd missed, so in the summer of 1998, I attended the University of Oxford International Summer School for six glorious weeks.

Five mornings a week, we attended lectures. We had four tutorials per week. The rest of the time, we read, wrote, went on tours (I think I saw four Stratford productions that summer), and explored the heart of the oldest university in England.

The best part was that I belonged to the university. I had a library card, so got to see the inside of buildings that were closed to mere tourists. One memorable day I sauntered into the Radcliffe Camera, a beautiful round building that is one of University's libraries, and ordered a book written by Julia Briggs, a professor who had delivered one of our morning lectures. The lecture was probably about Virginia Woolf (as was every second lecture, for some reason), but the book I requested was called Night Visitors, a history of the English ghost story.

Oxford is a national repository for books, and most have to be stored underground, because there's (clearly) not enough shelf space. So I waited as my book chugged up from the depths on a conveyor belt, then took it upstairs to read. Excited as I was to have the book in front of me, I spent more time staring out the window at the spires of neighbouring All Souls College than perusing Night Visitors. I've spent the intervening years trying to find my own copy of that book; I finally tracked one down on eBay a couple of months ago.

So 10 years ago today, the lectures had wound up, the assignments marked and handed back, and my bags were half-packed. Right about now I would be sipping champagne at a farewell "drinks party" in the Rector's private garden at Exeter College, before sitting down to the closing banquet in the dining hall.

Do I think about going back? Oh, yes. And guess what? They now offer a summer course in creative writing. :-)

Canadian Authors Association conference

Let's get in the Way-Back Machine while I reminisce about CAA's CanWrite! 2008 conference, held in Edmonton last month.

It was the first time I'd been to a CAA event, and I'll be back for more. There were great panels about the state of the writing/publishing/book-selling world and sessions on craft. Ralph Keyes, the author of the brilliant "The Writer's Book of Hope" was the keynote speaker. There were many opportunities to buy books by participating authors. (Too many, in fact. I had to buy a new duffle bag to get all my loot home.)

And then there were the "added extras." An open mic with readers backed up by the Raving Poets Band, a jazz-type ensemble. The music meshed well with the readings; darned impressive considering it was improvised. During the closing breakfast, "Nellie McClung" showed up to describe her shaky start as a author, the type of tale that goes down well with struggling writers. And then there was the young photographer who came in to do publicity photos.

Did I mention the food? University of Alberta Conference Services outdid itself, and I am still working off the poundage gained at the incredible buffet meals.

Everyone was very friendly, so it was a good opportunity for me to meet some new folks - especially those in our neighbouring province of Alberta - and introduce myself to others I have "met" via e-mail.

The organizers did a great job, and I had a great time.

They like me! They really like me!

I've just discovered that English Language Arts teachers in British Columbia have named me as one of their favourite authors. The teachers were surveyed by ArtStarts in Schools during the fall of 2007 on a number of issues related to teaching CanLit. The survey results include a page listing favourite authors. Far be it from me to drop names, but others on the list include Margaret Atwood, Mordecai Richler, Timothy Findley, and fellow northern writer Richard Van Camp.

I’m guessing the favourable opinion is based on my short story “The Prospector’s Trail,” which is included in Imprints 11, a textbook from Nelson Education Ltd. I knew I liked British Columbia - beautiful scenery AND impeccable literary taste!

Quick! Someone pass the AfterBite!

AfterBite being an anti-itch lotion . . . and if you're not dependent on this fine product, as many northerners are, count yourself lucky.

On Monday I returned from a week in the bush, fishing with Pépé and friends in the East Arm of Great Slave Lake. I am a reluctant camper, having given it up at age 14, much to the consternation of my fellow Girl Guides. (Is a Guide who doesn't camp really a Guide?) For the past couple of years the air charters to and from Quiet Cove have worked in such a way that I've only spent a manageable two or three days communing with the blackflies and mosquitoes. This year, however, it was a week or nothing.

We've had some rain recently, which creates the optimum environment for mosquitoes. There are many of them in the East Arm, they are the size of pterodactyls, and they are ravenous: I'm having nightmares about one little walk I took into the bush . . . a swarm of Hitchcockian portions formed . . . I was sure I'd be exsanguinated before I made it back to shore. The entire party had to scoot into the boat and push off, just to get clear.

I'm thinking of playing connect-the-dot with my bites, just to see what would come up, but that would take a long, long time.

Things were relatively quiet on the fishing front. Seems my glory days of catching twenty-something pounders have passed. So I read a book and a half in the boat, took some photos of the fabulous scenery, and swatted at mosquitoes with one of those nifty electrified-tennis-racquet-bug-killer-thingies that doesn't off nearly enough of the little blighters, but gives great satisfaction when you manage to connect.