Now you might want me to say that the committee chair gave me those mittens, and I would have to tell you — I wish I could say he had. But he didn’t. You see, they were his to keep — he had earned them. His planning team brought the world a tremendous gift when they hosted the 2010 Winter Olympics in Vancouver. He deserved this last pair of red Olympic mittens. So after I finished admiring them, I took them off — and gave them back.
Although those red mittens didn’t come home with me, for the few moments that I had them I felt the magic of them woven into my soul. I felt the spirit of Canada — through a simple pair of red mittens that mirrored the warmth of their country and stole the heart of the world.
~Sherry Taylor Cummins
Livonia, Michigan, USA
I Just Wanted to Play
Street hockey is great for kids. It’s energetic, competitive, and skilful. And best of all it keeps them off the street.
~Gus Kyle
I leaned against the railing of the VIP suite surveying the playing surface below me. The television lights glinted off the polished cement floor, highlighting the freshly painted red and blue lines and the multi-coloured logo that dominated the centre zone. Celebratory bunting was draped from the box seat facades and, when I raised my gaze, I marvelled at the number of nations represented by flags hanging from the rafters.
I was a guest at a Canadian icon, the famous Maple Leaf Gardens in Toronto, awaiting an honour I had never sought let alone thought possible. I read the inscription on the orange ball I was holding: “World Championship.” At my left stood another honouree, my best friend Paul. I handed the ball to him. He smiled and responded, “Did you ever think it would come to this?”
Playing road hockey is a “rite of passage” for young Canadians. A ball, a hockey stick, a street and enough players to form two teams were all you needed. Despite flying pebbles, lost balls, road rash and the need to move nets for “Cars!” we are passionate about the game. During my teen years, if I wasn’t in school or participating in other sports, I organized neighbourhood street hockey games whenever I could. Then it all came to a halt. I became a young man with more pressing responsibilities; but I never lost my love of the game.
Many years ago I had stood leaning against a less ornate railing, in a much smaller arena, surveying a dull grey floor with no markings. The winter ice had just come out and, as a part-time “rink rat” I was contemplating summer rink activities and asking myself what would it be like to play ball hockey on that empty floor? The answer… “Why not?” Indoor ball hockey is essentially the same as ice hockey, but without the ice, using an orange plastic ball in place of a puck.
At age twenty-one I was finishing my second year as an elementary school teacher. The extra income from my part-time work at the local arena was helping pay for my post-grad degree courses. Had this extra job made me the right person, in the right place, at the right time? I approached the arena manager with my “Why not?” idea. Playing street hockey in an empty ice rink, in summer, had never been tried. I volunteered to launch this new activity in our arena’s controlled setting, and he gave me the go ahead.
It was a humble beginning. We had just four teams and no sponsors. The young adult players paid a fee to cover the cost of their team sweaters, the balls, floor rental and the officials. My wife Carol and I managed literally every aspect of the league: scheduling games and officials, keeping statistics, and handling accounting. In addition to playing I wrote some basic “adaptive” rules. In particular, body checking and fighting were forbidden, and penalized with banishment.
To our amazement, our indoor street hockey was so popular we actually had to turn players away! The players loved the game and the unique format. With no skating required, it was hockey in which almost anyone could participate. It was fun, safe and encouraged terrific fitness.
Paul was the goaltender on my team, and he and his wife Lynn volunteered to help with the organization. We became life-long friends. The following year I transferred to a school in the north of Ontario and started a league in my new city. Paul took over managing the original league.
Media coverage of this revitalization of a Canadian cultural tradition prompted a stampede of young adults seeking to recapture some of the joy of their youth. New leagues spread like wildfire: provincially, nationally and then internationally. As a founder I was pressed into service in increasingly complex leadership roles, dealing with the good, the bad and sometimes the ugly events that occur when a new sport expands rapidly onto the world stage. The endless volunteer work and travel began taking its toll. By then I was a father of two young children and an educational administrator. Paul and I passed the torch to a new management team. The sport had grown so much that it was now run by a paid staff. Our volunteer management days were over.
But now Paul and I were holding the torch again, for the night.
“Gentlemen, it’s time.” Someone had arrived to escort us to the playing surface. We walked a red carpet to the face-off spot. The announcer introduced us as “founding fathers” and the crowd applauded. The Canadian and Russian teams, standing on their respective blue lines, tapped their sticks on the floor in salute, and the captains came forward for the ceremonial ball drop. I took my position, raised the ball high and waved to the crowd. Paul put his hand over mine and together we dropped the ball.
It was amazing how the sport had grown in forty years. Off the floor, a photojournalist posed the standard question: “How do you feel about all of this?”
“Years ago I had an idea for a new sport,” I said. “Today I’m watching the world’s finest players vie for international honours in a truly Canadian game, at one of our country’s most hallowed sporting venues. I feel honoured and very proud; but also a little disappointed.”
“Disappointed?” repeated the interviewer. “Why?”
I nodded toward Paul and he smiled, anticipating my reply.
“Because I would rather be playing. That’s all I ever wanted.”
~John Karl Forrest
Severn, Ontario
A Canadian First
Everything you’ve ever wanted is on the other side of fear.
~George Addair
One day earlier this summer, I sat down at Tim Hortons, my favourite reading and writing haunt. I was distracted by family issues, almost overwhelmed with worry. I tried to read but to no avail. I happened to look over at the woman sitting at the next table, and we made a connection. She gave me a big smile, and all I could do was smile back.
“I love coming to Tim’s to read and also write,” she said. I agreed, as I noticed her sparkling blue eyes and wondered if they reflected a happy spirit. She was wearing a bright pink jacket and maroon striped ankle boots.
She quickly introduced herself as Dyane, and invited me to join her. We soon discovered we had many things in common; besides being proud Canadians we both had Celtic roots. “I feel like I have come full circle,” I shared. “I was born right here in Vancouver, and now I work at the same hospital where I was born.”
“How interesting,” Dyane laughed. “I came to Canada from Ireland as a twenty-two-year-old landed immigrant, originally for six months. That was fifty-one years ago. I’ve had many challenges and opportunities here, and each one has helped me become stronger and overcome the fears and self-doubts I grew up with in Ireland.”
Walking home after our visit, I felt my spirit grow lighter and brighter. Dyane was good for me!
We met again, and our friendship grew. As the summer grew warmer we decided to meet for a swim and visit by my apartment pool. That afternoon I noticed Dyane had a tattoo on her ankle. This did not surprise me, as by now I had learned this seventy-three-year-old woman had a seriously adventurous spirit. I noticed the symbol on her ankle was encircled by a Canadian maple leaf.
“Tell me about your cool tattoo,” I said, leaning in for a better look.
“Well,” she replied, looking at her ankle with a mixed expression of humility and pride. “This is th
e Canada Ironman logo. In 1983, I was the first female to compete in the first Canada Ironman Triathlon. This symbol is to remind me that I am courageous and strong, and to never give up.”
Then she explained. “The first Ironman Canada was held in Penticton on August 20, 1983. There were twenty-five of us in the race. Twenty-four males and me, the only female.”
Smiling impishly, Dyane held up her leg so I could have a closer look. “Wow! Dyane,” I whispered. “What an amazing challenge.” I slumped back in my chair stunned.
Dyane spoke slowly. “I will never forget that early August morning as I stood on the sand beside Okanagan Lake in my one piece swimsuit and an orange swimcap with the “Canada Ironman” lettering. I thought of swimming as a sacred task that would put me in touch with my inner resources. In training, I had learned to be focused and present, and to accept my strengths and weaknesses.”
“I don’t know how you did it,” I murmured.
“It took concentration,” she said. “I closed my eyes and felt each breath filling every cell, organ and limb in my body. I breathed in a prayer. I was ready. I heard the splash of the water, the noise from the men. They breathed loud, grunted and groaned. I even felt a kick in my side because we were swimming in such a close pack. I had to resist the urge to panic.”
“No way I could have handled that,” I said.
“I had trained for it,” Dyane said. “I knew they didn’t mean to kick me. I focused instead on gliding. I swam on and on. As I came to the finish of my swim, I felt the buzz of the crowd, and I was so happy that I had completed the first phase.” Dyane took a breath. She smiled, and I could feel her excitement as she relived that day.
“The second phase of my journey required cycling. The swim had set me up. I was energized and prepared for the challenges of the hilly 112 miles. In the bike race I focused upwards on my intuition and intelligence, and downwards on the muscles of my legs. I pumped the pedals, leaned forward, and kept my eyes on the road ahead.”
She smiled as she remembered. “When I climbed off my bike, I put on my running shoes, gulped down another banana, and moved toward the gate to start the marathon. I was trembling by then, but somehow it was a relief to know that all I had left was a marathon!”
“Only a marathon?” I said. This woman was incredible.
Dyane said, “I was tired and sore, and my mind was numb. I wasn’t in a good place mentally. By the time I finished, it was dark, and I basically limped over the finish line. There were times I wanted to stop, but as the only woman in the race I could not quit. I remember cheers when I finally finished, and someone hung a lei around my neck.”
After listening to Dyane’s story I felt exhausted — even though I had not moved from my chair! I had many questions that I would hold onto until our next visit, but there was one I had to ask now. “Dyane,” I said, “how did you feel, and did completing such a challenge change you?”
“Well,” she began, “because of the Ironman Canada triathlon, I’ve been able to accomplish things I would never have dreamed possible before. For example, at age sixty-two I obtained a BA degree, with honours. I taught ESL in Japan and volunteered at a school in Kathmandu. I trekked the Annapurna Circuit. At age seventy I completed a full marathon in Penticton. Last month, at age seventy-three, I cycled the 300 kilometres from Vancouver to Seattle, and fundraised for the British Columbia Ride to Conquer Cancer.” She smiled shyly but proudly. “At seventy-three I’m teaching English and yoga, and volunteering with landed immigrant groups. I truly feel we all are challenged, at different times in our lives, by our marathons and triathlons, whatever they are,” she said with conviction.
Dyane’s words, example and courage inspired me. While our family issues — my own form of a marathon — were being resolved, I used Dyane’s example. I looked deep within and found energy and strength I didn’t know I had.
~Elizabeth Smayda
Burnaby, British Columbia
The Waterspout at White Otter Castle
Leave the beaten track occasionally and dive into the woods. Every time you do so you will be certain to find something that you have never seen before.
~Alexander Graham Bell
As a young filmmaker I was intrigued when I learned about the legend of White Otter Castle. Standing on the shore of a wilderness lake west of Thunder Bay, it was built single-handedly by Jimmy McOuat in the early 1900s. Legend has it that Jimmy, a Scottish immigrant, built his castle for a woman, a bride or a lost love. It remained standing long after he was gone, but by 1980 the large red pine logs that formed the foundation were rotting, the four-story tower was coming loose, and the roof was badly leaking. Remnants of fire pits and hundreds of carved signatures lined the interior of the unoccupied building. It was only a matter of time before the castle burned down or collapsed, disappearing altogether.
I quickly became hooked on the legend and embarked on an adventure to make a documentary film about it. First I met with Elinor Barr, the castle’s historian. Apparently, as a young man, Jimmy ventured west from Quebec and started a farm near Fort Frances, Ontario. In 1887 he sent for a mail order bride, but he backed out and sold his farm to go prospecting for gold. In 1903 he became a trapper near White Otter Lake, and there he began building his castle.
Needing to see it myself, I learned the only way to get there was by floatplane, boat or snowmobile. So on a gloomy day in mid-March I travelled north by train and rented a snowmobile. After an hour of travelling past frozen wilderness shores, I arrived at McOuat Bay at the north end of White Otter Lake. I could pick out the lonely grey castle in the distance, its fading red roof peeking out between the trees.
Climbing off my sled on the frozen beach, I stopped and simply stared at the building in reverence. The surrounding red pines lorded over a silence broken only by ravens squawking in the distance. Just below the tower I found an old wooden cross, surrounded by a small weatherworn picket fence. As I gazed at Jimmy’s snow-covered grave my mission suddenly became clear: to bring this man and his lonely wilderness castle to life, perhaps even help preserve it. I managed to take a few shots with my old Bolex film camera, but I had to head back before dark.
* * *
“First we take the train across the top of Lake Superior to a railway town called Ignace,” I explain. “Then, it’s a thirty-six mile canoe trip [fifty-eight kilometres] with eighteen rough portages — with all the film gear. What do you think?” With a grin, and a high-five, my wife Cathy says, “I’m in.”
The spring flowers are blooming when we board the train in Toronto. But the next day when we arrive at Ignace the ice has only just melted off the lakes; the air still has a chill to it. We rent a well-worn aluminum canoe and begin paddling south until we find a campsite. The next morning our tent is sagging from the weight of snow on it. Peering out the tent flap I see an entire landscape covered in three inches of snow.
As the day progresses the sun appears and melts everything. It also warms our souls as our wilderness confidence returns. After two more days of canoeing and portaging we arrive at the castle and set up our camp on the sandy beach. The evenings are cool enough to prevent mosquitoes and black flies from making a meal of us. Serenaded by loon calls, we watch spectacular sunsets.
In 1914, Jimmy was visited by a journalist. When asked why he built his castle, Jimmy responded, “When I was a boy out with my chums, one of them threw an ear of corn at a man and hit him in the ear.”
Blaming Jimmy, the man cursed him: “Jimmy McOuat! Ye’ll never do no good! Ye’ll die in a shack!”
“I never forgot it,” explained Jimmy. “Ye can’t call this a shack, can ye?”
I film the massive red pine logs that Jimmy cut and set into position. Jimmy had used a hand driven winch to haul the logs out of the bush before squaring and dovetailing them. He then raised them into place using pulleys, poles and trays of rocks. A practical man, Jimmy created his own burial tomb in a small cave across the bay, with bags of cement and tools inside so he could sea
l himself in when his time was near. But in 1918 Jimmy disappeared. The following spring two rangers found his decomposed body with a button caught in his fishing net. It is commonly believed he drowned while setting his nets.
Photo taken by Dennis Smyk 1999
With Jimmy’s story in mind, I begin filming as many shots as I can. Cathy and I discuss paddling across the bay to see if we can find Jimmy’s legendary cave, but decide against it in case a strong wind should come up and swamp our canoe. We would not last long if tossed into the frigid waters.
Just then, as if on cue, a powerful wind whips the branches of the tall pines surrounding the castle. Then a small twister appears in front of me on the beach. It whips up sand and debris and blows the clothes off our camp clothesline. After rattling our tent, the twister slowly spins around a large chunk of charred wood.
Our empty canoe sits on the beach, half in the water. Worried that it might blow away and strand us, I begin running toward it. But right before my eyes, the wind picks up the canoe on its stern, walks it over on its end, then gently places it face down on a log in the middle of our campsite.
If that isn’t baffling enough, a large circular rapid suddenly appears in the small bay. It’s so noisy we have to shout to hear each other. I run for my camera, and Cathy shouts, “Look Pete! A waterspout!”
It is unbelievable. A six-foot tall waterspout is now whipping and dancing in the middle of the circular rapid. I try to mount my camera on the tripod but my hands are shaking too much. Slowly the waterspout subsides and the circular rapid disappears. I manage to capture the tail end of it on film.