About halfway into the 18-minute, high-speed gondola ride up the mountain, my brother-in-law turned to me. He had a concerned look on his face. Beyond us in the distance we could see the steep vertical drops along the south ridge of the forebodingly titled Terminator Peak, the 7,900-foot mountain that caps the southern portion of Kicking Horse Mountain Resort.

Concerned is not the look you want to see on your skiing partner, especially when your skiing partner happens to have a good 20 years more of experience than you and is arguably at peak condition. Oh, and did I mention, had successfully trained at and passed the Police Academy?

“Just don’t tell my sister,” was the best I could come up with.

We were on the first lift up marking the beginning of a road trip through Canada’s famed Powder Highway. Despite the name, the Powder Highway isn’t a highway at all, but the unofficial name given to the region of southern British Columbia located on and between the Rocky Mountains and Columbia Mountains that is home to roughly 30 ski-related destinations ranging from traditional Nordic-style mountains, heli- and cat-skiing operators, and backcountry lodges.

To get there, most people fly like we did, to the oil-rich plains of Calgary, Alberta, rent a four-wheel-drive vehicle, then drive three hours due west through the Rocky Mountains on what is probably one of the most scenic stretches of road in the world through Banff National Park (itself home to several of the most famous ski resorts in Canada), where you are quickly enveloped by snow-covered peaks on either side of you. It’s here you realize early on you’re entering ski country.

Our plan was to take a circuitous route starting from the north at Kicking Horse Mountain Resort in the Purcell Mountains, head due south along Highway 95 and ski Kimberley Alpine Resort, then turn due east and back into the Rocky Mountains and take on Fernie Alpine Resort, before returning north to Calgary to catch our flight a week later. This would allow us to visit three of some of the most well-known ski resorts in the region, and to get a taste of the different snow conditions each mountain offers given their different terrains and locations (there was a lot of talk of snow composition during this trip, so be prepared).

Kicking Horse

Kicking Horse, located in the small mining town of Golden, is what is truly known as a “Skier’s Mountain.” Featuring the fourth-highest vertical drop in North America and over 2,800 acres of skiable terrain, Kicking Horse is one of those mountains that remind you of the footage you see in hardcore skiing movies you watch back when you’re safely on flat ground.

Having only started up skiing again the winter before after a decade-long break, the tentacles of trails plunging precipitously downward underneath our gondola had me racking my brain as to what level of skier I had told our guide that I was.

“I did mention on the email that I probably fall closer to the novice/intermediate level than advanced, right?” I asked Emile, a former ski instructor from Whistler and recent transplant to Golden.

“Don’t worry, we’ll stick to the beginner and intermediate trails,” he responded.

A memory popped in my head of someone telling me how the trails out West were graded on a curve, meaning many of those black runs back on our icy mountains on the East Coast were given such fuzzy labels as “Beaver Tail” and “Jelly Bean” here.

After arriving to the peak and making our way across the gently sloping trail atop CPR ridge (yes, really), we in turn dove down and into the nearly empty Crystal Bowl, gliding effortlessly through the “champagne powder” layer that had accumulated the night before, our skis naturally catching each turn and responding to each motion.

Did that just really happen? Powder snow? Responsive turns? Open glens bereft of hordes of skiers? As any East Coast skier can tell you, the initial sensation you feel on a mountain out West after years of carving through narrow, icy chutes, elbow-to-elbow with other skiers, is akin to the joy a bird must feel when let loose from their cage after years in captivity.

It was a classic bluebird day, and we spent the morning making trips up and down the mountain, an amazing feat when we realized how much skiing one can do when there are no lines at the lifts. Given that the distance from top to bottom is roughly 4,000 feet, it’s not unheard of to get in 40,000 feet of skiing on a comfortable day, a truly amazing amount of distance.

Of course, that would likely mean skipping lunch at the famed Eagle’s Eye Restaurant, which we weren’t prepared to do. The mountaintop eatery at the top of the main gondola offers skiers the opportunity to lunch on Truffle Fries or dig into a Strip Loin Steak, featuring Alberta Angus Beef served with Garlic Butter and Onion Jam, all while gazing several thousand feet out across the mountain vista. For those looking for one of the more unique lodging experiences, the restaurant is also home to two B&B-style rooms on the second floor with sweeping views of the resort.

Late in the afternoon after another lengthy run down the mountain, my brother-in-law turned to me as we came to a stop at the base. “This is easily the best skiing I’ve ever done in my life!” The irony of the statement is that the local staff kept apologizing to us for the unseasonable lack of recent snowfall the past week. Believe me, no apologies were necessary.

After a quadriceps-burning afternoon catching as many runs as we could before the low-rising winter sun began to set, we cleaned up back at the base lodge, then headed into town to explore Golden’s après-ski offerings.

Our first stop was the newly opened Whitetooth Brewing Company. Opened by home brewer Kent Donaldson, the brewery is part of a recent uptick in the number of breweries in the province as a result of the elimination of a law that once prohibited such breweries form serving beer to the public. Whitetooth specializes in so-called “West Coast” and Belgian-style beers, including the Thread the Needle Witbier, featuring lemon and pepper flavors, and the Icefields, a Belgian-inspired Pale Ale with a toffee aftertaste. The best option is the four-beer flight served with collectible cards that break down each beer’s composition (including names of each beer’s hop, malt and yeast).

After downing our flights, we decided on dinner at The Wolf’s Den. With its woodsy lodge interior and bonfires burning out front, you could almost imagine you had stumbled into a restaurant deep in mountain country, which, technically we were. In keeping with that theme, I chose the Elk Burger because, well, when else am I going to get the chance to eat one? The 7-ounce elk patty was served with peppercorn sauce and topped with Swiss cheese and whiskey bacon jam. I’m not much of a burger guy normally, but the flavor I tasted after biting into the game meat had me wishing there were more New York restaurants looking to expand their menu offerings.

Kimberley

For our second stop, we turned southward and made our way through the long valley between the steep Purcell and Rocky Mountains. We passed several pristine mountain lakes nestled along the highway, their surfaces shining bright blue in reflection of the sky. Along the way we also drove past Radium and Fairmont Hot Springs, publicly accessible natural hot springs bubbling up with sulfuric-tinged water pushed to the surface as a result of geologic activity that has its roots in the very mountains that now framed the horizon out our car’s windows.

Late in the afternoon we arrived at Kimberley Mountain Resort and settled in to the Trickle Creek Lodge where we would be staying for the evening. With the stated goal of stuffing ourselves with as many calories as possible to make up for the last 2 ½ days of downhill exertion, we met up with local Jesse Ferguson who agreed to show us a bit of what this former mining town had to offer.

First we stopped off for provisions at Centex Market. Run by Jill Bentley, this former gas station had been in operation for over 30 years before being recently converted by her into a thriving organic grocery store teeming with products that could rival any Whole Foods. We stocked up on breakfast burritos and Stoke Juices, her signature line of bottled juices prepared fresh every morning on site by cold pressing between 3 – 5 pounds of fruits and vegetable per bottle.

After parking near the center of town, we made our way to downtown Kimberley where rows of Bavarian-themed storefronts and buildings line the carless thoroughfares. Finding a place to eat or drink in Kimberley is not difficult given the fact that it’s home to the most number of restaurants per capita than anywhere else in Canada. We decided on pre-dinner beers at the wood shed-themed bar appropriately named The Shed, where you can try pints from local brewer Over Times Beer Works among groups of local “lifties” (those who work at the nearby resort) and racks of tools hanging from the walls.

For dinner we walked around the corner to Pedal & Tap, one of the highest rated restaurants in the city and which decided on a bike theme for its decor (they’re big on themes here). We decided on their famous Mucky Fries for our starter — hand-cut fries mixed with mozzarella, aged cheddar, maple bacon and green onions, and topped with a chipotle sauce — and the Wild Boar Meatloaf Medallions (they come wrapped in bacon and served with a cherry BBQ sauce) and the Vegan Thunder (a hearty Indian-influenced soup) for dinner.

By the next morning a wintry cold front had moved in, and the trails were covered with a fresh layer of powder snow greeting us as we headed out to explore the mountain’s 75 runs spread out across four faces — Northstar Mountain, Tamarack Ridge, Vimy Ridge and Black Forest. We were joined by Ron Concoran who, having sold his business years ago, now calls Kimberley home year-round and lives in a mountainside chalet-style home just a 30-second ski run away from the main chair lift — not a bad way to enjoy your winters.

We began with a few runs on the wide-open trails that make up the accessible Northern Mountain. We then cut across the ridgeline to the back end of the resort to Black Forest for what was to be some of the best skiing I’d ever experienced in my life.

Spread out across two dozen runs, Black Forest was eerily quiet and bereft of the other skiers who tended to bunch up at the front of the mountain, which meant we were given free range to loop up and down the mountain the entire afternoon, varying our runs between the several black diamond chutes carving their way through the snow-covered spruces.

The climate here is drier and less windy than most mountains, resulting in a fine, powdery snow that provides one of the best skiing conditions in the world. Skis feel like they float on the snow’s surface as you navigate through it, and it provides an amazing amount of responsiveness with little exertion, a plus for long days skiing.

Fernie

After a quick lunch at Stemwinder Grill in the resort village, we packed up and drove 1 ½ hours due east through the Rockies to the range’s eastern facing side to the famed Fernie Alpine Resort.

The resort has long been regarded as one of the favorite mountains in all of the Powder Highway for a few basic reasons. First, it’s huge. The resort features five main bowls and 142 runs spread out over 2,500 acres. Second, the resort, to put it bluntly, gets pounded with snow every year, averaging 30 feet (360 inches!) per year. Lastly, it’s just plain a lot of fun. Dating back to its opening in 1973, the resort adopted the party-friendly atmosphere like many ski towns of that era, particularly highlighted by the annual Griz Days Winter Festival that honors a fictional mountain man (Griz) that is said to call the area home (the festival itself revolves around live music, food, entertainment and other related winter revelry).

With a near-blizzard setting in that night, we woke up the next morning to over a foot of freshly fallen, heavy and wet powder that carpeted the entire resort —  a typical variety of snow given the moisture that collects at the front of the mountain range here.

Starting off at the far northern end at Cedar Bowl, I was not prepared for it was like to experience true powder. For an East Coast skier like myself, I was a bit unprepared on how different it would be. Used to digging in my skis and forcing directional changes as needed, I quickly planted myself face first into the snow on my first turn.

“Here’s a tip: Lean forward and let the skis float above the snow,” our guide for the day, Christina, suggested as I awkwardly picked myself up with my poles.

Though not intuitive, her advice to lean forward helped, and I slowly but surely got my ski legs back as we headed up and down each of the rest of the bowls, including the massive Lizard Bowl, the resort’s largest, as well as Currie Bowl, Timber Bowl and Siberia Bowl. By the time we made it to Siberia Bowl on the southern edge and cruised the length of the resort’s longest trail, my legs were burning and I was eyeing an excuse to break for the day and get my body in a warm tub of water as soon as possible.

Lucky for us, we were staying at the Lizard Creek Lodge, located at the base of the mountain and a stone’s throw away from one of the three base-level lifts. After a much-needed hot tub break (Fernie is where they filmed Hot Tub Time Machine after all) we met up with a group for dinner at Cirque Restaurant. With its soaring ceiling lined with exposed wood, four-sided fireplace and magnificent views of the mountain just outside the windows, it felt like a mix of Vegas mixed with the Rockies. Featuring such options as Duck Ragu Pappardelle, Sea Bass and Prawn Paupiette, and Elk Ribeye, you can rest assured you’re going to eat well in your effort to replenish the calories burned carving through thick powder during the day.

Just off the lobby of the restaurant is one of the more unique bars in the resort, the Ice Bar. We were handed fur-lined Helly Hansen parkas and led through a thick, metal door that opened up into a temperature-controlled ice-covered room complete with an carved ice bar and frozen shelves featuring dozens of different vodkas for tasting. With little knowledge in the world of Vodka, the hostess/bartender that escorted us in suggested a few bottles to try, including my favorite, the award-winning Crystal Head Vodka, partially owned by Canada’s own Dan Akyroyd.

With our nightcaps finished we strolled out into the night. The storm continued to churn over the mountains, blanketing our surroundings with another fresh layer of snow in the short time since we had sat down for dinner. The sky was pitch dark and it was quiet out except for the low drone of the snow groomers high above us on the mountains tending to the runs for tomorrow’s eager skiers. We would not be a part of them. Our legs were exhausted and our flights were the next day. Flights that would take us back to flat land thousands of miles away and to days spent calculated not in miles per hour or vertical distance covered. Those days would have to wait, once again, until the next winter.

By Matt Stabile /

Matt Stabile is based in New York City, and is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of The Expeditioner which was founded in 2008. You can read his writings, watch his travel videos or contact him via email at any time at TheExpeditioner.com.

The post A Powder Highway Ski Trip Through Canada appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

On the narrowest stretch of the trail, hemmed in by forest, Fripouille locked his icy-blue eyes onto me. “Hey, why aren’t we moving?” he seemed to be asking. Not that he could ask me as much. Fripouille (Scoundrel in English) was one of six Alaskan huskies standing in front of me, howling in cacophonic impatience. I gripped the bar of the wooden sled and kept one foot on the brake lever, as I had been instructed by Antoine Simard, the energetic manager and dogsledding trainer of Expédition Mi-Loup on Ile d’Orleans, a few miles downriver from Quebec City.

It was my first time on a dogsled, and I didn’t know how to answer Fripouille, because in this moment, I was also experiencing my first dogsled traffic jam.

Several dogs pulling the sled in front of us had stopped on the side of the trail for a bathroom break. But these dogs were pros at pooping on the run, and had finished before another bark could crack the crisp breeze crossing the island. I lifted my foot off the metal brake. The clanking sound was all Fripouille and company needed to send them trotting, even before my wife, sitting in the sled’s only seat, could shout “allez!” (go!).

And then, gracefulness in motion: six furry tails waving in unison; tongues flapping and steaming. Our faces smacking cold, clean air while traveling fossil fuel-free. No, it wasn’t the Iditarod, but we glided at a comfortable pace that allowed us to absorb views from the trail that first passed through snow-burdened evergreens and then rose up to the island’s naked spine.

And that was part of our plan. My wife and I live in New York City, where we find winter little more than a nuisance of slushy, un-shoveled sidewalks and brusque exchanges — something that just has to be tolerated. We wanted to learn how to look past that limited and unfortunate view of a season. To do that, we had decided to travel to a place where winter is bolder and longer, where winter is not merely tolerated, but also put into one’s service, even embraced.

But first, I had to let an illusion die. I have always wanted to shout a particular word, a syllable that sends muscle into action: mush! The word owes its existence to the peculiar topography of Canada’s bilingual legacy that began with French dogsledders shouting the command marche (“go!”) to their dogs, which became bastardized in English as “mush.” I wanted to feel that history, experience it, pass it on.

Alas, the word has mostly fallen out of use. “It doesn’t matter if you say mush, marche, allez, whatever. The dogs won’t move,” Antoine had told us during our briefing. “The dogs hear the brake release noise as their signal to run.” His buoyancy defied the morning’s chilly gusts, the flaps on his hat up, his beard keeping his face amply warm.

My mushing fantasy had not fallen completely through the ice, however. The word “mush” reentered French, naming the person who drives the dogsled: le musher. In a charming tangle of Canada’s sometimes antagonistic history of language, the word musher is the same in English. This made me a musher, no matter what language I speak.

Fripouille led us back to our launch point outside Auberge Le P’tit Bonheur, an inn that occupies a stone and wood building older than the word musher. Alaskan huskies, their thick fur in the subdued hues of frigid wilderness, distinctly resemble the wolves of their ancestry, but I never knew they were world-class cuddlers. A few strokes along the deep warmness of their neck fur sent them into a nuzzle frenzy, almost knocking me over. An aura of husky musk became our wearable souvenir.

Antoine manages 160 sled dogs and 60 puppies, not one of them named after a real person. Fictional characters, however, remain fair game. When he mentioned that one is named Homer (as in Bart Simpson’s father), I suspected Homer might have been in the back row of our sled team, since he kept pulling to the side of the trail to chomp indulgently on mouthfuls of snow like doughnuts.

The Slow Squeeze

A few days before, we’d traveled to the other side of Ile d’Orleans to visit the orchard of Domaine de la source à Marguerite, where winemaker Conrad Dion offered us a peek at the process of pressing frozen apples to make cidre de glace — ice cider, a specialty of the region.

In the winery’s garage-like workroom, Conrad and his assistant Jean-François, both in rubber boots and knit caps, plugged their fingers in their ears, exaggerating the pose as if a cartoon bomb were about to explode, insuring my wife and I mimicked them. Jean-François opened a valve on top of a cylindrical press, inside of which a thick-walled rubber balloon shot out a fierce hiss, releasing its 50 pounds per square inch of pressure.

Jean-François removed the metal lid from the press to reveal hundreds of flattened apples, still frozen, stuck to the outer wall. The syrupy juice had emerged from tiny holes on the outside of the press, as if it had been sweat out.

Why press the apples frozen? As with pressing frozen grapes to make ice wine, pressing frozen apples produces a concentrated juice because more of the liquid stays behind as ice. The process results in a sweeter, more coveted prize, owing to the higher sugar content, so long as the climate reliably provides a season-long deep freeze.

Jean-François passed me a hydrometer, a device like a pirate’s spyglass. I peeked inside to find a blue line almost off the scale: 34 percent. Was the blue line the sugar percentage? “Oui,” Jean-François answered, his Quebecois accent shaping the word into a casually clipped “weh.”

My wife and I had already been familiar with ice cider’s allure. Four years before we got married on the island and served a case of Domaine Marguerite’s ice cider to our guests during dessert. One of our guests made her particular fondness of the beverage known by announcing, “Ice cider is my new boyfriend!” in front of her boyfriend.

I had imagined I’d hear a percussive concert of shattering frozen fruit during the pressing, but it proved to be much less dramatic. The pressing requires about an hour, depending on the outside temperature where the crates of picked apples are stored. The only sound from the press, aside from its brief wail of sibilance when deflating, was a gentle, therapeutic trickle of thick juice falling into a tray.

The juice would then ferment for six weeks before being bottled. But time is not the only laborious factor. Conrad told us that 80 apples are needed to make one 375 milliliter bottle.

“Quatre-vingt pommes? (eighty apples)?” I asked, insuring my basic French skills hadn’t deceived me.

“Weh, weh.”

Across the road, a few apples, having turned orange and glistening as if candied, still dangled off bare black branches. “We left a few apples for the birds,” Conrad said. I picked one. It felt as hard as a billiard ball. I reckoned the birds needed ample patience — and strong beaks — to snack on these natural juice pops.

Domaine Marguerite’s ice cider has won numerous awards in competitions held in the Finger Lakes region of neighboring New York State, a feat more admirable considering that Conrad and his wife have only been making ice cider since 2001. But that is a long time in ice cider years. Frozen apples were first pressed in the late 1980s in the southern part of the province, the resulting creation following poutine as another Quebecois culinary invention.

Budding winemakers from milder climates take note: cheating by putting fresh apples in a freezer will fail. Apples must be kept outside to allow air to freely circulate around them, preserving their flavor, that modern flavor of the Quebecois winter, of oenological ingenuity, of boyfriend replacement.

Sleeping with the Moai

Ice cider appears on drink menus at many restaurants in nearby Quebec City. Flute glasses of ice cider commonly accompany ris de veau (sweetbreads), cheese plates, and crème brûlée. Our next serving of ice cider arrived the following evening at the bar of Quebec City’s Hôtel de Glace, the only ice hotel in the Americas.

Located on the grounds of what used to be a zoo 10 minutes north of Quebec City’s old town, the single-level ice hotel was constructed out of 25,000 tons of snow and ice: vaulted walls, chairs, the bar, everything. That total doesn’t count the daily requirements of the bar that serves drinks in glasses made of ice. Thankfully, I avoided the awkwardness of a Christmas Story moment because alcohol freezes at a temperature lower than water, thus my lips didn’t stick to the glass.

We didn’t stick to the ice pews in the hotel’s non-denominational ice church either. Each pew was draped in a quilt, insulating us from the ice but still allowing the seat to exude a mandatory hardness expected of church seating. With clear ice posts and a packed snow vault reaching over 20 feet high, the ice church seemed to be a place where it was acceptable, even encouraged, to keep the sermons short and sweet.

“We have 40 weddings here each year. We even had one wedding where the groom was a Scotsman who walked down the aisle in traditional Scottish clothing. Know what I mean?” announced our guide Caroline Lafrance from her fur-ringed parka hood. While my half-frozen lips had turned my pronunciation skills into a slur-fest worthy of a wino, Caroline’s speech remained almost flawless, the temperature unable to affect her joke deliveries.

Several of the hotel’s 44 rooms showcased one-of-a-kind sculptures by 15 artists. The Pegasus room featured a 10-foot-high packed snow carving of the winged stallion on a wall. Thick-bodied moai towered over the bed of the Île de Pâques (Easter Island) room.

Two of the rooms featured fireplaces. But guests needed not worry about melted walls collapsing on them as they enjoyed the fireplace’s glow. “They warm your heart, not your body,” Caroline announced. The custom-built fireplaces, though metal-framed — the only metal I’d seen in the ice hotel — are doubly insulated so the heat quickly rises up the vent and out of the hotel, allowing the flame’s gentle flicker, but not its heat, to mesmerize guests.

The construction of an ice hotel could only succeed in an environment that falls under a prolonged deep freeze. All those brief, delicious, spring-like warm-up periods we New Yorkers savor during our winter would spell doom for an ice building. The only melting with which we needed to concern ourselves was known as the rookie’s ring. “Don’t leave your ring on the night table in your room,” Caroline warned. “The ring is warmer than the ice and we will have to chisel it out in the morning.”

In addition to chisels, the hotel’s maintenance crew kept an arsenal of tools specifically suited to ice-based architecture. I occasionally saw a three-man crew passing me in the halls with a wheelbarrow of snow and a couple shovels. I imagined they are the ones tasked with covering the handiwork of snickering couples who have carved their initials into the walls.

We walked to the hotel’s Celsius lounge, a separate, heated building to the side of the hotel, where we stored everything except the clothes we needed for sleeping. We received instruction on how to survive in our room overnight: cotton clothing traps moisture, making you feel cold, thus is your enemy; change your clothes while inside the sleeping bag to prevent heat from escaping; the sleeping bags are rated to -22 degrees Fahrenheit, but the rooms remain at a steady 24 degrees, so you may sleep naked if you wish (the sleeping bags are washed every day).

Ice, especially the custom-made, bubble-free, crystal clear ice used by the ice hotel’s sculptors, would have presented a privacy issue, so the walls were fashioned from packed snow almost a yard thick. The hulky, vaulted shell surrounding us made me feel as if we had hunkered down in the catacombs of a church, or a dungeon turned condo — the ultimate in creative urban renewal — complete with a mattress atop an ice platform.

The experience seemed to straddle the unlikely territory from camping to backpacking to luxury fantasy. But the night’s intense quietness struck me the most. Once zipped up inside the sleeping bag, I heard nothing but the rhythm of our breathing and the occasional chiming crackle from ice forming and melting on the outside of my ski mask, just below my nose.

Along the way, we learned the best way to make a bathroom run, a journey that involved walking to a heated outhouse outside the hotel: quickly.

Cold Enough for a Parade

The next night, in the sloping streets of Quebec City’s walled old town, we encountered something that normally fills New Yorkers with dread: snowy, slushy sidewalks. The folks of Quebec City turned the situation to their advantage by pulling along their young ones in sleds, saving the tots the hassle of slipping and falling down.

The residents and storeowners with shovels in hand wore the same crumpled grimaces of snow shovelers everywhere: the “just get it done” face. But in Quebec City, shoveling served to better expose dozens of ice sculptures on the sidewalks, rivaling the ice hotel’s selection. A hockey player in mid-pass, a beaver, a miniature Eiffel Tower, a mannequin modeling a t-shirt — these were just a few of the pieces fronting stores and restaurants, as if a vigorous competition for creating the most enticing sculpture had seized the city.

Quebec City saw no reason to limit itself to a single ice bar. Several nightclubs, including a drag cabaret venue, had built ice bars on the sidewalk, heat-free LED lights illuminating the carved contours of the counters with slowly changing colors.

Just outside the city’s 17-Century fortified wall stood a 30-foot-high ice castle, perhaps taking inspiration from the former. The structure, complete with a jagged parapet, seemed to fulfill a Lego builder’s dream, one where the rare and coveted clear windshield bricks are unlimited.

At night, the temperature sunk to 5 degrees Fahrenheit and gusts of snow were greedily biting at every inch of exposed flesh. What is a city to do when confronted with such climatic challenges? Why, hold a carnival parade, of course.

For Quebec City’s 60th annual carnival celebration, the city closed down the Grande Allee, the city’s widest avenue, for a procession of marching bands (gloves optional), creepy avian-themed stilt-walkers and trailers full of oil-drum percussionists and carnival dancers wearing more clothing than their New Orleans counterparts, but otherwise matching the American city’s delicious dance steps move for move.

Acrobats tumbling onto a float-bound trampoline mocked the temperature with shorts over skin-colored leggings. I noticed that most of the Quebecois stayed put and savored every somersault and tight drumming riff. We remained in the gusts as long as we could stand, but eventually, we wimped out and sat in the provided warming station (a yellow school bus with the heat turned on) for a while.

It looks like our education in embracing winter is not yet complete. I think we might have to return next winter for another lesson.

By Darrin DuFord /

Darrin DuFord is a travel writer, mapgazer, and jungle rodent connoisseur. He has written for BBC Travel, the San Francisco Chronicle, Roads & Kingdoms, Gastronomica, and Perceptive Travel, among other publications. His work appears in Stories of Music, a multimedia anthology released in November 2015 by Timbre Press. Follow him on Twitter at @darrinduford.

The post Learning To Befriend Winter In Quebec appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

“Hey Matt, any interest in taking a day trip to Niagara Falls on Sunday?”

It was an innocuous enough question to receive by email, especially for someone that runs a travel blog, but I had to wonder: Did the sender realize I lived in New York City which, at last check, was not normally considered a convenient starting point for a day trip to the largest waterfall in North America (Google Maps pegs the drive to Niagara Falls from New York City at 411 miles and nearly 7 hours by car)?

But, alas, this was no usual day trip, this was the inauguration of a new trip organized by Viator, the travel tour and experience booking site called, aptly enough, Niagara Falls Day Trip from New York by Private Plane.

“Sure,” I replied, “What time do we leave?” Very, very early, it turned out.

*

My day began in Brooklyn at 5:45 a.m., a time too often reserved for heading to bed for me, not for waking up. However, on that particular morning, I took a quick shower and hopped in a cab to our meeting point at the Sheraton Tribeca in Lower Manhattan where a chartered bus was scheduled to pick me up at 6:30 a.m.

After buying a much-needed coffee at the deli next door to the hotel, (which, I might add, was miraculously open at that hour; I’m not sure if they were still operational from the night before or were just opening for the day), I hopped in the bus and we drove through the empty Sunday morning streets of Manhattan (if you want to see the “City That Never Sleeps” asleep, take a drive down Canal Street at 6:45 a.m. on a Sunday morning). We then drove an hour west to Republic Airport, the small, regional airport located in East Farmingdale, Long Island.

Of course, when traveling in style, i.e, chartered plane, there’s a little timesaver involved called “skipping TSA.” When we arrived, our bus drove through the airport parking lot and straight onto the tarmac, directly next to a waiting plane, an Embraear 120, a Brazilian manufactured, 30-seat twin-turboprop commuter airline whose length measures a manageable 66 feet, and which maxes out at a cruising speed of 378 m.p.h.

Just minutes later we were strapped in and making our way down the runway for takeoff, a surreal experience for anyone used to lining up and waiting on the seemingly always crowded runways at nearby LaGuardia and JFK Airports.

Once airborne, the flight itself was a svelte 1 hour 10 minute-long jaunt northwest over the length of New York. On board was a chipper flight attendant who served us drinks to accompany the bagged breakfasts consisting of a croissant sandwich, fruit cup and yogurt that were waiting for us on our seats.

As everyone around me quickly passed out and napped the entirety of the flight, I worked my way through an issue of Time Out and then only through the introduction to the newest issue of Vanity Fair before the pilot announced that we were beginning our descent, a record accomplishment of futility in reading for any trip — a sure sign of briskness.

While on board, I was informed by Viator they had put this trip together due to growing consumer demand from travelers looking for unique one-of-a-kind day trip experiences from New York. Utilizing private coach buses and local regional airports, the trip focuses on convenience and efficiency to maximize time spent at the falls. It also focuses on people who have lots of cash-money on hand. The trip isn’t cheap — $579 — but isn’t all that expensive given the amount travelers experience for that price.

By 9:52 a.m. (according to my Twitter feed), we had landed and made our way down the red carpet that had been laid out for us, leading to a table topped with champagne flutes, always a welcoming sight upon arriving at any airport. I’ve been told the red carpet and booze will not be a normal occurrence for day trippers, but I’m sure arrangements could be made in advance for special occasions or potential visiting dignitaries.

Of course, FAA regulations would likely bar such activities at Buffalo Niagara International Airport, which was located 18 miles to the southwest from where we had landed. But, lucky for us, we had landed at Niagara Falls International Airport, located 18 miles closer to the falls, and more importantly, on the opposite side of Buffalo, meaning we were just a short 12-minute ride to our destination. Yes, it doesn’t get much easier than that.

For the same price, travelers can choose to visit either the American or Canadian side of the falls. For those unaware of the layout of the area, Niagara Falls themselves are actually a series of three waterfalls — Horseshoe Falls, the American Falls and the Bridal Veil Falls — which are collectively located about halfway up the isthmus where the Niagara River flows northward, connecting Lake Erie in the south to Lake Ontario in the north.

Where the falls are located, the river has abruptly turned north after having made an abrupt right angle turn to the west. The larger falls closer to Canada that create the “elbow” in this turn is Horseshoe Falls and is in Canada — the American Falls and Bridal Veil Falls are just to the north straddling the American side of the river, and are thus considered U.S. territory.

What this means for visitors is that if you want see the falls from the Canadian side, bring your passport: the bus drops off those who want to stay in America at the entranceway to Niagara Falls State Park (American’s oldest state park in fact), and those that want to make their way to the more built-up, casino-and-high-rise-hotel-laden side of the attraction, can stay on the bus and make their way over Rainbow Bridge  (so named for the nearby rainbows that are prone to crop up due the mist kicked up by the falls) to Canada.

After a quick stop-off at customs on the Canadian side, we were dropped off at Table Rock Welcome Center, located at the edge of Horseshoe Falls. We were then led into the welcome center where we were handed lanyards with “Adventure Passes” attached (they sell for $50), which allow you entrance to, most importantly, the river cruise run by Hornblower Niagara Cruises, the behind-the-falls hike known as Journey Behind the Falls, and White Water Walk, a boardwalk that runs along the base of the falls.

By this point it was 11:00 a.m., and our group was told that our bus was scheduled to head back at 2 p.m., leaving us a few hours to explore. With waterproof GoPro, DSLR and videographer in tow (you know, normal travel entourage), our group of three travel bloggers headed straight to the river cruise, located 10 minutes away down a scenic path that overlooks the falls and the river they feed hundreds of feet below.

As my article researcher (otherwise referred to as “Mother”) later informed me, 2014 is the first year there are two difference companies offering river cruises at the falls. Since the mid-1800’s, the famed Maid of the Mist tour boats have led poncho-clad visitors from both the American and Canadian side of the falls to the falls. After losing their contract  in 2013, Hornblower Niagara Cruises now has exclusive rights to launch their two 700-person catamarans from the Canadian side.

After making our way down a long walkway to the boats, we were handed red ponchos (Maid of the Mist uses blue ponchos, and I’m sure the two dueling colors are some sort of Star Wars reference), and joined a couple hundred visitors on the boat, most of whom had rushed to the upper deck of the boat. After kicking off from the shore, the boat quickly made its way past the two falls on the American side, then charged headfirst toward the center of the Horseshoe Falls, which then caused a flurry of extremely wet and harried people to rethink their vantage point and quickly make their way back to the deck below.

The fact is, Horseshoe Falls, measuring 188 feet high and appropriately shaped like a horseshoe, expels a lot of water. Actually, Horseshoe Falls account for 90% of all the water that flows over the falls from the the Niagara River — an estimated 6 million cubic feet of water per minute — so that produces mist. Actually, that creates a lot of mist, hence the extremely wet humans rushing to make their way to dryer conditions after what seemed like a large portion of that 6 million cubic feet of water in mist form had been directed at our boat from a gust of wind.

The cruise itself was short, about 20 minutes, and before long we were docking back on the mainland and drying out our jackets on the benches along the riverside. After checking to make sure my various electronic devices were still working (miraculously, and with help of the ponchos and a messenger bag, they were), we headed up the walkway and back toward the welcome center.

Given our delays taking pictures, Instagramming, sending out tweets, taking video and posting our pictures to Facebook (this is what happens when you travel with bloggers), our time was already running short.

With about an hour left, I ditched my dawdling companions and took an elevator 150 feet down from the welcome center to the Journey Behind the Falls, the tunnel complex located about as close to the base of the falls as you’d want to get, which allows you access to an outside promenade at the base of the falls, as well as to a tunnel with two offshoots that allow you to walk up to a vantage point located just behind the actual falls. If you’ve ever wondered what 739,700 gallons of water falling at nearly 20 m.p.h. looks and sounds like close up, the answer is that it’s both awe-inspiring and somewhat frightening.

With time running out, I met the rest of the group at the waiting bus and got going back to our return flight home. Our delay at the border getting back to the U.S. was considerably longer that heading into Canada, but anyone who’s traveled internationally would not be surprised by this in the least (you’re also at the whim of how many, and where the people are from, in the buses that happen to be in front of you in line).

Once back on U.S. soil, we picked up the rest of the group at the park entrance, snaked our way past an inordinate number of Indian restaurants in town, and were back aboard our plane on the tarmac minutes later, ready to whisk us back to the city.

By 7 p.m. I was at home uploading pictures to Facebook and fielding questions from friends about when I had traveled to Canada. This morning, I replied, just a quick day trip out of the city.

By Matt Stabile /

Matt Stabile is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of TheExpeditioner.com. You can read his writings, watch his travel videos, purchase the book he co-edited or contact him via email at any time at TheExpeditioner.com.

The post I Took A Day Trip To Niagara Falls From New York City: This Is What It Was Like appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Count one more victim of the cold brought by the recent polar vortex in North America. As temperatures dipped down to -20 Fahrenheit, the water around Niagara Falls begin to freeze, creating some spectacular images for those brave enough to head outside in the cold to witness the event (such as the one above).

It should be noted, freezing is not actually that uncommon in and around the falls (this is upstate New York/Ontario we’re talking about), although it usually occurs a little more gradually than what occurred this week (temperatures dropped 47 degrees in less than 24 hours from January 6 to January 7).

It should also be noted that the falls don’t actually totally freeze over — we’re talking about 150,000 gallons of water per second flowing 176 feet down — however, once, back on March 29, 1848, it was recorded that an ice jam upriver from the falls caused a blockage, resulting in the falls drying up for a few hours until the block of ice dislodged and allowed water to flow back downstream (a few intrepid individuals even ran out to the edge of the falls to grab rocks as a souvenir).

[Spectacular photographs show the moment Niagara Falls FROZE in polar vortex via UK Mail]

By Matt Stabile

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matt Stabile is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of TheExpeditioner.com. You can read his writings, watch his travel videos, purchase the book he co-edited or contact him via email at any time at TheExpeditioner.com. (@TheExpeditioner)

The post Niagara Falls Began To Freeze This Week, And This Is What It Looked Like appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

This article is brought to you by Emirates. Before your trip to experience one of these 33 reasons to visit Toronto, be sure to visit Emirates, which operates flights to Toronto from Dubai using a state-of-the-art fleet, including the new Emirates A380.

Toronto is one of North America’s largest cities and one of its most popular destinations for travelers. But just in case you needed a few reasons to visit soon, here are 33 reasons to visit Toronto from Toronto expert Natalie Taylor of Near Afar.

1) Because we greet you with our signs.

2) Because in case you didn’t know where you were, we made sure to spray paint the city name at the beginning of Graffiti Alley.

3) Because it’s much more fun to find the Monopoly Man instead . . .

Graffiti art by Cheryl Howard/Instagram

4) . . . or the Original Banksy (since removed and now immortalized in a frame at Hotel Ocho).

5) Because for $3, you can get from one end of Queen Street to the other on the best form of transportation in the world: the streetcar — ride the Rocket.

Congestion by Benson Kua/Flickr

6) Or you could ask this guy for a ride on his Tuk Tuk . . . 

7) . . . or we’ll get all Canadian on you and tell you to take a canoe. This one’s on land though (Canoe Landing Park), but nice view, eh?

8) Because where else in the world can you take a canoe to one of three islands and visit a nude beach (Hanlan’s Point)?

9) Because we’re so nice here, we won’t even bother you when you’re exploring, you can just take a self-guided “Discovery Walk.” Just follow the signs.

10) Because one moment you could be in Little Italy (with its very own Walk of Fame) . . . 

Scenes after Italy’s win by by Tom Purves/Flickr

11) . . . and the next moment you could be in one of the largest Chinatowns in North America . . .

Spadina Ave. by Danielle Scott/Flickr

12) . . . and then a few minutes later, you could be listening to a sitar and didgeridoo duo (amongst many other street performers) on Pedestrian Sundays in Kensington Market . . .

Sitar, didgeridoo and homework by Shreyans Bhansali/Flickr

13) . . . followed by lunch at what feels like the coastline of Greece (Sunnyside Pavillion).

14) And while we may not be as known for our poutine as is Montreal, we’ve got out own fair share of restaurants serving the french fries/gravy/cheese curd dish.

15) And because we like a multicultural twist, we take our fries, put kimchi, pork and mayo on it, and call it “Kimchi Fries.”

Banh Mi Boys Sandwich Shop, 392 Queen Street West

16) In fact, half the people living in Toronto today were born outside of Canada, so for us multiculturalism isn’t just a motto, it’s a fact of life.

Canada Day by Svetlana Grechkina/Flickr

17) But sometimes it can get a little out of hand.

18) Because we don’t call the T Dot “Hogtown” for nothing.

Hogtown Charcuterie, Kensington Market (@HTChar)

19) And you definitely don’t leave this city without having some Canadian back bacon at the famous Carousel Bakery in the St. Lawrence Market.

20) Because where else can you can swim with a view like this?

The Thompson Hotel Rooftop pool, Toronto

21) And because your apartment can have this incredible view for far less rent than you’d pay in Vancouver, San Francisco or New York.

22) Because Degrassi was Toronto-born and bred. (We have the street sign — and Drake — to prove it.)

23) And even though the Leafs haven’t won a Stanley Cup since 1967, our fans are still fierce supporters.

24) Because our music scene is incredible (Rush, Broken Social Scene and Neil Young are from Toronto), and you can check it out for free during the North by Northeast Festival at Dundas Square

December 28 by blackbodypie/Flickr

25) Because you can drink and dance with the dinos during the Friday Night Live parties at the Royal Ontario Museum . . . 

26) . . . and detox over the weekend with yoga at the Art Gallery of Ontario.

Drop-in: Yoga in the AGO via/Ago.net

27) Because The Evergreen Brickworks (a former factory site turned environmental center) makes our metropolis a better place.

The Evergreen Brick Works

28) Because you can’t get any more hipster than bike polo in Trinity Bellwoods Park . . .

Wacky bike polo by Fermata Daily/Flickr

29) . . . or ironic game playing at the world’s largest board game cafe at Snakes and Lattes.

Cafe photo by Snakes and Lattes/SnakesAndLattes.com

30) Because Toronto was home to perhaps the greatest and funniest show ever made.

The Kids in the Hall Walk of Fame induction via/National Post

31) Because the Courage My Love shop in Kensington Market got artsy and put a bird on it years ahead of Twitter and Portlandia.

32) And because even though our city is up “in smoke” about our infamous Mayor . . .

33) . . .  we all feel like there’s no better place in the world to live than here.

Toronto City Hall, Canada, by Francisco Diaz/Flickr

Top Image: Toronto CNE by Paul Bica/Flickr

By Natalie Taylor

About the Author

Natalie Taylor is a freelance writer based in Toronto. She is a local expert and ambassador for AFAR and has been featured in The Globe and Mail, The Toronto Star, National Geographic Traveler, Blackbook Magazine and more. Find her blogging about her adventures near (Toronto) and afar at NearAfar.com and see more of her quirky photos on Instagram.

The post 33 Reasons to Visit Toronto appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

I realize it’s a little late in the season to feature a video of Montreal showing how beautiful it is in the winter, especially given that now’s the time to start planning a summer getaway to the city — a season when the city really comes alive — but this ode to the freezing city in winter makes you realize that Montrealers almost have as much fun in the winter as they do in the summer (hello snow rave at 0:50).

By Matt Stabile

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matt Stabile is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of The Expeditioner. The Expeditioner began in 2008 and is headquartered in New York City. You can read his writings, watch his travel videos or contact him at any time at TheExpeditioner.com. (@TheExpeditioner)

The post Surprise: Montreal Is Actually Really Fun In The Winter Too [Travel Video] appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

“Inspiring Vistas” really couldn’t be a more loaded theme for our summer photography contest, and the submissions were truly everything you would imagine. More than an Indonesian volcano, a view of  Hawaii from the air, or the longing of young cowboys at a rodeo, it is the colors of Canada’s Kananaskis country that inspire us the most. Congratulations to David Richeson and his shot, “FancyColor – Interlakes Kananaskis”, the winner of our “Inspiring Vistas” contest.

The photo’s caption echoes our sentiments when reviewing the entries: Crazy colors with a few drops of rain and a nice reflection = breathtaking. Does a picture ever really give you the same feeling as really living it?  I still get a warm feeling from this one.  I’ve been lucky enough to spend some time in, what Matt called, “Classic western North America,” and I have to say, it gives me the warm fuzzies too.

Well done, David. Please check out David’s photostream for more incredible shots, but to move that warm feeling into more of a mindblowing state, visit his visual design website showcasing his work in photography, animation and drawing. Mindblowing, I tell you.

For next month’s contest, we’re leaving the cities of the world and going country. Post your pictures of “Rural Life” in our Flickr group thread for your chance at a feature post on the greatest travel website in the history of the universe.

By Jon Wick

About the Author

Jon lives in Butte, Montana, spending most of his time on skis or bikes; sometimes both. He began travel writing while teaching in Korea and is currently pursuing his Master’s Degree in Technical Communication at Montana Tech. Jon has begun writing his first book, The Story of Will, whose movie rights are still (very) available. Catch more of Jon at TheJonWickproject.wordpress.com. (@ExpedJon)

The post “Inspiring Vistas” Photo Contest Winner: Classic Western North America appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

I had barely seen my own corner of Canada. As a form of consolation, my good friend Doug offered me a free night’s stay at the upscale Des Barres Manor in Guysborough, a rural part of Nova Scotia I had never been. A girl like me loves pretending to be classy.

My friend Cailin and I left bright and early on a Tuesday morning, taking the scenic route along the east coast. We paused at Martinique Beach, dipped our toes into the Atlantic and saluted the clear sky. On the road, rural Nova Scotia crept up on us. Signs apparently placed at random by the side of the road announcing “CLUBHOUSE SANDWICH” and “FRIED PEPPERONI” eventually led us to a tiny take-out joint, closed for the season. We peered into the antique shop next door, searching for treasure. I really wanted the fried pepperoni; Cailin wanted the vintage Ronald McDonald poster.

We kept veering off course. After five hours being in the car, we became giddy and delusional. Our GPS kept lying to us, and we drifted onto unpaved roads. We took a sunny stroll along Tor Bay Beach, tossing sand into the air and whirling under the prospect of a three-course meal awaiting us at the end of the journey.

Eventually, we made it. The Des Barres Manor is a fully restored, historical B&B erected in 1837 for Supreme Court Justice W.F. DesBarres. It stands out among the other homes, a sharp monarch, set on a sprawling lawn and fitted with a large deck. As soon as you enter the front door, you take in the sheer amount of space. Every detail is meant to impress. The floral wallpaper, the framed antique maps, the oak furniture. DesBarres liked to indulge.

Supper was at 6 p.m., we had time to kill. I found my room, squealed over its size and made a mental note to pocket the shampoo and body wash. Then I rolled around on the bed, stroked the antique typewriter, and struck a pose in the mirror. It was like a preparation ritual. My old life felt far behind.

Our supper was paired with wine, which suited us just fine. We had tomato bisque with an old-fashioned dumpling and dry wine, followed by grilled salmon with mango compote, garlic roasted fingerlings and veggies, paired with rose wine. I still don’t know what most of those descriptions mean. For dessert, there was banana bread pudding, and more wine. I even ate the flowers which garnished our dishes. I’m told they were edible.

The wine left us a little tipsy. We wandered into the parlor, a cozy space filled with more floral designs, bright chandeliers and, my favorite, a fully stocked bar. We bought beers and played a round of board games. Our only company was an elderly couple who quietly observed our Tic-Tac-Toe turned drinking game, while Cailin and I shook fists at each other and cursed under our breaths. When I showed up at the kitchen with an ice bucket for our beers, the hostess quietly took the bucket from my hand and replaced it with a much bigger one.

I appreciate good customer service.

We ducked out of the manor later to take a stroll through Guysborough. There wasn’t a sound to be heard, no traffic on the streets. We passed the Rare Bird Pub, also closed for the season, with its huge deserted deck. I’m told this is the hot spot during the summer, with live music and live dancing. We directed our way to the dock instead, laying near the boats with our hands behind our heads and trying to locate the stupid Little Dipper. We only found personal vessels with brilliant names like “Dis Is It!” and “Frayed Knot.”

I went back to my room and made a pillow and blanket fort, spread out my limbs in the 600-thread-count sheets and considered spending my lifesavings on a set from the gift shop. I slept better than I had in years, waking before breakfast to go for a run. The morning was perfect, Chedebucto Bay was still and blue. People standing by the side of the road chatted to their friends in vehicles. I dodged vicious dogs and wheezed my way up a hill.

At the Osprey Shores Golf Resort, an oceanfront resort, we went off-roading in some golf carts. I don’t play golf, I can’t wrap my head around the “tees” and the clubs and the culture. We carefully avoided other players and strolled along the beach instead, parked our cart at the dock in Mussel Cove to soak up some sun. The remains of summer freedom, the healing of the open road.

Somewhere between expensive bed sheets and edible flowers, I stopped mourning.

By Candice Walsh

About the Author

Candice is a travel writer and blogger currently stationed in St. John’s, Newfoundland. When she’s not shooting whiskey and hitting on men, she’s eating nachos and dreaming about her next big adventure. Check out her blog, Candice Does the World.

The post How Candice Got Her Groove Back In Nova Scotia appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

By Natalie Taylor

Toronto is synonymous for food-centric neighborhoods such as Greektown, Chinatown, and lately, Ossington Avenue. But St. Clair West neighborhoods, Wychwood Heights and Hillcrest Village, spanning from Bathurst to Winona Drive, are undergoing a foodie renaissance. The St. Clair strip (near Dufferin Avenue) was predominantly known as Toronto’s other Little Italy, Corso Italia, where Italian immigrants settled after the 1950’s and flourished with grocery stores, cafes, restaurants and social clubs for their fellow countrymen. It evolved into a primo location for celebrations after Italy won the World Cup in 1982 when 500,000 revelers dominated the streets.

Corso Italia still remains, but the strip a few blocks west of Bathurst are central for newlyweds, families and young professionals that have moved into the area for reasonable mortgages and a community they can call their own, away from the hustle and bustle of downtown.

Here are a few can’t-miss eateries that are part of the local St. Clair West resident diet.

1) Dutch Dreams

Owner Theo Aben and his wife Dina have been scooping up more than 57 ice cream flavors for 27 years at this notorious ice cream shop (famed chef Susur Lee claims it as one of his favorites). Who exactly is lining up here night after night? Manager Giovanny Rivareta explained to me during a recent visit, “We have an ethnically diverse client base from cultures such as Indian, Hispanic and African, the latter who come for regionally authentic flavors such as Grape Nut (a malt grain).”

All scoops are served the Dutch way: with a dollop of whipped cream and serving of fresh fruit (strawberry, kiwi, pineapple and cantaloupe). One of the most popular flavor is Moose Droppings (vanilla ice cream mixed with chocolate fudge, chocolate chips and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups). After a meal at one of the local restaurants such as Albert’s Real Jamaican next door, this loud and kitschy joint is ideal for an indulgent and affordable treat.

Dutch Dreams, 78 Vaughan Road; (416) 656-6959. One scoop is $3.74; Waffle Scoop costs $5.93; Dutch Pancake costs $12.68; Dutch Waffle costs $11.44. Half liters cost $7.50 and full liter tubs cost $10.69.

2) Green Barn Farmers Market – Artscape Wychwood Barns

Artscape, a not-for-profit urban development organization, revitalized the dilapidated TTC Streetcar barns at Wychwood Park into a multi-faceted community center and housing project for artists in 2008. On Saturdays The Stop Community Food Centre hosts the Green Barn Farmers Market supporting and encouraging locally grown, seasonal produce.

The market bustles with families feasting on the array of snack items while shopping for sustainable produce, including samosas, organic eggs with pesto sauce, and watermelon-lime lemonade. Vendors change constantly: one weekend you could be biting into mini donuts made on site; the next weekend, munching on Irish soda bread and salmon. The barns are surrounded by a small park, a great way to relax on a summer Saturday afternoon and revel in local community. The markets go indoors when the weather in the fall and winter months.

Artscape Wychwood Barns, 601 Christie Avenue, Saturdays 8:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m.; http://www.thestop.org/green-barn-market

3) The Stockyards Smokehouse and Larder

Not only an example of the development of St. Clair West in the past two years, but also a destination for BBQ aficionados and carnivore fans from all over. Laid back and low key, this isn’t a place to dine in as much as it is to take out and bring with you for a hearty picnic at the nearby Wychwood Barns or Humewood Park, just north of St. Clair. It’s best to come early to pick up glazed smoked ribs and chicken, available on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays. I became a convert after indulging in the moist buttermilk fried chicken combo, served with spiced fries and a non-dairy coleslaw.

699 St. Clair Ave. W.; 416-658-9666 ; www.thestockyards.ca; $50 for dinner for two including tax and tip.

4) Filippos

Ironically, there are not that many Italian Restaurants in Corso Italia (the nickname for St. Clair Avenue West: Toronto’s center for Italian culture), but the Italian restaurants on St. Clair West that do exist, like Filippo’s, have been mainstays of the area for years. Thin and crisp-edged pizzas are popular, including gourmet concoctions such as fig, serrano ham and gorgonzola. Pam, a resident of the nearby Forest Hill area, highly recommends the pasta. “I’m a big fan of the gnocchi. Its pasta is much better than Ferro’s (nearby) and is not as ‘sceney.'”

744 St. Clair Ave. W.; (at Rushton Rd.); 416-658-0568; Entrees from $9 to $24.

5) Pain Perdu

The baguettes and fluffy croissants at the simple, petite Basque Boulangerie are one of the best ways to transport yourself to Paris. Heartier fare include the eponymous toast with fresh berries, crème anglaise, maple syrup and fruit coulis ($7.95); homemade duck confit ($16.95); croque monsieur ($6.95); quiche ($6.95 for a slice); French onion soup ($8.95 whole); and four varieties of casse croute ($8.95). On the other hand, this is also the perfect spot to plop yourself down in the morning with a newspaper while indulging in a sculpted, rich dessert and coffee.

736 St. Clair Ave. W. (at Rushton Rd.); 416-656-7246.

By Natlie Taylor

Natalie Taylor is a freelance writer based in Toronto. She still has dreams of Stockyard’s buttermilk fried chicken. Natalie’s site is: natalietaylor.ca.

The post Top 5 Places To Eat In St. Clair West, Toronto appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Today, people from all over are traveling everywhere. With such an increase in diversity, the common question is: where are you from? People want to know where your ancestors are from. It fulfills a not-so-secret curiosity, the same one that propels people to travel.

What if you plate it for people? With, say, haggis. Curiosity and belly simultaneously sated.

Such is Daniel Audet and Yvon Marois’ motives when they established the Ruée vers Gould, as this recent article in The Montreal Gazatte highlighted. Although their haggis is not wrapped in sheep’s stomach or has mashed up lungs, it does contain traces of  “chopped heart and liver (plus suet, oatmeal, ground lamb and spices).”

Just outside of Sherbrooke, Québec, the inn is situated in the old general store in Gould — a town with historic Scottish pioneer roots. The duo started the inn in 1995 to put the local “Scottish culture on display.” As well, the Scottish flair for entertaining was taken into account. Sporting kilts, the pair serve an authentic Scottish brunch consisting of 40 items. And you’d come here looking for authentic French culture.

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post When In Quebec, Eat Haggis appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Growing up in the Ottawa Valley was not especially interesting. It was not as adventurous as Toronto. It was not laid back like Vancouver. It was, however, an hour or so from Montréal, the city that boasts bagels, poutine and dépanneurs with beer-stocked fridges. Being young, penniless and car-free, I never got the opportunity to truly appreciate the cosmopolitan Québécois cuisine.

After I moved to Toronto and saved a little money, my friends and I decided to take a weekend trip to the city. To say that “we did the city right” would be an understatement, as we overindulged in a lifestyle that was decadent, yet affordable. We stayed up until the bars closed at 4 a.m. — an anomaly for Ontarians — consuming riches of wine and martinis, and eating until our bellies rounded. Since then I have not returned, still suffering from the food coma that ensued. That was five years ago.

For me, reading Emma Sloley’s account in The Australian of going “the whole hog” was nostalgic. Although I had not eaten a pig’s hoof stuffed with foie gras or “gooey gratin,” her article still brought back memories of Brazilian beef skewers and all-you-can-eat sushi. It made me remember the grilled paninis avec tomates sechées and poutine piled high with fresh curds and gravy. It reminded me that Montréal’s cuisine was and is dynamic and worldly.

From an early age Canadians are made aware of the precarious nature of Québec as a province. In history class we were taught how the province established and maintained its identity. I always wondered how a region could keep its culture for hundreds of years. Reading Sloley’s article I realized a point that some people tend to miss: their reliance on self-sustenance. She often remarked how the food on the table was sourced from farms in the region. As she mentioned, “the restaurants, while paying homage to their Gallic counterparts, lean towards a locavore-oriented cuisine with none of the formality of classical European dining.”

Growing up in a border-town of Provence du Québec, I would like to mention that locavore-orientation (a locavore is one that eats food grown near them — usually 100-mile radus) is not a movement in Montréal, but an idea deeply rooted in the province’s identity. To me, dealing locally has been, and hopefully will always be, what makes Québec authentic and genuinely unique. The French-Canadians have supported local farmers from the beginning in an attempt to not be consumed with anglophone tendencies.

Although the city dabbles its toes in global luxuries, like diverse food and shops, it always maintains one foot firmly planted at home. Some people chide its reluctance to keep up with the times, but some see its syrup-paced change as a good thing.

Personally, if I am still fantasizing of food comas, they must be doing something right.

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post Montréal: Have Your Pig’s Foot And Eat It, Too appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

When it comes to travel, most people want to take in all that a country has to offer. People will save their pennies to venture into far off and exotic places in order to experience the architecture, music, landscape and — I think most importantly — the food. Eating something delectable in a strange place rounds out one’s foreign, cultural experience by providing another sensory layer to the trip. It creates depth.

While on the road, I have been asked time and again, “What is typical Canadian food?” Far too many times I have drawn a blank. “Poutine from Québec . . . A fish fillet from Newfoundland?” I curiously respond. My inability to provide a concrete answer has made me wonder if my own Canadian experience has been hindered, eating Portuguese sandwiches and Vietnamese pho for sustenance. Then I wonder, perhaps this is what it means to eat “Canadian.”

The truth is, I have no idea what a typical Canadian meal is. Much like our cultural identity, Canadian dining has no defining feature. Instead, I feel like Canucks rely on the mosaic of options to please their palates, swapping our general lack of  culinary identity for our plethora of choices.

Nevertheless, there is one man on a quest to discover what it means to be Canadian cuisine. Ian Brown has taken upon this great task of what Canadians eat and has been keeping the country posted on his blog, featured in The Globe and Mail. The result, so far, has been what we had originally hypothesized: they eat everything. From rose and butter poached elk in Calgary to a sorrel topped scallop in St. Catherines, it seems as though Canadians are not picky.

Most tend to believe that Canada’s culinary prowess only exists in our three major cities: Toronto, Montréal and Vancouver. These metropolises are multicultural hubs providing not only diverse neighborhoods but an array of meal options. Like most things in large doses, the plenitude of choices would  infer that you can only find delicious meals in the city.

However, as Brown points out, the country’s obsession with good food is not only found in our big-three. “[In Canada,] there are a vast number of people who think about food more or less incessantly. It’s a national delirium. It ranges in intensity from obsessive to slightly less obsessive, at every level of sophistication and meaning.”

What is reassuring for those that want to escape the cities and appreciate the Canadian terrain is knowing that there will still be options. The more outlandish — usually “moose” or “elk” meat is a good indicator of game found in our forests — the more Canadian it will be. I guess my recommendation for all travelers trying to fully experience the North would be to try everything.

Perhaps that is the Canadian culinary identity: we are delirious with hunger and are willing to eat anything. Then, the question is, why? The answer lies in the hands of Ian Brown. Go forth and eat!

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post More Than Poutine: A Journey To Discover What It Means To Eat “Canadian” appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Think you got what it takes to do the three-day trek through Canada’s Golden Triangle? Maybe, just make sure to double bike-short it, things are about to get a little bumpy.

By Jon Wick

Last week, I embarked on a new chapter in my life: bike touring. More appropriately, epic bike touring. I spent three days pedaling through the beautiful Canadian Rockies along the Golden Triangle Route.

The Golden Triangle is a popular cycling route, connecting Lake Louise in Alberta with the namesake city of Golden, and Radium Hot Springs in British Colombia. Pedaling 100 km (60 mi.) each day, crossing the Continental Divide twice, with three different national parks unfurling around each bend in the road, is reason enough to don the spandex, chamois butter your personals, and get behind the handlebars for a few hours. Bicycling mountain terrain that gruelingly spectacular, and you’ll deserve margaritas at the end of the day.

For this trip, I was a bogey, a Klingon, basically a puppy that followed the crowd. I received little more information than an e-mail asking if I was free for the weekend, and a follow-up packing list. All I was supposed to do was prepare for a trip lasting a week, and get to my brother’s house in Calgary by Friday afternoon; didn’t know where we were biking, how long, with whom, etc . . . I dig the prep part of any trip, the anticipation, the running in circles, the uncertainty. Putting this much faith in people I didn’t know was new to me, and maybe the way I go from now on.

I’m a first-year roadie, making the leap from the mountain single tracks to the open road with some trepidation. Too many Gear Heads, tights, and people in full racing kits judging my rusty ’86 Schwinn Caliente. So this year, to reward myself for not getting killed during my past year rambling through Asia, I bought a new bike, a bike jersey, and yes, bike shorts. It became official, I’m a roadie — with my spandex-clad balls out there for everyone to see.
I met the group at a roadside breakfast. Fueled on Humpty Juice (the bill actually said “Humpty juice” rather than what it actually was: orange juice) and something akin to moose sausage, we headed out into the sleet for the first leg of the trip, through Banff National Park, Lake Louise, and over the Kicking Horse Pass to the small town of Golden.

Biking is often an exercise in layering your clothes. This day was to be the epitome of that skill. For the majority of the day, the mountains were socked in by low clouds, the rain was sparse, but the intermittent hail pinging off my helmet left me deaf for miles. My light jacket started on me, then off, eventually back on again. Many of the 60+ miles were adventureless: mostly just staring at the tire in front of me until we reached the top of the pass and Yoho National Park. From there my legs took a break on the ensuing drawn out downhill. To my right was a yawning valley below; my first quality view of the snow-capped, craggy peaks of the Canadian Rockies. At 40 miles an hour, with an endless postcard panoramic stretching before me, I couldn’t help but hoot and holler through each of the seven miles of descent. That moment alone could have made the trip.

But it didn’t. As we pulled into the parking lot of our motel, there stood our support van. Alongside was a circle of chairs, a bucket of beer on ice, and a freshly blended pitcher of berry margaritas glistening in the newfound sunshine. My crew of three dove right in to our “recovery drinks.” Soon, with the bikers accounted for, we headed over to the local pub. It offered a magical combination of mediocre barbecue ribs, a few surprisingly good renditions of Cat Stevens from a guitar player, and enough Long Island Ice Tea pitchers to make our asses ache no longer.

On the walk home from the pub, we met up with a gal we were riding with exiting a mini-mart with far too many sugary treats. She greeted us with a warm, deer-in-headlights stare. In our own inebriated state, this was a perfectly normal.

“Hey guys, what’s happening?” she asked.

Suddenly, one hand sprung up from her side to the lit-up ESSO gas station sign. Before we could even form a reply in our mouths, she bent over and puked with more power and authority than I’ve ever seen, even by cranky customs agents.  Bits of her burger swam in a mixture of Rye and Cider, drowning the small purple flowers lining the bed. Three full-body convulsions saw the finish of her “gardening.”

She composed herself, straightened up and wheeled around to face us. “Gulp, So, ah . . . tomorrow’s gonna be a kick-ass ride, eh?” I think she was serious.

* * *

Ping. The microwave pierced the quiet morning, letting us know our breakfast of cinnamon buns were warm. Today we were to leave Golden, heading southeast along highway 95, to the city of Radium Hot Springs at the entrance to Kootnay National Park. Last night’s reconnaissance told me not to expect any mountain passes, but rolling hills; enough to keep you on your pedals all day without any of the significant rests that going down mountain passes allows.

I loaded up on Hammer Gel, Jelly Belly Sport Beans, and peered out through the polyester shades hiding our motel window. It was our estimated departure time and there wasn’t a soul to be found in the parking lot. I should have known.

Bike trip 101, Lesson #1: Instruct all participants in the spiritually necessity of praying against headwinds. Perhaps the gas station flower gods were punishing us, but a headwind ripping up the valley was incessant. Wordlessly, we formed a draft line in the first few miles, handing the tiresome job of breaking the wind to the lead rider while the rest of us followed closely to the rear wheel of the rider in front. When the lead rider ran out of gas, they dropped to the back, fell in line, and recovered in the pull of the draft. We fell into a symphony of drafting, like a spoke-tired train chugging down the tracks. A short lunch break to refuel was all we needed before resuming the charge.

The line continued, head down, staring at the wheel in front of you, hammering the pedals. If you fell too far behind, it was seconds before the headwind would make you its bitch. Kilometer 65, our group of eight riders fell to six. At kilometer 80, down to three.

Roughly around kilometer 90, I began to feel the onset of bonk: a phenomenon in which your body starts to shut down. You have used up all your energy stores without replenishing them, you are dehydrated before realizing it, and your body decides that it is done biking for the day. Looking back, from the moment we lined up, my primary focus was keeping speed so as not to fall off the pace. I tried catching up on my nutrition by gulping down water, but nothing but headache was a result. I choked down energy gels and bars, but it was no use. My legs were lead, my lungs scorched, my mind irreversibly faded.

I hammered the pedals with every ounce of energy I had. Each stroke I pushed seemed to be half of what the two in front of me were doing. At kilometer 95, I fell off the draft, completely spent, empty. There was less than 10 kilometers to cruise on in to Radium Hot Springs. For a novice rider, I had successfully completed 212 kilometers, roughly 12o miles of biking in two days all under my own power, a win and quite an accomplishment for me. Yet, laboring up even the smallest of inclines at this point and this thought gave no comfort.  Bike trip 101, Lesson #2: bonking is your own damn fault.

* * *

A chill night of pizza and ice cream, combined with the longest day of riding yet to come, allowed everyone an early start. The end was near and our butts loved the sound of that. I double bike-shorted up, and headed off in the cool, beautiful morning. Just outside of Radium is one of the most picturesque cliff settings I’ve ever seen. The road through Kootnay National Park begins with a steep incline cutting between magnificent roadside cliffs. The morning sun caught the different minerals exposed along the nearby walls, almost glittering as we rode by. The foreshadowing was evident.

When we popped out of the canyon and got to the pass, we were greeted with a million-dollar view. This was the Canadian Rockies. The sky yawned over the striated snow-capped peaks. Layer upon layer of rock sent glaciers and streams into view. Our concrete ribbon of road wound back and forth, clinging to the mountain’s side until it hit the valley floor. From the saddle of your bike, you have an unobstructed panorama before you, sans bug splatters and frustrating Sunday drivers. It is a far more intimate way of seeing a place: total immersion, rather than watching it, television-like, through your car windows.

The previous kilometers, the hangover, bonk, ass chaffing and soreness, all were washed away with the beauty that surrounded us on the last day. This is what it is all about. In the shadows of spectacular beauty, and with new found friends, the remaining 70 kilometers passed without thought.

Back at our cars we popped champagne bottles marking yet another successful year along Canada’s Golden Triangle — my first, but surely not last. One of the riders pulled up and we offered him a paper cup of bubbly. He took the cup and, in quintessential Canadian understatement, he summed up the entire trip for me.

“Not a bad day to ride, eh?”

Not bad, indeed.

*To see more photos from the recent trip, visit my flickr page here.

The post Three Days Pedaling Canada’s Golden Triangle And Living To Tell About It appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Apparently, summer is the season of summits. This year, Toronto is hosting the G20 — with much ado about something — and the Muskoka region of Ontario is hosting this year’s G8, with guest appearances from celebrity politicians. Well, for the most part — Muskokies just want to know about Obama.

Recently, a group of friends were talking about the repercussions the meeting will have on our cottage country. We chuckled. It’s black fly season. The juxtaposition of designer suits and repellent-mesh masks will make the charade more down-to-earth.

Nevertheless, the summit is being held at Deerhurst, a world renowned resort in Huntsville, mainly famous for its golf course. According to The Star, it was chosen in secret in September of 2007, and made public by an announcement by Stephen Harper in June 2008. Since then, preparations have been extensive, especially by upping the security with a 3-meter high fence.

Who knew that the venue for the Muskoka Ironman competition and the Canadian National Pond Hockey Championships would be such a high-profile contender?

The population need not worry, as the “clean up” from the world leaders’ party time will happen right after they leave the lake land and head off to attend the G20 summit. Then normal life of pony rides and tee-offs will resume.

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post Summit To Talk About appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

It was a friend’s birthday weekend. We booked time off work, postponed the completion of our papers, and road-tripped to Quebec’s biggest city, Montreal. Amazingly, I had never been.

By the end of the trip, all I wanted was to prolong our stay for just a few more days (perhaps years), but we had obligations to get back to.

So, when I read this article in The Toronto Star, I was curious: apparently, Montreal has a secret hidden behind its glass.

Being a city full of artists and a certain je ne sais pas, I was not shocked to read that glasswork is a big deal there. As the article points out, there are schools dedicated to the medium (Espace Verre). Right now glass appreciation year is happening, and the city is holding a celebration called “Montréal, Ville de Verre” — City of Glass — with over 100 events.

However, as Carol Perehudoff points out, glass as art is not the only window to Montreal’s soul. Apparently, in two different churches, stained-glass windows have been uncovered. The mystery is why they were covered up, or bricked over, in the first place? Sleuths, bust out the magnifying glasses.

Anyways, Ville de Verre has activities running all year long, and now that it’s summer it should be added to the itinerary. Winters are mighty cold.

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post Montréal Is Not So Transparent appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

It’s a car, it’s a bug, it’s an Olympic celebration on four wheels. Underneath all that, we’ve discovered it’s even more than any of those things. We are psyched to announce Jules Andre Brown as the winner of our April Travel Photo Contest with his photo titled, “Love Bug.”  As Jules explains:

This was shot at the Vancouver Olympics, just after Canada won the gold medal for hockey. It brought great joy around Vancouver; an exciting moment for locals and tourists alike. It belongs to a great fellow named Marc, with whom I currently work with. Marc donates his time, his car, and even his movie collections to people experiencing autism.  This car actually changes from time to time. In fact, sometimes the car has a working water fountain with mermaids and different sculptures. However, I think this time it was a special Olympic model. I’ve been privileged to be with him in meetings about life and this car.

Mermaids? That’s quite a ride. As Matt puts it, “if you’re serious about doing a road trip, then this is the car you want: one that has the worst possible aerodynamics and is the most likely to get you pulled over. Oh wait a second, what I meant was . . .” Personally, I’d have no qualms about rocking the Love Bug on the open road, no matter how many cops I’d have to explain it to. “Officer, this is a love bug, and I’ve . . . Well, I’ve got a lotta love!”

The picture was shot with a Minolta SRT 201 and 400-speed Kodak Film. To see more of Jules’ awesome work, head to his Flickr page or his website www.julesandrebrown.com. For those interested, digital prints of his work are available for purchase, drop him a line at julesandrebrown@gmail.com. Congratulations Jules, we look forward to more of your work.

We are excited about TheExpeditioner’s Flickr group and all the amazing  submissions we are receiving daily. If you have a Flickr membership, we invite you to check out the shots, join us, and get uploading! Here’s a list of our past winners.

For next month’s contest, we are looking for the very best landscape shot from your travels! So scour those hard drives and get them posted for your chance of winning a feature the first friday of June! Happy travels, everyone!

The post The Expeditioner’s April Travel Photo Contest Winner appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

I had no idea I could be compensated for a delay. I thought delays were just part and parcel of taking the plane,  domestic and international. Apparently we have rights as travelers, something worth considering when sitting for an overnight delay or last-minute cancellation. You could get a food voucher! I would be interested to know for which place (and, slightly frightened, to know).

The Wall Street Journal has this handy chart explaining the differences between the E.U., U.S. and Canada when it comes to ¨passenger rights.” I am all for compensation when it comes to outrageous delays. It helps to smooth the tension over. However, there appears to be a dilemma: if more ¨rights¨ are put in place by the government, the poor multi-billion dollar airline companies will lose more money forcing them to make cutbacks or even drop out of business.

Is it just me? Although I find legislating ¨compensation-rights¨ a little overboard, shouldn´t the company just do a better job taking care of their customers? I know that unexpected things happen, but isn´t it the business of business, especially in the airline industry, to provide the best service possible? What ever happened to business integrity? Why am I asking so many questions?

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post Know Your Passenger Rights! appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Today officially marks the beginning of the end of this escapade through Vancouver and Whistler’s Olympics, but in true Wick style, I need to end it with a bang (insert innuendo here). By that I mean a day jam packed with Olympic events. I caught three different disciplines, but none are legitimate events, really. The ladies super-combined is just a combination of two different ski runs, while the skeleton is nothing more than a balls-to-the-wall human missile contest.

The new prize for the worst $200 I’ve spent goes to the ticket I bought for the Ladies Super-Combined. I was stuck in a pit, miles from the racers, behind two ski paths, a row of press cubicles with Volkswagen sized cameras, and four fence barricades for the gal catching the occasional edge and bailing into a few spectators. Let’s just say it wasn’t the best spectator sport I’ve caught at the games.

I did, however, get to see some of the most technically sound and fastest skiers on earth. The downhill event is the fastest speed event for Alpine skiing, and where the gates are the farthest apart. To help you imagine this, it’s what you imitate on that run after you’ve put back a few of those lunchtime beers in the lodge. The Super-combined event pairs that up with the most technically challenging event, the slalom, where the gates are really close together.  First one down the mountain wins — my kind of skiing.

Both are completely different styles of skiing, to the point of being very different sports. The morning was very cold and the snow on top of the hard course a bit sugary. When the competitors flew down the hill (and if you watched the finish of the skiing events, that’s literally true for a large portion of it — they call it the “hot air” jump), they kicked up snow behind them that looked like a trail of smoke. I was quite far away, though, and I like to believe it was smoke. Actually, I would have believed anything to justify the overly priced, awful tickets I bought.

The slalom took place, after rebuilding a completely different course in the afternoon, and the conditions totally changed. The icy course for the Downhill was now turning into heavy, wet snow once the sun crept over the Whistler peak, blinding all my cohorts in the (sort of) viewing pit. This was the final run of the day for the skiers, and it is when the energy of the competition ratcheted up. The racers with the best first run times were scheduled to go last, as to increase the suspense I suppose, and that’s just what happened.

In my best play-by-play voice . . . Julia Mancuso from the U.S. is sitting in first, followed by Anja Paerson of Sweden. Germany’s Maria Riesh, a favorite, is on course and, Whoa, we have a new leader! Next, America’s Lindsey Vonn, already a gold medalist at the games. She’s killing the course, is looks like a gold medal run to me, folks. Three quarters down the run and things are looking good . . . Wait, No! She goes down! The Vonn-couver Games is no more!

The stands were electric as she went down the hill, the obvious favorite, but you could hear a pin drop when she slid down the slope on her back. The few Germans, in their lederhosen, were the only ones to be heard as their gal took home the gold. The wicked finish almost, not quite but almost, made me happy I bought those tickets.

Then it was on to my most anticipated event: Skeleton. To get to the Whistler Sliding Center, you must hop on the Excalibur Gondola from the base of Blackcomb Mountain. I had a pretty quality talk with some Canadians on the ride

The Canadians: “The Canadians are favored in both men’s and women’s.”

Me: “No way.”

The Canadians: “Yeah, dude, and the Canadian chicks are hot.”

Me: “Nice, I’ll keep an eye out for maple leafs.”

The Canadians: “Think about it, bro, there’s just something sexy about a woman willing to turn themselves into human missile going 150 km/h down a frozen waterslide.”

Me: “I hear you on that one.”

I’m not sure what drugs the people were on when they thought of Skeleton, but no doubt there were many. I thought the luge was madness, but it doesn’t even compare to what went down that track. Skeleton has far less handling; the runners are rounded verses a sharper beveled runner on luge sleds, and the speeds are greater. Let’s get this straight for all the academics out there — you can’t really steer the thing, you are going way faster, and by the way, you are now headfirst.

On their runs these guys were smashing into walls, hitting the tops of the banked turns, and getting sent into the foam stoppers at the end of the track (the last measure preventing the racers from shooting off the end of the track and hurtling through space). I realize I have an extremely untrained eye, but the degree at which the Skeleton seems completely uncontrolled is mind blowing. The number of times I stood in sheer amazement watching these missiles blast through the Tunderbird Turn, the final picturesque turn over the beautifully manicured Vancouver Olympic Logo, was amazing.

And to think, I thought I might enjoy having a go at the Skeleton. After seeing it in person, hell no.

So my trip to the 2010 Olympic Winter Games in Vancouver is now coming to a close. Today is a day of packing, seeing if I can snag some kind of skating ticket on my way out of town tomorrow, and getting ready to head back to the real world. Because let’s face it, events like the Skeleton just shouldn’t happen in the real world.

The post 2010 Olympics Day 9: Downhill, Slalom, And The Human Missile Events appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

It’s almost ethereal to think that my home-and-native-land gets to host the 2010 Winter Olympics in just over a month. I am proud that British Columbia gets to flaunt its grandiose beauty to the world. Back home in Toronto, a friend from Vancouver told me an apt description of the province’s landscape: Rural Ontario is picturesque, but B.C. is sublime. After seeing it for myself last May, I can say he was articulately poignant.

I would like to give a big shout out to John Lee, who wrote an article  for the Daily News about how to navigate the 2010 Games. He takes us on a scribed tour of what to see and where to see it. Due to downtown-Van being a pint-sized peninsula, most of the skating and downhill events take place on the outskirts of the core in the suburb of Richmond or via a short drive to Whistler Village. The Olympic Village is situated just outside downtown in False Creek, appropriately named for there is no creek there — more like an large inlet of water. Hockey lovers will be excited to hear that the battle for gold will be at the B.C. Place, Canada’s first domed stadium. Nevertheless, the venues that the province has chosen seem to be within a reasonable distance of one another.

However, as Lee pointed out, there is more to do in Vancouver than just watch people freezing in spandex (no matter how much fun that sounds). This being the Olympics and all, many countries are heading to the games to promote tourism to their own countries, like Germany who will be on hand selling gigantic bratwursts or Holland who will be livening things up with their own beer house. It sounds sublime.

If you happen to be in Van-city while the Games are going, check out this interactive map from The Globe and Mail where you can find reviews of places to eat, sleep, drink. Enjoy the view, it’s one of Canada’s best.

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post What To Do At The 2010 Olympic Games appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.

Since Christmas, it appears that flyers bound for the U.S. from Canada are going to have to pack a little lighter. In the wake of an attempted attack on Delta Airline Flight 253, Canada has tightened security in the nation’s airports, brought to my attention by an article in The Globe and Mail. After further reading, my understanding is that the alleged attack occurred on Christmas Day in Canada’s Airspace, 20 minutes before landing in Detroit.

As a response, Transport Canada released a statement after the incident stating that passengers flying from Canada to the U.S. will not be able to bring carry-ons. However, there are a few exceptions:

Passengers may carry with them one or more of the following items: medication or medical devices, small purses, cameras, coats, items for care of infants, laptop computers, crutches, canes, walkers, containers carrying life sustaining items, a special needs item, musical instruments, or diplomatic or consular bags.

They also warn that flyers should expect delays as a result of the increased security.

I am still unsure whether this is the case for passengers on stopovers from other countries, or if it is just passengers leaving Canada for the U.S. However, I will keep my eyes peeled and ears to the ground for any updates.

Until then, travel light.

By Brit Weaver

About the Author

Toronto born and based, Brit is an avid leisure cyclist, coffee drinker and under-a-tree park-ist. She often finds herself meandering foreign cities looking for street eats to nibble, trees to climb, a patch of grass to sit on, or a small bookstore to sift through. You can find her musing life on her personal blog, TheBubblesAreDead.wordpress.com.

The post No Carry-Ons For U.S. Bound Passengers From Canada appeared first on The Expeditioner Travel Site.