What can we Learn from Pine Point?

An aerial of Pine Point before its 'removal' 

Google Map “Pine Point, Fort Smith, Unorganized” and prepare for a virtual trip to a faraway place. The location name is automatically proceeded by native script and you are taken to a remote section of Northern Canada, just below the Great Slave Lake and roughly two hours East of Hay River, Northwest Territories. A skeleton of small roads creates a grid between some small lakes beside a nearby rail line. The Fort Resolution Highway crosses to the South; just below that begins the massive Wood Buffalo National Park – further down, the Alberta – NWT border. You get the feeling that virtually nobody lives here.

And you’re right.

Hundreds of small settlements just like Pine Point line the highways and shores of Canada’s North, but what makes this one in particular a little different is its history as a once rural oasis turned desolate ghost town in a matter of days. So what happened at Pine Point?

Wikipedia, online knower of all things, has an entire page dedicated to Pine Point. In the true unapologetically frank style only Wikipedia could get away with, Pine Point is explained as a ‘single-industry town’ that closed when the local zinc mine shut down. Afterward, ‘All buildings were removed or demolished, and today the site is completely abandoned, although there is still evidence of the street layout.’ So, hey, total bummer. End of story?

Not really. What don’t you get from such a brash and condensed version of Pine Point’s demise is its story as a place where people once lived, went to school, worked and formed a community – however short this era may have lasted. Pine Point was the unfortunate product of a Federal social experiment designed to provide a group of people with cookie-cutter housing and a job all in the same place, and see what transpires. After the mine stopped producing, as mines tend to do when they extract non-renewable resources, there was no choice but to pull up shop. But by then, a strong community had formed: relationships, traditions, social circles….The end of Pine Point wasn’t only marked by the bulldozing of people’s homes, but the end of a life its residents would have understood deeply, many of whom were born and raised inside the small town.

A selection from the 'Welcome to Pine Point' website.

Today, little physical evidence exists to remind us of the once thriving village of Pine Point, but through the wonders of film and internet, the ‘lost mining town’ has been resurrected and re-formed through the voices of its ex-citizens. ‘Welcome to Pine Point’, an incredible interactive website dedicated to retelling the true story of Pine Point, is now fully accessible and complete with original pictures, sound, video and more. The website has since been maintained by Pine Points own Richard Cloutier, the same person who donated most of the material, while funding and technical production has been overseen by the National Film Board. A secondary website created by Cloutier, Pine Point Revisited, also includes information on his experience as part of this short-lived settlement.

With greater insight into the matters of Pine Point and the people who once called it home we can begin to see the mistakes of its very creation. Pine Point is not an isolated incident, but serves as an important lesson on how we build, and sometimes destroy, the places we live and the communities we nurture. Thanks to some dedicated individuals, we won’t forget Pine Point and what it has taught us: humility, sacrifice and the inevitability of time.

*Check out 'Welcome to Pine Point' here (click on the image below):

Happy New Fear

Ah, yes…2013 is upon us like the flabby and unwanted ‘beer baby’ obtained after a few too many holiday Tecates you smuggled across the border while on that ‘Mexican thrill ride’ fall vacation. Indeed, as we celebrate twelve new months of…well, whatever, it’s hard not to feel hope, promise, success and….fear?

Just like th...Wait, what?

I’m not a fan or maker of resolutions, but if I were to wish upon a New Year’s star my aspirations would probably seem more like basic living requirements instead of dreams of celebrity and healthier choices. At the top of my list: a job.

I, like many of my academic comrades, will graduate in the spring. When the classes finish and a degree finds its way into my palms that sweat in tense anticipation, I am released unto to the world and will attempt to navigate my way out of the supernovae of jobless graduates and young post-students who aren’t even remotely working in their field. It’s a scary prospect, so is it weird that I feel so excited about it?

Hence, by virtue of this post, my happy, new fear. Happy because I plan on enjoying life after university, and fear because I’d rather not also end up making a living by re-selling outdated couch covers at above market price from my parents basement. Today, more university graduates have been unable to find a job/ a job in their field than ever before. Apparently because everyone gets degrees nowadays. And a whole bunch of people who were laid off during something called ‘the recession’ are also trying to find a job. Super.

So…What’s my plan? I’ve got extra-curriculars, volunteer hours, an internship, work experience….but is it enough? Seeing as the job market currently operates on internal postings and something called nepotism , perhaps I should revisit my strategy and lower the bar (just a bit?). See, this would all be easier if I could just shape shift into my virtual Sim.

Enjoying the flowers of employment.

But sexy Sim Aaron only exists in my brain and not on my resume, so it’s time to buck up and face the reality that good professional jobs are hard to come by and seem to take a combination of luck and good fortune to obtain. As I try my dandiest to be an exception, I can’t help but feel my condolences for the other new grads that (unlike me) will be flung into the market with overwhelming debts and pressure to perform. Is this really how we want to treat our young ‘leaders of tomorrow’? Never mind changing the world; we’re still worried about paying next month’s rent. 

Crafting up Greatness at PARC

I’m no Barbra Streisand (both in looks and dexterity), so it’s no surprise that whenever craft time was upon us in grade school I would fake an illness, try to stage my untimely death, or eat a tube of glue to induce illness (or death). Craft time was my personal hell, and I avoided its horrid ability to prove just how clumsy and ungraceful I can be well into my adult life. And then I came to PARC.

Which is why I only like crafts that involve alcohol.

See, my original intention was to work in an environment that would support my background in urban studies – a field dominated by the formalities and professionalism of planners, architects, consultants, policy advisors…So you can imagine how much I started to collapse within myself after I was asked to make feathers from tinfoil for three hours. It was a whole new version of self-induced hate after I put everything I had into a dream catcher that ended up looking more like a sewer gyre.

The 'Endless Tree' created by PARC members and staff.

The irony of being handed off into the arms of PARC’s artistic director was not lost on me. I am the least likely candidate to support an arts program; most of the time I have enough trouble staying upright, and any feeble attempts I make to be visually creative usually end up looking like a modern Picaso if Picaso was a paraplegic. It took time for me to understand that the type of art we do at PARC isn’t necessarily about results, but process. I was the only one who cared that my art was pre-school, or that I couldn’t cross-stitch a goddamn cardboard box. We are learning together, and, more importantly, allowing our selves to flow into our craft. It is an outlet and an extension of the stories and struggles of people who wouldn’t otherwise have an outlet.

Nowadays, when I step into the craft room at PARC to paint a giant canvas tree or make ‘wise puppets’ out of clay, I feel a deep sense of purpose covered in a blanket of safe serenity. We begin each session with a ten minute meditation where every person involved can find that place where thoughts turn inward and creativity is born. We sing Celtic folk songs and make non-sensical voices for our made-up characters. We write stories about imaginary markets and creatures born in our heads. But most importantly, we become ourselves and embrace the various multifaceted and multidimensional forms that take shape when people collaborate to make art.  

Warming up at the Sound Choir.

A Return to the Blogger's Plight.

This post is a continuation of Me, My Self and My Blog.

TOTALLY one of those people.

Ever know a person who is a rather talented filmmaker/actor/storyteller/dancer/one of those people who seem to be good at anything they try? I have a friend that possesses this god-like ability to somehow immediately absorb any skill she wants, and master it in a fraction of the time it would take my skinny, white, sometimes a little ‘slow’ ass. Although I watch in half-wonderment, half-envy as my comrade one-ups me in everything, I am also taken back by how she had attributed her success to her blog. Struck by how someone I knew could use a shared social media tool to obtain a dream, I began to look at my blog as something that had potential beyond just a hobby. I was also scared at the prospect of my online self  becoming much bigger than my real self.

The advent of pipe dreams and visions of unrealistic blogger fame creates some pretty serious questions. If I am to even attempt to ‘scale out’ my blog, I have to start thinking about it in terms of its entertainment value and where that can intersect (or take away from) the more introspective, personal side I have created. Does the transition from small-scale to super-stardom necessarily mean that your integrity is compromised somewhere in between? How will the intentions behind my blog change while it becomes bigger and more widely adopted? Do I even have control over this process? In some ways I think it’s easier to not change a thing, but sameness becomes staleness and I’ll just get bored and join the exceedingly massive pile of dormant websites that clutter the internet. So….with change comes fear, with fear comes apprehension....how do I mount my fears like a steed and ride into the unpredictable horizon of ‘make-it-or-break-it’ bloggers? Hopefully I’ll still get to use awesome metaphors like that.

I don't know, but I think this is how it would look.

"SEE. I TOLD you leprechaun pole vaulting was REAL."

I recall a discussion in class mid-semester about the ‘self-made expert’ of the internet; the thousands of average people with ordinary intelligence who find some dark corner of the internet and claim unwittingly sound and superior judgement in politics, gardening, vegan baking, raising children, finding God, weightlifting, interpretive dance and just about every other subject of life on earth. Blogs allow people to step into that fabricated role of ‘holy knower of all things’, regardless of creed, experience and/or background. I ponder over how much I’ve let myself do the same. I discuss many things in my blog, though I am not an expert in any of them. Do people actually read my stuff and assume I knew exactly what I was talking about? It’s an interesting case when you consider how I’ve already written about fundraising, university, public broadcasting, tourism, Christmas and more. Interestingly enough, having the gumption to talk about these things and post them for the world to see has in turn increased my confidence as a writer. So is it really such a bad thing?

Now more than ever I am seeing new applications for my blog. Every time I do something big or meaningful I ask myself if I can successfully transform it into a readable post. But the bigger my blog gets, the more mediated it becomes. In fact, as I’ve come to realise lately, everything about the process of creating a blog has been mediated by something else. The act of writing a post is mediated by what I believe to be truth, which in turn is mediated by something else that has convinced me of this (a book, a TV Show, a newspaper, etc). Even when I write about first-hand experiences I have compromised isolated truth; the pure act of seeing a mountain, riding a bus or attending a concert has certain mediation in how I understand it. That filter or lens between my self and the world around me obscures reality and I reproduce this false picture on my blog for all to see.

Thus I have created the most depressing and de-motivating group of sentences about Lost and Found to ever be written. Although the fact that my blog is but an ultra-mediated fabrication of real life, I still feel the need to work on my craft as a writer. I have acknowledged its limitations as something devoid of pure unbridled real stuff, but what, in all honesty, is?

Not much these days. 

Hamilton: Southern Ontario's Best Kept Secret?

Heading Southwest on Queen Elizabeth Way, a vital superhighway that shoots out of Toronto’s West end and skirts Lake Ontario to Niagara Falls/Fort Erie, it would be hard to miss the greyscale stacks and old brick factories that indicate only one thing: you’re passing Hamilton.

At its most Western point, the lake funnels off and you cross the “Allan Skyway”, boasting the best views of what was once the industrial capitol of Southern Ontario, but now barely resembles a long dead era. In fact, the only real reminders of working class heritage are the skeletal remains of the monsters and machines that once ruled all.

Because of its short rise and fall at the fate of a rapidly changing economy, Hamilton is now commonly asserted as ‘Canada’s butthole’; a filthy leftover, full of poor blue-collar remnants that were caught in a city that grew beyond its own capacity to sustainably fill jobs and provide proper housing. But in between the flashes of old Hamilton’s short-lived heyday is a city that still lives on, a city that hasn’t yet succumbed to the intensity of modernity and a place that is struggling to revive itself….And is. Believe it or not, change is present, and Hamilton is beginning to put itself back on the map, but in quite a different way. Here are a few reasons why:

The Hamilton ‘Supercrawl’

The topic of Hamilton as a city in transition would be grossly incomplete without including its burgeoning arts scene, now immensely present in the downtown core. Enter the ‘Supercrawl’: A weekend of never-ending parties that celebrate art from all corners of the earth, colliding in the bars and galleries of James Street and various outdoor stages erected for this very event. Last year hosted the likes of Great Lake Swimmers and K’naan., while giving over 75,000 visitors a weekend that wouldn’t be easily forgotten. The best part: it’s totally free and easily accessible.

The rest of year Hamilton continues to support a diverse range of new ‘up-and-coming’ artists who have completely reshaped the culture scene in the city (if Hamilton even had a ‘culture scene’ to begin with). Many attribute the rise in arts and culture to be the reason why Hamilton didn’t become a ghost town in the early 21^st century. Whichever opinion you choose to take, it’s clear that the influx of hipsters, artists and neo-hippies in Hamilton is creating new space for identity and economy.

The Hamilton Farmers’ Market

No matter where you’ve been or what you’ve done, you’ve never quite seen anything like Hamilton’s Farmers’ Market.

In the centre of the city rests a permanent space dedicated to the immigrant merchants and fresh-ass food you won’t find in too many other places. This multi-level market-style complex houses ethnic goods from around the world and seems to stretch into oblivion; each corner rounded a new culinary adventure awaiting your senses - a mash of Portuguese, Italian, Chinese, Mexican, African and more.

During the industrial boom of the early 20^th century, Hamilton became a main entrepot for skilled labourers that left Northern Europe in search of prosperity inside mills and factories. The market is a byproduct of a European-style center of trade and commerce, gaining its first roots as a Jewish grocer but eventually expanding into the mega-market it is today. Hamilton’s rich history of working-class immigrant settlers that formed the original city is alive and well in the market and can be enjoyed by everyone.

Waterfalls of Hamilton

Probably the last item one would imagine on a Tour de Hamilton would be a picturesque waterfall. Well…Think again, and then think a multitude of cascading H2O, and you have a city with the ultra-cool title of ‘The Waterfall Capital of Canada’. Apparently, a shitload of water rockets over a shitload of high crested rocky cliffs in and around Hamilton.

Albion Falls.

This unexpected treasure is actually a product of Lake Ontario geography. Hamilton is located at the very Western tip of this giant blue body, where plenty of rivers and watersheds flow into the lake. Couple that with the fact that the area is surrounded by a giant riff in the earth known as the Niagara Escarpment, and you get waterfalls…Waterfalls everywhere.

Many flock to the trails and viewpoints of places like Mill Falls, Albion Falls and my favourite, the Devils Punch Bowl to meet these hydrological giants and feel the wrath of thousands of litres of water flying over a cliff.

The Bruce Trail

You’re in escarpment country now, where hiking trails for all age and skill levels creep through the umpteen conservation areas, highlighting the hidden natural beauty of Hamilton’s backyard. From Dundas Valley to the Eramosa Karst, the options for exploring are endless, but the main artery that runs through this network is none other than the Bruce Trail, Canada’s oldest and largest hiking experience.

Running 885km from Niagara to the Bruce Penensula, the trail has gained notoriety as being the god of all hiking itineraries in Canada. More hikers seem to be interested in the trail every year, some undertaking ‘end-to-ends’ that can last up to three months and traverse every kilometre of its winding route. Hamilton serves as a perfect mid-point on the ‘Iroquoia’ section, before the trail heads North past Burlington and Milton.

No matter how you look at it, Hamilton is changing, and growing, and metamorphisizing…Into what, we’re still not sure yet, but I think it’s interesting and you should too. So, next time you’re passing that freaky-ass industrial shoreline along the QEW, consider looking beyond and stepping into Steel City. 

From Lost to Found on the Niagara Escarpment.

Stifled by endless school assignments and shitty fall weather, I decided recently that it was time for another small adventure to recharge my batteries and remind myself of life outside. But where to go, and what to do? I love Toronto, but it can be one hell of an entrapment when you’re looking for a bit of solitude. Perhaps I could find a nice private cabin in Muskoka that doesn’t cost my unborn child’s college tuition? Or maybe Niagara Falls happens to accommodate the winter camper? All wishful thinking, none a feasible option.

I was almost ready to give up, convincing myself that escaping the concrete jungle was an impossibility on my measly budget and strict timescale. At the same time, the semesters end had me yearning for a good read, and I picked up Cheryl Strayed’s Wild, because if I couldn’t travel physically goddamit I was at least going to go somewhere mentally. Strayed not only captured my attention in her incredible true story of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, but also reminded me of how much I fucking love hiking. It was, very quickly after this revelation, when I decided to go on a trip anyways and see the world-famous Bruce Trail. 

The Bruce Trail, in case you haven’t heard, is Canada’s oldest and longest trail system that runs 885km from Niagara to Tobermory on the tip of the Bruce Peninsula. While I wasn’t about to embark on an end-to-end trip (that would take about a month and a half), I could at least spend a couple days on the nearby Niagara Escarpment where the trail offers scenic views and an opportunity to rekindle a relationship with Mother Nature. Its closest access point from Toronto is only an hour away by car but can be located by using other transportation systems located in the towns and cities it passes.

At the foot of the DPB

A mere hour on a Westbound GO Train and I found myself in downtown Hamilton, hopping a city bus to its outskirts and traversing the grassy knolls of Battlefield Park to a Bruce Trail connection. From there, the trail switchbacks up the Niagara Escarpment and enters a place called the Devils Punch Bowl, or a giant fucking crater in the earth with a waterfall and shit. I almost forgot where I was for a while, resting atop a rocky outcropping devouring an egg salad sandwich and watching my fellow hikers with their dogs that relentlessly and excitedly explore every inch of cold ground.

I know it’s a pretty far stretch, but I couldn’t help but compare myself to Strayed while I strapped on my hiking pack and camera case or lost my breath on a steep ascent. Two days on the escarpment is nothing like the brutality of three months across in the Sierra Nevada, and I only created one wimpy blister during the trip – unlike the swollen, toenail-dying, chewed up rawness of Strayeds’ feet (which are described in gruesome detail in the book). Still, the spirit of being on the trail in the wilderness was not lost on me. Nor was the innate wonder of the Niagara Escarpment. 

Standing at the iconic Stoney Creek lookout.

My second day on the trail followed a not so fruitful sleep at a hostel in Hamilton. Exhausted, I found my way again out to the brink of civilization, this time at the edge of the Kings Forest, due 45min Southeast of the city. Now descending the escarpment, I was reminded how much harder it is to walk down than up. I emerged, knees shaking uncontrollably and hands covered in dirt and stone from grabbing roots and rocks to stabilize myself, in front of the spectacle of Albion Falls, a cascading 62ft tower of water. The sight of it became the homage of my trip – my hiking was over, but I would spend an extra hour watching how the water tumbled over each small riff in the earth, eventually pooling into rock-filled enclaves at my feet.

Albion Falls.

My trip through the escarpment, however small it was, reminded me of simple pleasures – hiking alone in the woods, with nothing to do but think about your life, moving forward and respecting the trail you’ve already walked. 

*Cheryl Strayed's Wild can be purchased here. This book will blow your mind.

Avoiding the Corporate Christmas Blues

Ever notice how much Christmas is actually just a huge bummer? I mean, I get it…Being seduced by ‘The Christmas Spirit’ is great, and I’ll admit to feeling jolly after stuffing myself stupid with cranberry sauce, literally turning my stomach in a bow full of jelly. The fact of the matter is, though, for many us, a more accurate opening line for ‘Deck The Halls’ would read ‘Tis the season to be stressed and feel like dying’.

When Christmas lights rape your head.

We’ve overcomplicated things because of the significance that gets uncontrolably packed into a few important weeks of holiday. The ‘cheer’ part only seems to resurface in short waves when you’re not sardined into a lineup at Wal Mart or attending the infinitely long and useless company holiday pot latch. When all is said and done, it feels almost emancipating to free oneself of the festive season, no longer bound by solving mysterious gift ideas or navigating the pandemonium of shopping centres during Early Christmas, Black Weekend, Green Thursday, Mid-December, Pre-Christmas, Pre-Pre Christmas, Last Minute, Last Second, I-Literally-Forgot-to-Buy-My-Wife-Something-and-its-6am-on-December-25^th, Boxing Day, Boxing Week, New Years and Just-For-Shits-and-Giggles sales. In lieu of the aforementioned, it’s no surprise that something called ‘holiday depression’ is now considered a serious disorder that has become commonplace during this time of year.

Three years ago, I did something that would change the course of Christmas forever: I abstained from gift giving/receiving. This simple yet oh so season-changing decision was met with chagrin from family members and passive scolding from friends, but was also the smartest thing I’d done in a long, long, panic-induced-from-buying-presents time. That December, I avoided all things with a price tag like the plague and didn’t step one foot into a mall, instead finding more time for myself and the people around me. The residual effects on my student-sized wallet and time management strategy were unbelievable, but what made the largest impact were the other changes it would catalyse.

I immediately regret posting this.

I’ve found the simple act of refusing gift exchanges has forced me to find a new approach to Christmas. Suddenly, other, less tangible things became more important, and consequently my experience of Christmas has changed shape over the past few years. My partner and I don’t buy things for each other; instead, we go on trips over the break. This year, I’m co-hosting Christmas Eve for the family for the first time. I read books, see old friends and make food. I’m spending more time preparing for holiday events at PARC instead of creating gift lists.

This isn’t a shameless self-plug or boastful post, nor is it an anti-corporate politically charged message. I am not suggesting widespread gift-less holidays (some people just can’t help it, as I’ve come to learn after having a few slipped to me every year in the wake of my ‘no gifting’ protests). I am suggesting a toning down of the things that are merely physical things, because those things don’t get us closer to each other.

Think about it: what’s the worst thing that could happen if you reduced gift giving? A few long faces on Christmas Day? Confused children? Now brainstorm the benefits. We have a hard time abstracting the true meaning of this time of year from the boxes wrapped in shiny paper, but I promise you that fewer things under the tree equal a Christmas where you don’t feel like sticking your head in an oven. And that’s just priceless.  

Have a safe and happy holiday season. Love, Me.