It’s not marketing hyperbole. The Cliffhanger roller-coaster at Glenwood Springs literally dangles on the edge of a two-kilometre-high mountain face. The rollercoaster was relocated from Branson, Missouri, and now you can feel the adrenaline rush through you as you flip and turn on this white-knuckle fun park ride.
There was once a time, not so long ago, when Williamsburg wasn’t somewhere people visited. Now things are different and, even if they weren’t, it’d still be worth crossing the bridge to visit Brooklyn Brewery. From Monday to Thursday, the crew here runs bookable Small Batch Tours – part history lesson, part guided tasting – where you can ask questions and chill out afterwards.
On the weekends (it’s a no-tour zone on Friday), it’s a bit more laissez-faire with tickets for afternoon tours available on site an hour before. Order some pizza nearby, grab one of the seasonal brews and enjoy the atmosphere.
Think you’ve got the downward dog, cobra and child’s pose down pat? Try doing them on a board in the water, smartypants. Introducing YOGAqua, a stand-up-paddle-boarding-meets-asana caper for yogis who like to multitask. In 90 minutes of bodily bliss, learn how to limber up on a paddle board and sprout new muscles as you test your balance on a moving surface.
If it all becomes too much, you can always ditch the board and trade downward dog for dog paddle. After all, you’ll need to know how to swim if you want to make it back to shore.
Scarf-wearing, cigar-toting Maximón is believed to be the reincarnation of the Mayan God, Mam. A scarecrow-esque effigy of this curious character moves house every year in the Guatemalan village of Santiago, and attracts a steady stream of worshippers. Local children will lead you to Maximón for a fee, and you can make an offering of incense, whisky (his favourite) or cigars, but that will cost extra.
With its endless rugged cliffs and deep red crevices, the Grand Canyon couldn’t be more awe-inspiring – that is until you discover its hidden jewel, Havasu Falls. Nestled in the tribal lands of the Havasupai Indian Reservation, this spring-borne waterfall plunges from a 30-metre-high cliff top into a natural amphitheatre.
Clear blue-green pools glow against the terracotta-stained rock, their luminous colour generated by naturally occurring calcium carbonate and magnesium. Rise early and hike there or, if you’re super keen, take a helicopter. However you get here, this is one gem you want to find.
Take a break from Tulum’s ruins and jump straight into this emerald sinkhole. Part of the Ik Kil Archeological Park – also home to Chichén Itzá, a pre-Columbian city built by the Mayans – this swimming hole is just one of about 7000 cenotes (the word means natural well) dotted throughout the Yucatan Peninsula, thanks to an elaborate underground river system.
It’s a 26-metre drop from the lip of Ik Kil to the water. If you’re brave enough you can take the plunge – the water is about 40 metres deep, so you’re not about the hit the bottom. For the rest of us, there’s a set of stairs carved into the limestone for a more sedate entry. Get there early, or leave it till the late afternoon, to avoid the tour buses.
Viking Erik the Red named this tundra Greenland when he discovered it in 982. Evidently he thought it would entice people to move here from Iceland, making it quite possibly the ballsiest marketing move in history.
Kangerlussuaq is located at the head of one of the longest fjords on the planet and a bumpy bus ride parallel to it eventually leads to the sea, and my home for the next two weeks, the Akademik Ioffe.
From here we are taking the journey of a lifetime: a 12-day adventure with One Ocean Expeditions travelling westwards through the treacherous Northwest Passage that connects the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans along the north coast of North America. It’s a journey few ships are able to undertake, but the Ioffe is a scientific research vessel built specially to handle the harshest conditions on earth.
Overnight sailing takes us to Jakobshavn Glacier, one of the largest in the world and thought to have birthed the iceberg that sunk the Titanic.
At 120 metres long, the ship is remarkable and packed with incredibly sophisticated engineering. Its two diesel engines crank at a massive 3500 horsepower and have the ability to thrust 360 degrees as they run almost silently. Gigantic sub-marine, high frequency antennas map every crevasse on the seabed up to 3000 metres away. This, along with the fact that it was launched at the height of the Cold War and operated by a fully Russian crew, has made it a notorious spy ship. As a result, it’s never been allowed to sail in US waters.
Even though it’s a working vessel, Akademik Ioffe is remarkably liveable. The berths, while small, are still larger than a NYC dorm room, and have comfortable bunk beds along with small sinks, desk areas and even a little couch. Outside the rooms there is a large dining hall, library, sauna and even a lounge with a well-stocked bar. On the top deck an outdoor hot tub offers the opportunity, if you’re lucky, to sip a cold beer and watch polar bears at the same time. Could you ask for a better setting for an adventure story?
The ship, however, is just a vessel for the experience, which is expertly crafted by the impressive One Ocean staff. Each has specialised skills that, when combined, create the perfect storm for their onboard companions. The set-up is similar to that of a video game, but instead of having a demolition expert, a sniper, a medic and a marine on your team, you have a glaciologist, a naturalist, a historian and a masseuse. Each and every person here is dedicated to this expedition and an authority on some aspect of the Arctic. They not only bring the history of the Arctic within reach, but they bring it very much to life.
Safely on board, we’re ready to face the unknown, and head north up the coast to the ridiculously picturesque town of Sisimiut. Houses are strung along the rugged cove like Christmas lights, each one painted a solid primary colour as if the local hardware store had a sale on the brightest of hues. In the centre of town, below Greenland’s oldest church, Bethel-kirken, is an outdoor museum with a handful of houses from different epochs. The interior of the oldest, a basic peat house, is breathtaking – clean simple lines, large living spaces, oil lamps and simple decor. You can almost see where IKEA gets its inspiration.
Overnight sailing takes us to Disko Bay and the Jakobshavn Glacier, one of the largest in the world and thought to have birthed the iceberg that sunk the Titanic. Walls of ice, 150 metres long, are calved in our wake as we explore in Zodiacs. We skim over frozen chunks of white, through blue-green canyons and over inky water, as glaciologist Jimmy McDonald waxes poetic about the different types of ice – candle ice, grease ice, pancake, white, black, brash, what is healthy ice and what isn’t. Seems it isn’t just a key ingredient in my frozen margarita, but also another life form on this planet – and one that is responsible for all the other life forms on the planet. “The ice is what controls global warming, not the other way around,” Jimmy explains. It soon becomes evident that if global warming didn’t exist we wouldn’t even be able to take this trip.
Crossing Baffin Bay we stop in Canada at Devon Island to go hiking. Chalk-white bones of fallen animals lie in our path as we cross gentle summits. Walking the shore of Lancaster Sound, we wend through large warped ice chunks that give the pebbled beach the appearance of a sculpture garden. Finally we reach the sweeping bay of Dundas Harbour, where two battered and abandoned houses sit trapped in time. These are the last remnants of a doomed Royal Canadian Mounted Police post that lasted a mere nine years, from 1924 to 1933.
On an embankment there’s a small cemetery where three bodies are interred – one is an Inuit girl who died of unknown causes, another belongs to an RCMP officer who was killed in a walrus hunting accident, and the final one is a Mountie who took his own life. In the ghost town below, you can peer into the buildings to see old cans, empty whisky bottles, and magazines and books left as they were when the inhabitants abandoned the settlement more than 80 years ago. It becomes apparent the cold here preserves everything, including the Arctic’s dark history.
On the southern side of Baffin Bay we reach Beechey Island, where a thick fog has settled in and visibility is about five metres. “It’s always like this,” says Ian, one of the expedition leaders. He is a big Nova Scotian who always looks as if he’s about to wrestle some wild animal. “Doesn’t matter if it’s sunny and warm on the water – as soon as you land, fog. Everywhere. All the time.” Traversing the island is like walking through an Ingmar Bergman film – a rocky beach stretches for miles, the horizon blending perfectly with the fog so that infinity surrounds you. Then, maybe a hundred paces from us, we find four small wooden gravestones. This is the last sign of the great Franklin expedition.
Sir John Franklin is to the Northwest Passage what Madame Curie is to x-rays: a tragic figure whose death only brought on more discovery. You cannot travel to this part of the world and not speak of Franklin. He was the glorious son of the British Empire, and the favourite to finally find a true passage from Greenland to the Canadian mainland. Outfitted with two immense ships, the HMS Erebus and HMS Terror, Franklin had a massive advantage over previous expeditions. Besides being well funded and loaded with the most advanced equipment, he had a tremendous amount of experience, having already made three successful trips to the Arctic Circle. Unfortunately, things turned out differently on his fourth. In 1845 he left England with 129 fit crew. In 1846 he wintered on Beechey Island, and buried three of the men at the gravesite we’re at today. A note was left with them saying things were going swimmingly, morale was high, and Franklin expected great results as the coming of spring would free his ships to travel further west.
That was the last anyone ever heard from him.
Franklin’s wife Jane wouldn’t believe her husband had perished and, in the decades that followed his disappearance, championed to send dozens of rescue missions to bring him home. Ironically, it was those searching for the sailor and his men who filled in the blanks on the Arctic map, and gave rise to the ultimate crossing of the Northwest Passage by Sir Robert McClure and the crew of the HMS Investigator, by ship and sledge, in 1854. Franklin has since been heralded a hero despite his expedition being a failure and the discovery of evidence suggesting he and his men resorted to cannibalism in an attempt to survive.
What is truly outstanding is that for the following 150 years people searched for Franklin’s two huge ships with little success. It wasn’t until September 2014 that a Canadian expedition, using sonar, stumbled upon the wreckage of the Erebus in Queen Maud Gulf some 800 kilometres from Beechey Island. Unfortunately any sign of Franklin’s grave or those of most of his men are non-existent. Many are thought to have perished trying to walk to the mainland. How do I know all this? Each night, Arctic historian Katie Murray, in her Scottish brogue, recounts the tales of lives risked and lost to discover the Northwest Passage.
Sailing away, we begin heading into the thick of the Canadian archipelago that makes up the Nunavut territory. Every day the crew checks charts and remaps the route to ensure safe passage through the ice-choked channels. The ice here dictates your path and plans for the day, and making it to the final port at Cambridge Bay sometimes seems like an impossible feat. It is possible to get trapped in an inlet or blocked from proceeding by changing ice floes, giving you a real-time sense of how treacherous this crossing can be.
On the morning of the tenth day we pile into the Zodiacs to tour the massive cliffs of Prince Leopold Island, one of the largest bird nesting sites in the world. At first I’m taken aback by the sheer size of the granite wall in front of me, then I realise it is covered in thousands of birds. They come here to lay their eggs, which are an exaggerated conical shape. It’s nature’s way of ensuring that if the eggs roll they spin in a tight circle rather than off the edge of a 400-metre cliff. As we cruise past the clamouring, avian-infested precipice, we are greeted by another fantastic surprise – a large male polar bear.
Polar bears are unique creatures. Most people never encounter them, but we all have an idea of what they look like. Let me tell you, you’re wrong. They are massive. Half-a-tonne massive, and pure white with large paws that give them the appearance of a huge puppy. Their obsidian eyes peer out over the surface of the water, as their mouths, overloaded with jagged teeth, curl in the manner of a smile. They are captivating, and it’s a rare treat to see one in the wild.
Which is why over the next two days, when we spy another 14 of them, our minds are blown. “They must have known you were coming to write an article,” jokes expedition leader Boris Wise. Even he admits seeing this many bears is rare. We see them feeding on land, hanging out on icebergs, taking a dip and protecting their young from larger males. There are so many, in fact, that when I’m in the hot tub and the call comes over the ship’s PA that another bear has been spotted off the port side, I simply crane my neck to watch it enjoy its fresh meal. It doesn’t get much better than that.
With our expectations surpassed, we cruise silently into Cambridge Bay. On the final night the chef prepares a birthday cake for two passengers on board, and bartender Vanessa invents a drink special called Arctic Ice, a concoction that makes saying goodbye to new friends a little easier. We trade pictures, stories and contact information, then return to our cabins to pack.
At the airport we cross paths with the next group who is taking the ship back to Greenland. We smile at them, half envious that they’re about to witness something that will possibly change them forever, and half proud because we’ve completed a journey that has challenged so many before us. As we board the charter flight back to civilisation I am reminded by Katie, our historian, that Queen Victoria called the Arctic Meta Incognita, which is Latin for ‘the unknown limits’. That is exactly how completing this journey has made me feel – like there would never be any limit to my fondness for this experience.
Legs pumping, I’m dodging tree roots, trunks and jagged rocks, all while trying to stay focused on the track ahead. And yet, despite this, I find myself snatching glances of the craggy cliff walls, the wildly frothing water and the wide-open sky that’s cobalt blue smeared with bruised rain clouds.
Soon we stop for a breather, and I take the opportunity to safely drink in the surroundings and, just quietly, thank the gods I didn’t go careening over the edge. Illuminated by a golden rush of sun, it’s larger than life and insanely beautiful.
At times like this, in places like these, it’s easy to be overwhelmed by Mother Nature’s grandeur. But instead, I feel myself firmly rooted: a small and intrinsic part of the world.
It seems most people drawn to Canada’s Yukon feel the same way. They’ve found a place where they fit and thrive; where the rules are malleable and people dictate the terms of life, not vice versa.
Ziggy, my mountain-biking guide, is testament to that. A dyed-in-the-wool Yukoner, she grew up riding the 700 kilometres of tracks that chequer the region’s capital, Whitehorse. In summer she bikes and all winter it’s cross-country skiing (and I do mean all winter – they last for a while above the 60th parallel). She knows just about everybody in town, and everywhere too. A night at the Dirty Northern Bastard’s bar wouldn’t have been quite the wild ride without her – but more about that later.
A little further along we stop again. The muddy track is gouged into the sloping clifftop and slippery from the morning’s rain. It’s hairy going, so we get off and push until… Ziggy’s foot slides perilously close to the edge and shows no sign of stopping. Her bike’s following fast behind. She laughs and somehow halts the descent. “At least one person dies each summer in the river,” Ziggy says. “But it’s not gonna be me. I’d never live that down!”
And that’s another mark of a true Yukoner – irreverence. You see signs of it everywhere: on spray-painted buildings and locally made T-shirts and in conversations overheard on street corners in Whitehorse. Maybe it’s in reaction to the long cold winters, when temps drop to –50°C and romances blossom, only to wilt come the first warming rays of summer. “You’re a long time cold,” one old-timer tells me, “and a short time frisky and free.”
My week-long ride began here, in the ‘big town’ (population 26,500). Equal parts white settler and First Nation terrain, Whitehorse is perched on the banks of the Yukon River, named after the indigenous word for big river, youcon. Their ancestors used the river and the valley through which it flows as a meeting place and food bowl.
A two-hour flight north of the west-coast city of Vancouver, and bordering Alaska and the Arctic Sea, the Yukon Territory is home to 14 indigenous peoples and eight different language groups. The same size as South Australia, it has one-fiftieth of the population (30,000 people). In fact, you’re more likely to run into a moose than a person here – the antlered animals outnumber Yukoners two to one.
This wasn’t always the case. The Yukon population was higher in the gold rush years of 1898 and 99 than it is today. The Klondike Gold Rush began in 1897 and is the single biggest event – in terms of historical significance and population growth – in the Yukon’s history. When two ships docked in San Francisco and Seattle carrying miners returning from the Yukon with bags of gold, newspapers carried the story to the masses, and the masses responded in droves. Within six months, approximately 100,000 gold-seekers, called ‘stampeders’, set off for the Yukon. Only 30,000 completed the arduous trip.
There are fine Yukon ales on tap, a mummified cat in a glass box on the bar and rumours of ghosts swirling around like Casper himself.
The most common route was by boat from the west coast of the USA to Skagway in Alaska, over the hazardous Chilkoot or White Passes to the Yukon River then a hundred kilometres by boat to Dawson City.
Steep and perilous, the trail through Chilkoot Pass – 1500 steps carved out of snow and ice – was known as the ‘golden staircase’. Stampeders were required to take a year’s worth of supplies with them and, with the trail too steep for packhorses, they made up to 30 trips up and down the staircase, until all their goods were at the top. Many gave up, abandoning their equipment on the trail.
The White Pass track was even more challenging. More than 3000 pack animals perished here, causing it to be renamed the ‘dead horse trail’.
Stampeders who survived the passes reached Bennett Lake, where they wintered in tents waiting for the spring thaw. Then they would row their hand-built boats down the Yukon River to Dawson City. During the three-week trip miners rode killer rapids. Many lost their possessions, or worse, their lives, when their boats broke up.
Fortunately, my trip to the goldfields is far less taxing. From Carcross, an hour’s drive from Whitehorse, I jump aboard the historic White Pass & Yukon Railway. Built in 1898 to ferry miners, it offers a spectacular journey alongside pristine lakes and vertiginous mountains.
The snappily dressed train conductor welcomes me to the train. Then, in the comfort of my carriage, which features on-board wood-burning stoves, we chug along, drinking in the magnificent scenery – shimmering water, towering rock walls and lush greenery – through vast glass windows. The station in Bennett sits on the banks of the same lake that was choked with timber boats jostling for position in the gold rush race downriver.
During the stampede, a town sprung up around the lake. There were shops, saloons, a church and hotels, including the salubrious New Arctic Restaurant and Hotel built by opportunistic young businessman Friedrich Trump, who recognised that miners needed somewhere to spend their earnings. The fortune he made here in humble Bennett Lake gave rise to the famous Trump family empire, now known the world over.
Today, the remnants make for an intriguing historical site and the view is breathtaking – heavily wooded hills, cloud-tickling mountains and an exquisite turquoise lake. As I wander around, I imagine the lives of the stampeders, surviving what were undoubtedly some of the harshest conditions on the planet. Did the spectacular surroundings help pull so many of them through in the frozen winters spent in tents?
A day later I’m back in Carcross (short for Caribou Crossing) and hurtling down Montana Mountain, a mix of rugged terrain, pine forests and rock.
I’m warming up my cycle legs on the green and blue trails (rated similarly to ski trails), before steeling myself to tackle Upper Wolverine – a rock garden maze with raised wooden features and natural airs. If I have any pedal left and am willing to throw all caution to the wind, I might even visit Grizzly Bear. As aggressive as its namesake, Grizzly is a steep descent along smooth rock faces and buff dirt, with some hair-raising lines.
Here, there is a combination of historic trails, mining-era routes and a single purpose-built track (35 kilometres in total). All are maintained by dedicated trail builders, courtesy of the Yukon government.
So passionate are locals about mountain biking that it’s not only adults who ride, build and maintain trails. The owners of Boreale Biking, through whom I hired my bike and hooked up with guide Ziggy, run weekly kids’ mountain-biking days.
“We teach the kids how to ride and also get them involved in building trails and maintaining them, so they’re giving back to the community,” owner and mountain-biker Marsha says. “It’s an involvement they’ll carry through to adulthood, we hope, along with a passion for getting out among it. As we always say, any day in the saddle’s a good day!”
It’s a great program and the kids love it – throwing themselves down trails all morning, switching handlebars and helmets for shovels in the afternoon, and rounding out the day with a barbecue under the midnight sun.
The 20-plus hours of daylight in high summer mean there’s plenty of time for trail riding and a multitude of other outdoor sports in the Yukon.
After my morning on Montana I trade saddles – bike for horse – and head into the high alpine. Slowly and sure-footedly we climb through dense forest to emerge above the tree line and gaze out over shimmering Fish Lake. Behind me, to the north, a line of jagged mountain peaks iced with snow claws its way to the horizon and, beyond that, Alaska.
The following day I hike to the top of another mountain range, and the day after that am pulled along behind a team of newbie sled dogs in training for the winter season. Like the locals, I’m making the most of the summer.
Also like a local, I’ve developed quite a thirst, and so Ziggy and I head to the Dirty Northern Bastard in the heart of Whitehorse. There are fine Yukon ales on tap, a mummified cat in a glass box on the bar and rumours of ghosts swirling around like Casper himself.
“The story goes that the original hotel, the Capital, closed down years ago in the winter and everyone moved out,” says Ziggy. “In the spring, people started smelling something rotten and when they investigated they found a former guest thawing out in his room. And the cat, well, it was found in the walls of the hotel when it was being restored. It had been there so long it was completely mummified. Today, it’s said they wander the halls and rooms of the hotel.”
Ziggy’s stories are a blast and soon other locals join in with tall tales and truths about Yukoner life.
It is here I first hear about the ‘colourful five per centers’, the local term for the quirky, out-of-the-box Yukoners who are the heart and soul of the place. You see them marching to their own beat, their eccentricities on display in the clothes they wear (picture camouflage hunting jackets and lumberjack beards), the goods they’re spruiking (handmade beaver- and moose-fur slippers), and in cool art installations that adorn the city, like the huge bicycle-wheel dome near the entrance to town. Sitting beside a bright red house, it’s eight metres tall, held together with plastic ties and crawling with larger-than-life spiders and bugs also built from wheels and spokes.
Ziggy says the creator of this ‘five per center’ has been around
forever, riding bikes, running the local cycle shop and loving his free-wheeling life. “He retired a while ago,” she says. “I guess he wanted to keep sharing his passion.”
Passion, I’ve discovered, is high on the agenda for both native Yukoners and visitors alike. For some, it’s a passion for mountain biking or exploring the territory’s magnificent landscape. For others, it’s making First Nation jellies from native wildflowers or elk skewers after a successful hunting trip. And for others again, it’s living a life completely off the grid.
For renowned author Jack London, whose visit to the Yukon coincided with the gold rush – and whose bronze bust adorns Whitehorse’s main street – it was a passion for writing. “You can’t wait for inspiration,” he wrote. “You have to go after it with a club.” And so he did here, the influence of the north defining his five novels and 665 short stories, including To Build a Fire, which contains one of the most moving descriptions of the cold ever written.
Then there’s London’s The Call of the Wild, which in the early twentieth century drew worldwide attention to the Yukon. The very same Yukon – with its staggering natural beauty, golden history, embarrassment of wildlife and colourful characters – that now inspires me, too.
6.00pm
This is the home of Canada’s best craft beer scene and new microbreweries are popping up in Vancouver every few weeks. But despite the frothy clamour, one ale-maker stands out from the crowd. Since opening in 2013, Brassneck Brewery has concocted more than 50 different beers and hooks drinkers with an ever-changing chalkboard of intriguing libations with names like Magician’s Assistant and Passive Aggressive. Arrive early for a seat in the tasting bar – holes punched in the wood-plank walls reveal the brewery beyond – and couple your sampler flight with cured sausage from the jars on the counter. Still hungry? There’s often a food truck parked outside and you’re encouraged to bring your grub into the bar.
Brassneck Brewery
2148 Main Street, Mount Pleasant
brassneck.ca
7.00pm
Check the online calendar of nearby Hot Art Wet City gallery to add an early-evening side event to your big night out. One of Vancouver’s most eclectic art spaces, HAWC opens late on the first Thursday of every month and hosts regular night-time happenings, from artist talks to burlesque-themed sketch classes. But the best way to meet local artsy types is to grab a few drinks at a gratis show opening. New exhibitions kick off monthly and there’s always something fun and fancy worth rubbing your chin at – recent shows have covered embarrassing teenager art, disembodied dolls’ head paintings and clever designs applied to bike saddles and beer bottles.
Hot Art Wet City
2206 Main Street, Mount Pleasant
hotartwetcity.com
8.30pm
Hop on the number 3 transit bus outside the gallery and you’ll be downtown in 10 minutes. But you’re not heading for the Strip. Tucked above a 7-Eleven, the sticky-tabled Railway Club – launched as a respite for train workers in the 1930s – is Vancouver’s best old-school bar. Now a laid-back, all-embracing hangout for everyone from red-nosed old lags to penny-pinching students – plus those easily tempted office slaves who couldn’t resist dropping by for an after-work brew three hours ago – there’s a hole-in-the-wall food hatch and a generous array of great local-made booze. The hoppy Driftwood Fat Tug IPA comes recommended. But the Rail’s main attraction is a small, sweaty stage with a near-nightly roster of bands of the emerging and obscure variety.
Railway Club
579 Dunsmuir Street, Downtown
therailwayclub.com
10.00pm
The frayed-around-the-edges Railway Club flirts with the whole dive bar aesthetic, but Pub 340, with its aroma of stale beer, is the real deal. A 10-minute downhill walk away, it’s home to a gaggle of glassy-eyed regulars during the day – where else can you find dirt-cheap booze sans a side order of communicable diseases? – while a younger, hipper crew rolls in as the night unfolds. Few, however, are here for the greasy floors and grubby beer-hall ambience. Instead, they purchase pints to take to the front-of-house pinball room. For a dollar a game, you’ll have your choice of 11 tables, including the ever-popular White Water and the bells-and-whistles Wizard of Oz. Need to rest your flipping fingers? There’s also a console programmed with 1980s video games.
Pub 340
340 Cambie Street, Downtown
pub340.ca
11.00pm
Move swiftly along Hastings Street – heart of gritty Downtown Eastside – then turn right onto Main Street’s Chinatown stretch; you’re keeping your eyes peeled for the faded awning of the Brickhouse. Echoing a 1970s family room, this bar’s eye-popping interior is lined with dog-eared books, fairy-lit movie posters and neon-bright fish tanks twitching with aquatic life. Crammed with more knick-knacks than a jam-packed junk shop – from vintage 7UP fridges to dusty Bakelite radios – it’s the physical extension of owner Leo Chow’s eclectic mind. “We’re 60 per cent British pub and 40 per cent American tavern,” he’s fond of saying as he pours well-priced draughts for the friendly young folk and international backpackers who regard the room, with its sagging sofas and ever-busy pool table, as their personal den.
Brickhouse
730 Main Street, Chinatown
12.00am
Main Street noses uphill as you aim for the intersection with 3rd Avenue and a red light bulb mounted above an otherwise anonymous doorway. When the light is on, the Narrow Lounge is open. Descend the graffiti-lined stairway and you’ll suddenly emerge in a cosy, subterranean speakeasy no bigger than a train carriage. Grab a perch at the glowing bar and order from the list of traditional martinis and classic cocktails – you can’t go past an Old Fashioned – or snag a tiny table beneath the antler horns and garage-sale artworks. There’s also a secret Mexican-themed garden out back, complete with piñatas, painted picnic tables and a kitsch Jesus shrine flickering with candles, making this one of Main’s best hidden hangouts. Hungry? Order the Guinness mac and cheese for a late-night fuel-up.
Narrow Lounge
Corner Main Street and 3rd Avenue, Mount Pleasant
narrowlounge.com
1.00am
You’ve now looped back to Brassneck territory, but it’s long past the brewery’s closing time. Luckily, there’s still plenty to do nearby. The popular Biltmore Cabaret (biltmorecabaret.com) once had a nightlife monopoly in this part of town – its dance floor, band nights and burlesque shows are still hot items – but a challenger arrived on the scene in early 2014. Formerly one of North America’s last-remaining porn cinemas, the new owners of Fox Cabaret have transformed (and fully pressure-washed) the venue, ditching the dodgy flicks in favour of live music, DJ nights and Sunday night comedy. Far friendlier than the characterless Granville Strip clubs, it’s the perfect spot to end your Vancouver night out.
Fox Cabaret
2321 Main Street, Mount Pleasant
foxcabaret.com
Although there are both rocket scientists and billionaire space tourists on board, I am neither. I’m just a boy with stars in his eyes, grown into a man who still occasionally dreams of diamonds set in a pitch-black void and the moon rising behind a curving Earth.
Space agencies have long used zero-g flights to simulate the microgravity of orbit without the danger and expense of a rocket launch. A jet flies steeply upwards, rising three kilometres in 30 seconds. The pilot then carefully steers the plane into an arc – or parabola – like that of a thrown ball. If they get it just right, everyone and everything inside the plane becomes completely weightless for 30 seconds, before the pilot pulls the nose up again.
On our specially modified Boeing 727 flying high above Seattle, Captain John Benisch II gets it right time after time. All but the rear 40 seats have been stripped out of the commercial jet, leaving a long, empty tube padded on every surface. My heart has been racing ever since I signed up – for less than the cost of flying business class from Sydney to LA. I’ve watched videos, read books and even signed a waiver absolving the Zero Gravity Corporation of any responsibility for “injury or illness caused by physical contact with floating objects”. But as I lie on the floor awaiting our first parabola, I realise nothing on earth can truly prepare me for the absence of something I’ve felt unnoticed for every second of my life: gravity.
“Prepare for zero-one,” says Captain Benisch, and suddenly, miraculously, I’m up and floating. It’s like scuba diving without the gear, hang-gliding without any fear of impact or, for this rapidly regressing flier, the realisation of a thousand childhood fantasies. The first parabola is over almost before I even realise it – my weight returning with a vengeance, the plane pushing me to the floor with twice the force of gravity as we line up for another.
On the zero-two and zero-three parabolas, I experiment with slow-motion somersaults. All of my fellow passengers are wearing the same flight suit and the same moonrise-wide grin. Two words fill the air: “sorry” as we inevitably tumble into one another and “awesome” as each parabola ends (yes, the majority are American).
As we fly parabola after parabola, my confidence rises. I dart after flying M&Ms, hover in a suspended raincloud of water droplets and spin through the air like Superman. As this isn’t an extreme NASA ‘vomit comet’ training mission, with 50 parabolas in roller-coaster succession, we level out after 12 and start our descent. Even so, by the time we touch down, ecstatic, exhausted and exhilarated, my stomach is roiling. My boyhood dreams have come true but my adult self realises that perhaps I never really had what it takes to be a spaceman.
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