Serendipitous. That’s the word that best describes my present predicament: standing face to face with a six-foot female grizzly. She’s so close I can smell the salmon on her breath and see the leftover chunks of meat between her teeth.
We stand, eyeballing one another for a moment longer – me marvelling at her beautiful face, its fur dripping with mountain meltwater; her eyes are so endearing I find myself anthropomorphising her. She is, quite surely, the most majestic ‘woman’ I have ever seen.
“Hey bear,” says my guide Blakeley, calmly reassuring the behemoth mum and her yearling cub, standing slightly off to the side, that all is well in her wilderness, the pristine Great Bear Rainforest (GBR) on the remote west coast of Canada.
Serendipitous. Six months earlier in Sydney I stood face to face with another extraordinary woman who also calls the GBR home: Australian Marg Leehane. She runs Great Bear Lodge, located 80 kilometres by air from Port Hardy in British Columbia. She lives and breathes bears here, and while a guest in her floating lodge, you do too.
Up at dawn, guests – only 16 at any one time – head out in boats to watch the bears feeding on spring sedges (flowering rushes) and visit viewing blinds from where they can see grizzlies fish for salmon.
Which brings us, serendipitously, to the exquisite lady standing before me. Her cub has grown restless of our encounter and is mewing, like a lamb, for more food. Mum turns and, within a moment, is body deep in rushing water. Salmon splash by – flipping flashes of green, yellow and burgundy. Mother bear lunges, swipes and comes up trumps, a 50-centimetre fish impaled on her claws.
She moves to the other side of the river, drops the salmon and tears at the flesh with her teeth. The cub noses in for a feed. Nearby, a bald eagle lands then hops closer, hoping for scraps.
I watch all this mesmerised. Upstream, at a bend in the river, another grizzly appears, then one, two, three more. Mother bear turns her head, sniffs the air, and decides to move on. But just before she disappears into the forest, she looks back.
“Hey bear,” I say, bidding her farewell and reassuring her once again that all is well in her Great Bear Rainforest.
From Manhattan to Malibu and everywhere in between, there’s more to America than Starbucks and faux pas-making politicians. There are also vast tracts of breathtaking wilderness, cutting-edge arts and culture, and the supersized glitz and glam of Hollywood and Vegas.
Tap your feet in New Orleans, gorge on barbecue in Texas, swish down mountains in Colorado or get in touch with your inner hippie in San Francisco. And don’t forget about that little island group called Hawaii, or the remote natural beauty of Alaska.
There’s so much to see and do, you can (sort of) understand why many Americans never holiday abroad. So strap on your fanny pack, grab your peeps, and lap it up in the Land of the Free.
Mexico is many things – good, bad and ugly. The upside: most of it is good. Very good. From snowy volcanic peaks to warm azure waters, mysterious ancient wonders to fast-paced city living, this is a country of contrasts, colour and intrigue.
Head to the northern state of Chiapas to explore the Maya city of Palenque in the jungle or combine temples and tans at Tulum, with its magnificent thirteenth-century walled city and clifftop castle. While you’re in this part of the world, take a dip in the Yucatan’s cenotes, underground caves with pools of turquoise water formed when the porous limestone bedrock collapses.
Spend some downtime chasing waves. Small beachside towns like Sayulita and Puerto Escondido offer decent breaks and a low-key vibe. Elsewhere you can hike, kayak, zip-line, horse ride and take on just about any other adventure you can imagine.
For urban adventurers, Mexico City is a goldmine. Huge and chaotic, it offers incredible history, outstanding art, extraordinary cultural experiences (the Arena México hosts lucha libra, the country’s own form of wrestling, each week) and thriving hip neighbourhoods. Check out Condesa, Roma and Juárez for cool bars, restaurants and shops.
If you’re willing to give the well-worn tourist traps a swerve, Mexico will reward you with some remarkable travel experiences. Bring your phrasebook and a sense of adventure and you’ll find this epic country has an incredible allure.
Wild-eyed Kent lurched towards the cliff edge and yelled: “I’ll jump for ya!”
I must have given him a look that screamed CRAZY CANUCK because he quickly qualified his offer: “I’ve done it plenty of times. I grew up around here.”
And then he leapt, arms flapping like rotor blades, off the 20-metre cliff and into the foaming sea below. It seemed an eternity before his head popped, cork-like, out of the brine, and the breath I’d been holding was finally granted its exit.
Cape Breton Highlands National Park, on the northern tip of Canada’s island province of Nova Scotia, is no place for the faint-hearted. It’s a wild concoction of spectacular scenery – vertigo-inducing highlands, Tolkien-esque river canyons and craggy cliffs that plunge (like Kent) into the icy sea. I’d come halfway around the world to explore this earth’s-end landscape, on trails that snake along exposed mountain tops, through peat bogs and into coastal fishing villages, complete with centuries-old lighthouses that, it seems, time has mislaid.
And then there’s the wildlife. Moose roam free here, and spotting them can be nigh on impossible or ridiculously easy – I saw two ‘hiding’ in a sapling forest a stone’s throw from a perfectly groomed golf course (Highland Links – yep, there’s sophistication amid the wilderness). I’d spent the two days before that trekking up hill and down dale, and mired in peat bogs following moose tracks that afforded me not even a glimpse of an antler. Still, hiking boots covered in muck and legs stinging from the unrelenting exertion, it was worth every step.
Access to the park is via the Cabot Trail, without doubt one of the world’s most scenic drives and a favourite with motorcyclists. It’s 300 kilometres of smooth, bitumen road that hugs the rugged coastline and skirts a seemingly endless azure sea (the Gulf of St Lawrence on the north-western edge of the island, and the Atlantic Ocean in the east). Heading inland, it wends through spectacular Canadian maple forests that morph from lime green in summer to waves of red, orange and brilliant yellow come autumn.
When Kent finally made it back to the top of the cliff he was deliriously pumped. “Did you see that? Cool, wasn’t it? Buddy, I can do it again if you want… You wanna jump too?”
Despite the voice in my head screaming “Do it! Do it!” I declined. I had somewhere else to be, I explained. The Skyline Trail. Kent nodded his approval. “That’s cool. It’s a brilliant walk. Look for moose! The big guys hang out around there.”
The 9.2-kilometre Skyline Trail is one of the most popular tracks in the park, and loops atop an impressive coastal headland. I followed a grassy path through fir trees and over roots and rocks to a bog surrounded by sweetly scented pines and earthy peat moss. There were moose tracks everywhere. Promising, Kent, promising.
As I walked west towards the coast, the forest thinned to reveal expansive views of the sea. It was spectacular; the frothing waves of the Gulf of St Lawrence – the world’s largest estuary and the outlet of the Great Lakes of North America – lapped at the horizon.
Roughly halfway along the track I joined a boardwalk that traced the spine of the mountain. The panorama was sublime: to my left, row upon row of pine-clad peaks, and to my right, nothing but deep blue sea. At the boardwalk’s end – a viewing platform at the edge of the cliff – I pulled off my pack and sat, watching the waves roll and roll and roll. Amazingly, I spotted a pod of long-finned pilot whales not too far offshore, flukes slapping on the surface (a practice known as lobtailing).
Difficult as it was to drag myself away from such beauty, back on the Skyline loop I became immersed in the plant life – the pines were stunted from years of being lashed by wind and the peat bogs were a drawcard for all manner of animals, from the snowshoe hare and white-tailed deer to the black bear. I’d stopped to check out a golden dragonfly hovering over a pitcher plant when I heard the press of heavy hooves on soil and looked up to see a moose. It was a male, with antlers as wide as he was long. He took one look at me and ambled away. Breathtaking.
The park is littered with walking tracks like this – scenically stunning and not too hard on the heart. But if you’re looking for one that really gets the blood pumping, try Franey, a steep 7.4-kilometre loop to the 425-metre peak of craggy Franey Mountain. From here the 360-degree view takes in the impressive Clyburn River Canyon, which cuts a path eastward to the Atlantic Ocean. For moose spotters, the three-kilometre Benjie’s Lake trail is most likely to deliver the goods, while beaver lovers should tackle the 1.7-kilometre Freshwater Lake trail, on the southeast edge of the park.
In total, Cape Breton Highlands National Park has 26 designated hiking and mountain-biking trails, as well as eight campgrounds. It’s a wildlife haven, and tucked up in my tent at night I’d hear the forest rustle with movement. A moose? A bear? A cheeky lynx trying to sniff out treats from my dillybag, which was hidden away in a nearby bear-proof food locker?
There are also sleepy coastal villages in which you can rest your weary bones (away from the wildlife) and soak up the island’s rich maritime and Scottish heritage.
Scots first came to the island in the 1770s, and today it’s home to the largest Gaelic community outside Scotland, which continues many fine traditions from the homeland, including Celtic fiddling, step-dancing and producing the best melt-in-your-mouth shortbread I’ve ever eaten. Drizzled with the ubiquitous Canadian maple syrup, it’s fuel for all-day adventuring.
The towns of Inverness on the west coast and Baddeck on the east both brim with Gaelic-inspired food and culture, and in homes, restaurants, pubs and community halls, céilidhs raise the roof pretty much every weekend. Informal social gatherings featuring Scottish dancing, music and storytelling, they’re as much a part of the fabric of the island as the word ‘eh’ is to Canada as a whole.
After a week in the wilderness I stopped in Baddeck to sample a local delicacy pulled straight from the sea. “So what is planked salmon?” I asked of my host at Baddeck Lobster Suppers. While my friends dug into steaming bowls of seafood chowder then a bucket of freshly steamed mussels followed by lobster (a steal at roughly $22 per kilogram, compared to $65 in Australia), I watched as my thick fillet of salmon was laid on a plank of timber in an outdoor cooking hut 15 metres away and drizzled in maple syrup over and over again, before being skilfully squeezed between two grill plates and sizzled over hardwood coals. It was well worth the wait; the sweet and fishy flavours danced a delicious jig in my mouth.
Later that night, in the jovial embrace of the Thistledown Pub, I listened to the lilting voice of a local Scot who reeled off song after song in praise of Nova Scotia and, more specifically, Cape Breton. “Music is central to our lives,” he said. “You’ll find most families play the fiddle or the bagpipes or sing or step-dance. It’s just who we are.”
Renowned for its music, Baddeck is equally celebrated as the beloved home of inventor extraordinaire Alexander Graham Bell. Born and raised in Edinburgh and most famous for inventing the telephone, Bell moved to Baddeck with his family in 1885, looking for “a place of salt water, mountains and valleys” where he and his wife Mabel could “put [our] little girls in trousers and live a simple, free and unconventional life”.
Located in Baddeck, the Alexander Graham Bell Museum, a national historic site, is an intriguing place. Bell was a prolific inventor (according to one of his biographers his work ranged “unfettered across the scientific landscape”), and his countless creations are on show here, from a metal jacket used to assist in breathing (a precursor to the iron lung) to a device for locating icebergs. There are also composting toilets, air-conditioning units and the biplane Silver Dart, which, in 1909, made the first powered flight in the British Empire. It took off from the ice-covered waters of Bras d’Or Lake, over which the museum presides.
His ever-enquiring mind and appreciation for the raw beauty of nature allowed Bell to see the value in a geographic journal of record, and in 1888 he became one of the founding members of the National Geographic Society.
A small plaque in the museum sums up Bell’s thoughts on the society and, I suspect, his move to wild and untamed Cape Breton. It reads:
“We should not keep forever on the public road going only where others have gone; we should leave the beaten track occasionally and enter the woods.”
Like its milky, viscous cousin pulque, mezcal is made from the fermented sap of the maguey plant, a form of agave. It tastes smokier than tequila and can sometimes be found with a large larva worm floating near the bottom.
Some believe drinking it can help control hypertension and diabetes, while others would rather think it’s an aphrodisiac. In Oaxaca, it’s traditionally served with a side of fried larvae.
There are many bars and stores selling mezcal in Mexico but the most popular and trendy spots are in Mexico City and Oaxaca, a region where many of the finer spirits are produced. You can take a tour of a distillery to find out how small-batch, artisinal mezcal is produced (yes, sampling is encouraged!).
Check out Corazón de Maguey, Los Danzantes, La Botica, Mexicano and Muruka in Mexico City.
Ah, Aspen… Loved by celebs with private jets and people with so much money they could buy the whole mountain if they so desired. But for one week each winter, this mountain resort turns into the biggest LGBTQI party you might ever encounter, and at Aspen Gay Ski Week there’s as much action off the slope as there is on.
Après-ski hot-tub ragers, friendship dinners, art nights and dance parties take over when the hikes, downhill costume parties and bootcamp classes are done for the day. There’s also a (slightly) serious side: all money raised during the festivities goes to the Roaring Fork Gay and Lesbian Community Fund, which supports ventures promoting tolerance, understanding and diversity.
No matter what time of year you get the bug to strap on the skis (or the board), you can take to Oregon’s Mount Hood. Here, you’ll find Timberline Lodge at about 1,200 metres.
During the summer months (from June to September) you’ll find plenty of skiers higher up the mountain at Palmer Snowfield. The best part is you can get up early to do a bit of skiing, then head down to Portland for some craft beer and doughnuts, or go a bit further to enjoy the amazing coastline. Take in artsy Cannon Beach, wander the promenade at Seaside or catch a wave at Indian Beach.
Pack your wettie and your skis and take off on a thrill-seeking Californian day trip. Spend your morning surfing the friendly Bolinas break locals have tried so desperately to keep secret (they remove road signs almost as soon as they’re put up), then buckle up for the four-hour drive to Squaw Valley, host of the 1960 Winter Olympics. There’s no need to rush – runs are floodlit by night, giving you plenty of time to ride the legendary slopes.
While some wring their hands at the mention of shrinking glaciers, a beautiful side-effect of glacial retreat peppers Alaska’s Prince William Sound. A 16-kilometre trail of ever-changing ice sculptures graces the bay, creating a striking landscape best explored by kayak. It’s a two-hour water taxi trip to the Columbia Glacier, but keep your eyes peeled along the way for seals, sea lions and, if you’re lucky, whales.
When you arrive, swap the motor for a paddle and coast around the vibrant blue shards, listening as great chunks of ice crash from the terminus of one of the world’s most rapidly changing glaciers. Scientists predict its retreat will halt in the next five to 15 years, when it will stabilise and cease shedding.
With events including coffin racing, a hearse parade and frozen turkey bowling, Frozen Dead Guy Days seem more like a scene in a Tim Burton film than an annual festival in the quiet mountain community of Nederland, Colorado.
Dreamed up by a cryonic-crazy family that has kept its Grandpa Bredo on ice for years (and across continents), it’s hard to decide if the story behind the festival or the festival itself is more bizarre.
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