An amusing moment occurred the other day. I was high in our local mountains, stripping off the skins after a long, leisurely climb in gloriously warm, bluebird conditions, two sips of beer, a shot of Fireball, and a handful of chocolate-covered espresso beans into the downhill transition when my eyes fixated on a startling anomaly: dirt under my fingernails.
This was as an oddity because ski-touring for me mostly occurs in wintery conditions, or during spring voyages to still-wintery Arctic redoubts to report a story. In such instances, where skiing is my work, I’m disposed of all usual hygiene amenities and tend to keep clean, glove-shrouded, vårvinter paws. Hell, I could meet Queen Silvia of Sweden out on the skin track and not think twice about yanking my glove off to shake her royal hand (unlike the starchy British monarchy, I’m imagining you can do this with the Swedish Queen). And yet, though I now stood atop a settled three metres of snow amidst a positively Pleistocene vista, packed under protective keratin was incontrovertible evidence of dirty, highly advanced spring—or at least one I was engaged in on fronts other than skiing. This hadn’t happened in a while, if ever, so I blinked hard to see if it was true.
Of course, it was. An unusually lengthy sunny spell had advanced spring-thinking, spring-cleaning, and spring-springing for many Whistlerites, myself included. But just how had I managed to pack so much dirt under my nails? Mucking around the swamps and hillsides of Pemberton surveying for critters probably started it, and stints of burdock patrol and early gardening rituals finished the job. It all brought into stark relief that I was juxtaposing something I usually undertook travel for with things I usually do at home in spring—an unusual combination. Which led to an unexpected observation: I miss travel.
Just like that I allowed myself to feel something I hadn’t entertained in well over a year—the urge to go somewhere. Anywhere. It was a fleeting thought, and quickly tucked away. But now I knew it was there, under my skin, where many of you have it lodged as well—the travel bug.
I suppose I could congratulate myself for being an adventure travel writer who has managed to not lose his shit during a year of enforced homefires, but doing what needs to be done shouldn’t come with any back-patting. Still, a significant dimension of my life—and job—has been shut down completely pending some yet-to-even-be-imagined resolution. Living in an amazing place like Whistler, at least, keeps one mentally sound, the hardships of not being able to travel for work being only financial. After all, when you live in a place where everyone wants to go, you can only be grateful.
Still, the brief episode had me thinking of how much I’ve travelled in four decades and how it was never a plan but wove itself into my life a few threads at a time, until it was a fully formed textile that defined who I was and how I saw the world. But what hatched the bug? Summer vacations, stuffed into a hot station wagon with my three sparring brothers certainly hadn’t. Nor visiting my parents in their Florida winter retreat, ski trips with friends, or any other jaunts. What really kicked it off was my first big solo trip, skiing and travelling through Chile in 1982. The trip was defining in that it was something I cooked up and executed myself, at a time when few were doing such things, throwing caution to the wind in a post-coup country wracked with lawlessness and danger I was blissfully unaware of.
If you asked me to recall anything from that trip at the moment, it would take a while to assemble the memories. Fortunately, in those days of mail being the only contact with the outside world, I sent many missives along the way, and a postcard depicting Portillo that was recently shared by a friend—which I penned while being bitten by fleas in a mountain refugia on the side of a volcano—helps me see the ineffable roots of travel intoxication (as well as the still-juvenile machinations of my 25-year-old mind).
Hey John, you turd! What’s happening? I hope you’re back on the Grad School track and not still working for some tire company—or worse, married. The trip so far has been really wild—but skiing hasn’t started yet so I have that to look forward to. You and Dave would freak down here as the fishing is spectacular, so many trout and salmon—especially in Tierra del Fuego where I was for two weeks. I had to get the f— out of there though because of the [Falkland Islands] war—which was also interesting. The Strait of Magellan was crammed with submarines and other naval vessels and there were lots of planes in the skies. Could not get into Argentina because of the situation—they would kill us, apparently, therefore I won’t see Argentina on this trip. Right now I’m halfway up a volcano called Osorno, tomorrow I’ll finish the climb if the weather is good. Take care. Xo Les
The poet William Blake saw a world in a grain of sand, and I saw it in some dirty fingernails.
Leslie Anthony is a Whistler-based author, editor, biologist and bon vivant who has never met a mountain he didn’t like.
