​It is known as the Capital of Cars, the Engine of Italy.    Born within a golden circle that surrounds the city of Modena, are the mythical brands whispered on the lips of car lovers the world over, along with the mega-rich, and boys of all ages. Maserati. De Tomaso.  Pagani.   The Italian sports car introduced the world to speed and luxury, the ultimate union of art and technology.   Defining this perfectly are the region’s two most famous sons:  Lamborghini, and Ferrari, vehicles that have transcended the circuits and bolts within them, commanding religious-like reverence from both drivers, and dreamers.
 
Few car enthusiasts know there would be no Lamborghini were it not for Ferrari.    Ferrucio Lamborghini was one of the wealthiest men in Italy, having made his fortune selling tractors and appliances.    An avid car enthusiast and collector, among Ferrucio’s favourites were several Ferraris, although he found them to be mechanically temperamental.   A recurring clutch issue led him to contact Enzo Ferrari, founder and namesake, a volatile character best described as being ferociously driven in the pursuit of automobile racing.   How different the vehicle landscape would be if Ferrari had taken his customer’s feedback seriously.  Instead, Enzo allowed the manufacture of Ferrari sports cars only as a means to fund his beloved racing initiatives.   Private customers had to put up with Enzo’s notoriously dismissive attitude, viewed as an unfortunate by-product for owning a vehicle of such outstanding quality.   Ferrucio was no different.  However, once informed that a tractor manufacturer had no right to criticize Ferrari’s cars, Lamborghini was compelled to repair his own models, and discovered that the mechanics of car and tractors had encouraging similarities.   If Ferrari would not improve their road models, Lamborghini had the knowledge and financial clout to do it for them. In 1963, Automobili Lamborghini was born.  With the help of hired ex-Ferrari engineers, his first model - a 350 GTV - was rolled out, built in a factory set up not far from Ferrari’s own.    Unlike Ferrari, Lamborghini would focus solely on sports cars, shying away from the racetrack.    Today, Lamborghini is a name synonymous with the Italian sports car, a better-looking thorn in the much bigger Ferrari landscape.   Did Enzo rue his decision to insult Ferrucio?   Probably not.  He was a man so focused on the chequered flag there was little time for Sunday afternoon drives in the countryside.  

​Just a few minutes across the municipal border into Bologna, you’ll find the headquarters and factory of Lamborghini.   The eponymous Bull logo, taken from Ferrucio’s Taurus star sign, appears boldly on the walls.   A parking lot holds dozens of Audis belonging to staff, now that the German manufacturer owns 100% of the Lamborghini brand.   Since the 1970’s, the company has endured bankruptcy, a sale to Chrysler (itself sold to Italian car giant Fiat), ownership by an Indonesian consortium headed by the son of the dictator Suharto, and sporadic years of economic uncertainty.   Yet it has continued to produce vehicles that have redefined design and car envy. Vehicles like the Aventador, Murciélago, the Diablo, and its predecessor, the Countach.   As a teenage boy, I had a mounted poster of a blue Countach in my bedroom, a rocket ship on earth, my ultimate dream car.   It was named after an Italian wolf whistle, for that is what it in inspired.   Subsequent generations of the Countach, along with one of a kind prototypes and concept cars, are on display in an on-site gallery, open daily to the public.     The Concept S has adjacent seat booths protected by individual windows, creating the distinct look of a jet fighter.  The LM002 looks much like a Hummer, an SUV built in the mid-1980’s, way before its time.   A green Countach sits so low on the ground it barely reaches my thigh.    On show is also a Lamborghini police car, one of two donated to the Italian police department, to be used for emergency organ transplants and blood deliveries.  It is the car you want to be arrested in.  

​Behind the gallery is the factory itself, where every Lamborghini created is carefully hand-assembled.   There are no giant robots drilling sparks into the air.  There is no loud industrial noise, or even a spot of grease on the floor.  Every 190 minutes, the cars move forward on a U-shaped production line to the next work station, where a team of white-gloved engineers set to work installing the electronics, the interior, the wheels and dashboard.  For factory engineers, they look young, healthy, and completely enthused by their job, paying attention to the finest detail, scribbling their efforts into a production book that will follow the vehicle for the remainder of its life.   Lamborghini does not keep stock.   Each model is made to order, customized according to the exact specification of the buyer.   From station to station, the car matures, until at the halfway point, a marriage takes place.   The engine, already assembled, is hoisted up and inserted into the chassis, the perfect metaphor for the soul entering the body.    At the final station, the electronics are tested, the lights flicker on, and spark plugs get their first ignition.  The birth roar of an engine is primal, like a dragon breathing fire, a lion owning the savannah.   190 minutes later, another customized model, black fly-wing doors open, will roar its approval. 
 
It takes the finest leather of five Austrian cows to furnish the interior of Lamborghini, dyed in lush colours and stitched by hand.  One upholsterer has large photos of his kids above his work desk.  My guide says “this is love, no?”, I am not sure if she’s talking about the kids, or the car. Valetino Balboni,  a 60 year-old test driver hired by Ferrucio Lamborghini himself, pulls up in a silver Gallardo LP 560-4 Spyder.    He’s been driving these cars longer than I have been alive, and he’s taking me into the countryside to demonstrate what all that marvellous production amounts to.     A car journalist might tell you that the Gallardo Spyder has a new 5.2 litre V10 engine with an output of 560 horsepower, a power to weight ratio of 2.77kg, an 18% reduction in fuel consumption and C02 emissions from previous models, and a top speed of 324 km/hr.    All I’ll say is that stepping into the Spyder for the first time made me giggle like a schoolgirl.   There is not a head on this planet (or any other for that matter) that would not swivel the second it sees this elegant creation.   No wonder that Jeremy Clarkson, presenter of Top Gear and the car man’s car man, replaced his Ford GT with a Gallardo Spyder.   Valentino presses a button, the Spyder growls to life, and we effortlessly pull into the road.   At the first intersection, I receive eight nods of envy and three photographs.  

We are but two men comfortably seated on expensive red leather with a powerful state of the art engine strapped to our backs.  Valentino shoots ahead, demonstrating the incredible power (0 to 100 km/hr in 3.9 seconds) and stop-on-a-penny all wheel drive braking. The sudden lurch of speed, as we taking sharp corners that could flip most cars, is not unlike being in a rollercoaster, catapulting forward but leaving my eyeballs trailing.   We find a quiet stretch and Valentino invites me to take the wheel.  With an advanced paddle shift transmission and various driving modes, he reassures me that I cannot make a mistake, as the car will automatically adjust itself as it needs.   Sweat is dripping from my forehead, and this low to the tarmac, heat is radiating from the ground. The temperate in the cockpit reads an incredible 50C under a relentless Italian summer sun.    I hesitantly pull forward, piloting a vehicle worth more than I could ever afford, well aware that I had signed a waiver holding me responsible for any mishaps.    Valentino was right.   The Spyder is beautifully forgiving, guiding my paddle presses, injecting fuel when needed, shifting solidly around corners.   It doesn’t take long before I have the confidence to induce G-force and make this silver bullet fly.   I drive back to the factory, pull up in front of a group of jealous tourists, and would have made a proud and gallant exit had my knees not buckled under the pure bliss of the experience.
 
It is a short drive from the Lamborghini factory to Maranello, where Enzo Ferrari relocated his factory after his original workshops in Modena were bombed during World War II.   Maranello is a mecca for racing and car enthusiasts, and is not so much a small town as a Ferrari theme park.  There are Ferrari stores and Ferrari schools, red-painted restaurants and hotels.  Images of the famous prancing horse - adopted as a logo by Enzo in 1923 from a famed Italian fighter pilot - are everywhere.  While Lamborghini and Ferrari are both Italian sports cars, it is immediately clear that Ferrari is the much larger enterprise -  a fast, bright red world unto itself. 
 
Enzo, who died in 1988, did not live to see Michael Schumacher dominate Formula 1 at the wheel of a Ferrari, but this was always his dream.  Enzo was born to race, and when he realized his own skill was not up to par with the best, he changed his destiny so that other drivers could fulfil theirs.   Originally working for Alfa Romeo, he left the company to start his own stable of race cars called Scuderia Ferrari, literally, Stable Ferrari.  Founded in 1947,  Ferrari’s impact on the world of motor racing was immediate if somewhat turbulent.  It appeared to have more success off the track, as Ferrari road cars became the sought after toys of wealthy car enthusiasts.   Yet Enzo viewed the consumer market as an afterthought.  Plugging millions into racing development, financial woes in the 1960’s forced him to sell a large stake in the company to Fiat, which today owns 90% of the company.     Yet Enzo’s tenacity, not to mention the raw power, stylish design and racing mentality of his cars, ensured not only the survival but also Ferrari’s growth into perhaps the world’s most sought after and recognized sport car brand.  Ferraris are vehicles of success, on and off the road. 

​At the Galleria Ferrari, many of the most famous Ferraris are on display for an adoring public.   From the original cars built by Enzo to the F1 triumphs of Michael Schumacher, the recreation of a pit stop inside the museum continues to emphasise the importance of the racetrack to the company.  It takes some time for me to realize that the display cars are not replicas, but the very models that dominated sport headlines around the world, having won 31 Formula 1 World Titles.   Upstairs are the sports cars, the famous Testa Rossa, the F40, the Enzo Ferrari, named in tribute.    A red 308GTS represents my personal introduction to Ferrari – the car driven by Tom Selleck in the 80’s series Magnum.  There is a marked difference from the sleekness and almost minimalistic lines I found inside Lamborghini’s showcase. These cars exude brute strength, more muscle than finesse. A special showcase houses a black 1957 250 Testa Rossa, an antique car that happens to be one of the most expensive vehicles ever sold at an auction.  It sold for a staggering US$12.1 million, and it doesn’t even have headlights.  
 
Just about every car in the Galleria Ferrari is bright red, a colour forever associated with Ferrari, even though all Italian sports cars have been painted red since a racing organization assigned it to the country in the 1920’s.   French blue, German white (later silver), British green.   Ferrari came to own the colour because it came to own the idea of Italian race cars.  Ironically, the 430 Scuderia waiting for me to test drive outside is a light metallic blue, with two silver racing stripes down the middle.    Launched by Michael Schumacher at the Frankfurt Auto Show in 2007, this model was created to complete with the Lamborghini Gallardo Superleggera, offering a lighter body, more power, and faster speed.   508 horsepower at 8500 rpm, power to rate ratio of 2.5kk/hp, an F1-trac system and E-Diff stability control, and I’m not really sure what all that means other than this is a purebred racing machine built for speed.  0 – 100 km/hr in 3.5 seconds, and with a top speed of 320 km/hr, you’re always the pace car on the smooth Italian autostrade.  
 
My test driver’s name is Gabriel, and we both agree that a job requiring you to drive in a Ferrari all day is a job worth keeping.   Of all the Ferraris he has driven at the company, this is his favourite, because this model, he tells me, was built for racing, period.   The interior is somewhat basic, the seats practical, belts tellingly over the shoulder, like the jump seat in an aeroplane.  A metal footplate lets me support myself as Gabriel screams around the bend of a quiet country road, the engine snarling as he shifts the transmission with the paddles. We are tigers lurking in the concrete jungle of automobiles, ferociously hunting prey.   After screeching past a chicane, I ask Gabriel how fast he was going.  With a wry grin, he tells me he doesn’t know.   You’d have to have a Lamborghini police car to catch us anyway, and I happen to know they’re focused on other priorities.

​It is late afternoon when we drive back to the Galleria, and in the traffic of rush hour, it seems almost cruel for the 430 Scuderia to trot at 40 km/hr back to the stable.   A race car without a race is but an appetite without the means to feed it.   I thank my pilot, awkwardly exit the cockpit, and walk over to my rented blue Peugeot 107.  Like most cars in Italy, it is a tiny vehicle capable of squeezing through narrow cobblestone streets, slotting in miniscule parking spaces, but still exceeding the 130 km/hr speed limit on the highway.   It is half the size of a Ferrari or Lamborghini, but it got me to both factories safely, with room for my suitcase and a couple friends.    Comparing it in the same breath as these mighty Italian giants seems almost sacrilegious, and yet the realist might argue they are all machines of transport, on four rubber wheels, powered by an engine.   Is a supermodel a better person because she looks better than the average housewife?   Is a sportsman a better father because he has more strength and tanned, toned muscles?    This is logic, and certainly, this is folly.   Dream machines were not designed to carry groceries or pick up the kids.   Lamborghini and Ferrari are the golden chariots that shepherd our inspiration, our quest for power, speed and beauty, the desire to transcend practicality in the name of art and technology.   Placing a price tag on such an endeavour misses the point.  For the majority of us who can appreciate if not afford the result, there’s always a visit to the Engine of Italy.

Burning Man is so famously impossible to describe, I’m not even going to try.   I won’t talk about flying into Vegas to rent an RV for a 10-hour drive to Black Rock City, even if there was an opportunity to play craps with a purple-haired transvestite, but that’s another story.   I definitely won’t talk about driving past the massive US military installations in Hawthorne, Nevada, since that, along with nearby Area 51, has severe access restrictions.  I could tell you how, upon arriving in Burning Man, us virgins were made to roll around in the white flour dust of the Playa, embracing the dirt that we’d mentally prepared ourselves to combat.    It took mere seconds for the dust to cling to our clothes, skin, and psyche.   Look, I’ve spent the last five years waiting to get to Burning Man, and was as nervous and apprehensive as anyone.    Nothing to buy?  No taps, showers, or garbage bins?   50,000 plus people* in a hostile environment, and somehow this is meant to be fun?  All these adventures over the years, and just when I think I’ve seen it all, something shows up to smash my head with an experiential baseball bat, letting my brain ooze into the mud.  Something like Burning Man.

For those unfamiliar:  It’s an art festival, showcasing thousands of sculptures and modified cars and creative structures.  It’s a music festival, with hundreds of makeshift venues for DJ’s and musicians.  It’s a costume festival, with everyone wearing something extraordinary, if they choose to wear something at all. It’s a conference for the mind, offering free lectures and educational seminars from thinkers across the creative-arts-and social science spectrum.  It’s a religious festival, steering clear of organized dogma into the realms of free expression, open worship of the universe, and a deep reverence for the beauty of diversity.  It’s a love festival, where nudity is accepted, sex is acceptable, and tantric workshops are held.   It’s a community of likeminded individuals gathering in a remote place to avoid the confused, ignorant reaction of those who simply don’t get it, and probably never will.  It’s a backlash against corporate America, where no brands or advertisements or promotion is allowed.  It’s the wildest, most hedonistic party you’ve ever seen.   And most of all, Burning Man is none of these things at all.  

It started with a small group of artists in a hostile desert, challenging their creative limits and engaging in a form of self reliance and personal responsibility – this in a country so drunk on blaming others and passing the buck.   Fundamentals evolved: 

• Only mutant cars allowed on the Playa, and by mutant, that means nothing that wouldn’t give a cop whiplash if you passed him on the highway.
• Leave no trace, pack it in, pack it out, and no moop (matter out of place) such as feathers, glitter, cigarette butts or cheapo crap from China
• Commerce:  You cannot buy or sell anything, although water and ice is available at the central camp.
• No firearms, no pets, respect public boundaries…

It’s jarring to read the Survival Guide in an age where long form legal disclaimers are posted on parking lots.    There are countless ways to kill yourself at Burning Man, from exposure to extreme weather to getting toasted by a rogue art piece.   It’s your responsibility to stay alive, even though just about everyone you meet will gladly help you out (including volunteer rangers and medical staff).  You can scream and shout and spit and sue, but in the end, this is a community that lives according to its own rules.   The guide sets it straight on the front page: “Above and beyond the provision for individual survival, everyone is requested to help ensure our collective survival by following very basic rules relating to public safety and community well being.  Community membership is a privilege. “   If you don’t get it, please don’t come.   You’ll hate every second of it.

Within hours, every expectation I had about Burning Man was blown out the water.  I just didn’t expect the scale of the event to be so huge, the creative energy so vast.  Black Rock City emerges almost overnight, shaped like a clock, organized by the hands of the hour and 12 long, circular promenades. Bikes are essential if you want to see a fraction of everything, with the city stretching over 5 miles across.   There are hundreds of camps and villages set up along the grid, tribes ranging from a few members to several hundred.    Each camp offers something of value to the casual passer by:  Free cocktails, hot tamales, engaging conversation.   Free massages, games of tennis, bowling, a mechanical bull ride.  Free rides, free bad advice, free hugs, free drugs, free kisses, free help.   Free beds, free art, free costumes, free decorations for your bike.   Everyone seems to bring more than they need and need less than they want.   It’s a free for all, and it took a while to recalibrate my capitalistic conditioning so that I stopped asking “what’s the catch?”  There isn’t one.   “Where am I?”  It doesn’t matter.    “Who are you?”  A burner just like you.   “Where are we going?” I don’t know, but there’s no rush, so lets take it slow. 

​I saw things that shocked, surprised, dazzled and delighted me.   Moments of beauty, moments of overstimulation, moments of bewilderment.   Every time I stopped to ask “how on earth did they get this here?” I was reminded to stop questioning and start accepting.   My guides were friends old and new, veteran Burners and virgins like myself.    As much as this is a community event, every single Burner develops a unique personal response to the environment.  Some thrive in the heavy dust storms that blind and sting.   Some thrive in the camps and villages. Some thrive in the scorching hot day,  others in the cool, LED-lit night.   Drawing it all in together is the Man himself, erected on a wooden platform at 12 o’clock,  looking out over the gathering.  He started small over a dozen years ago, a couple feet high, burned to the ground on a beach outside San Francisco.   The Wicker Man fulfilled a similar role in Europe for centuries, but Burning Man’s founders claim that is a coincidence.  This year’s Man stood 104ft tall, regally awaiting the climax of the week-long event, his destined combustion.  The Man is Gonna Burn.   What does it mean, this Man on Fire?  A symbol of passion and drive, signifying anything is possible?   A community bringing down “the Man” that traps us with its strangling laws and bureaucracy and tax and corruption?    The collective ambition of a nation of pyromaniacs?   I hear these and other theories under the sound of fireworks exploding at his feet, driving the massive crowd into a frenzy.  Any second now he’s going to be a giant fireball.  Sometimes he burns fast, sometimes he burns slow.  A huge dust storm sweeps in, blowing fiery ash into the crowd.  This is not cause for concern.   We are prepared with the right gear and attitude.   Only here do the harsh elements become cause for celebration.   

​The called her the Belle of the Ball.   Standing on one leg, 40ft tall, skinned in polished steel that lights up at night, Bliss Dance is a staggering creation of beauty.  This statue could compete with any major landmark in the world, stealing the spotlight with its immense size and brilliant execution.   Is the world ready for such naked beauty, such unabashed appreciation of the female form?   No, which is why this privately funded work of art will probably land up somewhere remote, somewhere special, outside the guidebooks but well worth a pilgrimage.   It took a year to build. It could be appreciated by many generations.**   

​There’s a Monkey Chant in the Centre Camp.  It’s different tribe from the Balinese one featured in the documentary Baraka, hypnotically blending their voices into a cacophony of sound.  Hippies and corporate climbers, artists and thinkers, the haves and have nots.  Is the guy playing the flaming tuba really one of the producers of the Simpsons?   Did the guys at Google donate thousands of community bikes?   Are there celebrities in the house?  What does it matter?    I spent a half hour looking for a friend at Center Camp one afternoon, and realized that even if I walked right past her, I probably wouldn’t recognize her, and she wouldn’t recognize me. I was wearing red underwear with printed eyes on my thighs, blue wings made out of recycled water bottles, a shocking green wig, ski goggles and a white dust mask.   Costumes allow anybody to become anyone or anything, and they do.   Superheroes or furry animals, desert squid or neon robots.   Women can be naked or topless without fear of harassment.   Burners just won’t stand for young, drunken fratboys.   The community is a self-regulating system, an entropic organism that shakes out the dust and arises.   While it might seem like I had a bit part in a Mad Maxian post-apocalyptic world (complete with a Thunderdome), there was order in this chaos.  You know that weird friendliness that manifests itself on a hike, when complete strangers say hello to each other even though on the street they wouldn’t look at one another?   The Playa dust intensifies that encounter, amps up the positive energy.  We’re all going through this together, we’re all brothers and sisters.  At least until the Temple burns and the Exodus begins, when you can just make out the sound of a bubble popping.

​My friend Ian is never shy to initiate a philosophical debate.  
​“Is this the real world, or is the real world out there?”   
“Perhaps the real world should be more like Burning Man.”
“It’s all well and good until the food and water runs out, and then it will quickly turn into Lord of the Flies,” replies Bruce.
Making the trek from Canada, hiring an RV, equipping ourselves with food and drinks and costumes and playa gifts, the final tally is not cheap.   Everyone appears to have committed an extraordinary amount of time, money and energy to be here, and so everyone is doing their best to enjoy it.   It’s a brief trip to Utopia, so far outside our comfort zone we forgot what a shower looked like.   That Burning Man only lasts a week is calculated.  A sustainable leave-no-trace festival cannot become permanent, even though there is talk of Burning Man owners buying up surrounding land.   Applying the lessons of Burning Man is a common theme at many workshops.   Taking away the sense of community, of environmental responsibility, of respect for those around you - it can only be a good thing.   But it’s hard to hear those messages in the real world, when marketing and advertising and signs and media keep pounding away at you from all sides.  You’re not happy unless. You’re nothing until.    No wonder Decompression parties are held throughout the year.  

The Temple is the spiritual soul of Burning Man.   There’s so much more to this festival than flame breathing dragon cars, stilt bars and half naked discos.   The Temple is a solemn place to say goodbye to loved ones lost, dreams abandoned, or anything that needs to be released.   People write on the walls, in the cracks, on the wooden platforms.   It’s an outpouring of energy so intense you can feel it throbbing.   Life size photos of Burners lost before their time, tears dripping off the face of people in private confessions, their sad waters hit the wooden Temple, like syrup leaking from a bark tree.   I could only stand and watch, aware and grateful that this week marked a personal beginning and not an end.   It was here, in a camp dome surrounded by my tribe, that I asked Ana to marry me, and it was here, that our lives moved to the next logical step.    The Temple can wait for as long as I can help it.   On Sunday, with thousands already returned to the real world, the Temple is set aflame, designed to become a raging inferno of emotional relief.      We could feel the heat from far away, an unmistakable energy rushing through us, flaming ash soaring into the sky.    It was beautiful, it was sad, it was magic.

​Cherie, our Camp Momma, gave us each a gift.  It’s a small vial filled with the ashes of three Temple Burns, attached to a leather-beaded strap.    I’m looking at it now.  The dust and ashes of the Playa still resonate, even as I wake up each morning, wondering if it was all some weird, hallucinogenic dream.   Perhaps it was.   I don’t know how to describe Burning Man to those who have not been.   Other than to say:  If anything you’ve read above intrigues you, then find out more.   It can be challenging, but then again, the best experiences in life usually are. 

​
* Attendance is now around 70,000. 
** Bliss Dance is now a permanent exhibit outside the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. 

​Wrapping up 2023, tourism is rebounding faster from the pandemic than most of us predicted.    We weren’t’ supposed to see industry numbers like this until 2024 or even 2025, but the world has collectively decided to move on as if Covid never happened, and tourism has reflected this accordingly.   Everything has definitely become more expensive, sometimes because of supply-chain issues, sometimes because it’s an opportunity for folks to maximize profits and take advantage of others.  This is true for the tourism industry, and true for everything else too. 
 
This year I really got stuck into my bi-weekly column for Canadian Geographic, chasing stories that are inspirational, worth knowing, and unique.   It’s the cornerstone of my Bucket List brand:  exploring destinations and activities that you can’t find anywhere else; are wholly memorable; practically attainable; and will make a great story you’ll want to share for the rest of your days.   

​I kicked off 2023 with a New Year’s Eve torchlight descent at Sun Peaks Resort in British Columbia.  After many years of snowboarding, I’m now transitioning to skis, and it was a fantastic confidence booster (and a little terrifying) to ski at night.    A few weeks later I found myself on BC’s Powder Highway, back on skis in Fernie, Kimberly and at the Panorama Mountain Resort.  I explored quirky roadside attractions in New Brunswick, unique statues around the world, high-speed F1 yacht racing in San Francisco, and the origins of craft beer in the Pacific Northwest.   Sometimes the story is about people too, like the Syrian refuges in Nova Scotia and their phenomenally successful chocolate business, or Scuba Diving Hall of Famer and cave diving legend Jill Heinerth. 

​The best travel is about the experiences you share, whether it means taking your kids medieval glamping in Alberta, or a parent on a bucket list hike in Newfoundland.  Sometimes family travel lies on a spectrum between beluga whales in the north, the jungle in the south, and iconic theme-parks (I’m proud of this particularly honest review of Disneyland.) 

​I’m always on the lookout for unusual and memorable accommodation, from the world’s most northerly eco-lodge to surviving a night in Quebec City’s ice hotel.  As for wildlife, I  attempted to cage dive with saltwater crocodiles in Australia, hit the prairies to see the world’s largest concentration of snakes, and looked at places near and far to ethically volunteer with animals.  The two back-to-back horse-riding expeditions I took to the Allenby Pass in Banff National Park showcased the Rockies at their finest, and was my inspiring debut as a Can Geo Adventures Travel Ambassador.   Learning more about Indigenous experiences across the country shepherded me to prairies campfires and other inspiring locations around the country.   Further afield, I researched upcoming stories about the Rio de Janeiro Carnaval in Brazil, a sustainable eco-lodge in Costa, and exploring French Polynesia with a small-ship Wind Star cruise. 

​I write a monthly blog for Great Canadian Trails too, where this year you can find stories about mountains, forests, whales and icebergs, cross-country skiing and great Canadian books.  I celebrated Yukon for the territory’s 125th anniversary, took a curious look at Prince Edward Island, a ride along the beautiful Kettle Valley Heritage Trail, and explored Canadian wonders that double as international look-a-likes.

The chef presents a burrito cigar, filled with chicken, salsa and guacamole, resting on a thick glass ashtray you haven’t seen since 1978.  Next up is a slice of marbled Jack’s Creek Australian steak sizzling on hot pebbles, blow-torched to order, medium rare.  Now the glazed fois gras lollipop, served on candy floss which is melted with chili-infused vinegar spray. There will be ten of these courses, each accompanied by a crystal glass of fine wine from every major wine-producing region.  Am I in one of Vancouver’s new Michelin-star fine dining restaurants?  No, I’m a passenger on the world’s most luxurious passenger yacht cruising off the Pacific coast of South America, and this is not even the most memorable meal of the week. 

​In the wake of the pandemic, cruise ships appear to be sailing in two different directions.  There are the massive floating resorts appealing to the masses (MSC’s new Wonder of the Seas can accommodate a record 6988 passengers).  Then there are the small, extravagant vessels that promise comfort and decadence beyond imagination.  With just 114 suites housing 228 guests across five decks, the 168-metre long Scenic Eclipse sails firmly into this harbour, billed as The World’s First Discovery Yacht.  This means it can safely navigate Antarctica and the Northwest Passage just as easily as it can cruise the Mediterranean or South Pacific. It also means that each extra-large, sound-insulated cabin has its own butler, electronically customizable beds, Dyson hair-dryers, all-inclusive mini-bar, balcony, gourmet coffee maker, and oversized rain shower bathroom.

-​Boarding the Eclipse in Lima on a 9-day sailing to the Chilean capital of Santiago, the lush expansive lounge, beaming staff and towering bar all look impeccable.   Doting, attentive and highly trained international crew outnumber guests three to one.   The Eclipse was inspired by the Australian owner’s desire to offer his non-billionaire friends the billionaire luxury yacht experience.  Forget the tiresome nickel and dime cruise dance, because everything is included:  all premium alcohol, wifi, offshore excursions, all nine dining options, entertainment, kayaking, paddle-boarding, even your crew and driver tips.  You do however have to pay to ride the two on-board helicopters and comfy submarine, along with expansive spa services that include a range of massage, hair styling and nail services. Considering the pricey rack rates for this bucket list cruise experience, those costs might feel like a drop in the ocean.

​“Honey, there’s a sperm whale chilling off our balcony!”  My wife is enjoying her long hot shower (the ship desalinates up to 200 tonnes of seawater every day) and misses the unexpected wildlife moment. Gathered for their daily wildlife briefing in the lounge, the ship’s marine biologists, naturalists and guides are suitably impressed.   A sense of discovery, immersion in nature, and taking advantage of the ship’s many toys are baked into the Scenic Eclipse experience.  Our particular itinerary, an annual repositioning called Latin American Delights, offers mostly land-based cultural excursions as the Eclipse makes her way south for another busy Antarctica season.  In Paracas, Peru, zodiacs take us to the Ballestas Islands, where pungent guano is mined for fertilizer and hundreds of thousands of seabirds nest in dramatic cliffs reminiscent of the Galapagos. The following day, flamingos and migrating birds await us in the protected Meija Lagoons, an hour’s drive from the historic town of Matarani.  Relieved to welcome the first cruise ship to visit the port town in two and half years (Covid and political unrest battered regional tourism in Peru), locals pull out all the stops in appreciation.  We dance, drink pisco, and smile for local media.   Sailing into Arica, Chile, we leave the ship to explore the culture and alien landscapes of the Atacama.  Life is in constant battle with the elements in the world’s driest desert.  In a small desert village called Codpa, the resident shaman’s blessing over smoke, sweet wine and coca leaves feels deeply authentic.  Each afternoon, we return by bus to the Eclipse’s decadent bubble of luxury, greeted with hot towels, spotlessly clean rooms, twinkling live piano music, courtly service, and a complementary cocktail bar of dreams. Whatever region of the planet you explore on this striking vessel, expect a jarring contrast onboard to the world you’ll discover onshore.  

There are 135 different types of Scotch and whiskey at the bar, and recognizing the opportunity, I’m determined to taste as many as I can.  Each dinner menu is a conversation starter, each dish over the top.  Even at full passenger capacity, the Eclipse is designed to accentuate opulent space and comfort, hence her ten dining experiences when the outstanding Yacht Club buffet could easily suffice.  Hell, the 24-hour room service menu would easily suffice.  Smiling staff are eager to satisfy any guest request.  Truffle fries at 1am in the morning?  Yes sir!  Changing one of the six types of available pillows before turning in?  Yes sir! ​

Expect indulgent French cuisine in Lumiere, melt-in-the-mouth sushi at Kokos, grilled rib-eye steak and lobster in Elements, and expensive wine that just doesn’t stop flowing.  My favourite meal is the Night Market, where a wonderful chef named Strawberry (yes, that’s her real name) exhibits her culinary creativity across eight courses of Indian, Middle-Eastern or Asian-inspired dishes that defy description. Her blueberry folded gelato served with curry-buttered popcorn and compote will haunt my tastebuds forever.  Corporate Executive Chef Tom Götter’s commitment to sustainability and reducing food waste permeates everything:  food scraps like vegetable peels and kitchen castaways are dehydrated and turned into fragrant ‘dusts’ and spices.  All the gelato and baked goods are made onboard, while fresh herbs grow in specialized cabinets inside Epicure, which hosts cooking classes and beverage tastings.  The Eclipse burns low sulphur diesel, and when liquid natural gas starts powering cruise ships, I expect Scenic – which operates luxury river cruises in Europe and has more ocean ships under construction - will be among the early adopters.  Initiatives like digital labels updated daily in guest cabins might eliminate paper, although any readers seeking a sustainable vacation won’t find it on an engine-powered cruise ship, at least for now.​

​As we approach our final port of Valparaiso, heavy wind and high waves pound the ship, so I head to the bridge to see how our affable captain is dealing with it.  The technology and engineering inside the Eclipse is mind-boggling.  Oversize six-metre-long stabilizers have been deployed on either side, large enough to keep passengers steady on much larger ships. There’s no rudder, as each prop can rotate 360-degrees, while the ship can maintain her position without dropping anchor thanks to GPS positioning.  Bridge crew welcome guest visits from 8am to 8pm, patiently explaining to us how the ship works, and allowing the obligatory captain’s chair photo.  I can’t stick around though, I’ve got a manicure booked, and want to iron out my back in the infra-red sauna before tackling a half-dozen fragrant Speysides at the bar.  

“Who the hell lives like this?” I ask my wife, busy scrolling on-demand movie selection on our cabin’s wall-sized flat screen TV.  We need a few hours to digest the 10-course Chef’s Table dinner, featuring that burrito cigar, as well as coconut ceviche, braised BBQ rib, smashed mango-curry lamb chop, and a literal homemade chocolate fudge explosion.   In fact, we’ll need a few years to digest the overall Scenic Eclipse experience.  Together we’ve come a long way from our first cruise onboard a typical floating hotel with packed pools and excessive buffets. Luxury small ships like the Scenic Eclipse cater to a different clientele chasing unique and exclusive experiences.  Pricey it may be, but passengers will delight in that rare opportunity to get far more than what you pay for. 
 
Visit www.scenic.ca for more information about Scenic Eclipse itineraries.

“Don’t you ever just read a Grisham?” comments one of my friends.  It’s been a busy summer, making up for summers past as travel returns to its pre-pandemic boom.    After Tahiti and Sudbury, I dropped my bags, picked up my six-year-old son Galileo, and hopped over the Rockies to see what Calgary is up to these days.   In a city accustomed to booms and busts, the boom is back.  We’d spend a few days researching the urban and regional attractions that met my ‘bucket list’ criteria, chasing columns and new chapters for the upcoming second edition of The Great Western Canadian Bucket List.   There would be time for bedtime stories, but that’s about it. .

We kick off with the Yamnuska Wolf Dog Sanctuary outside of Cochrane, a facility that rescues and shelters hybrid animals that belong in neither a domestic or wilderness environment.  That doesn’t stop idiots breeding wolf-dogs, for idiots who think it would be cool to own a wolf.  What they get are shy yet aggressive animals that make terrible pets, with untamed instincts requiring constant attention and secure zoo-like enclosures. Breeding wolf dogs is, inexplicably, legal in Alberta.  The sanctuary does a fantastic job educating the public, looking after the animals they rescue, and advocating for both wolves, canines and hybrids.  Next we drive into the foothills of the Rockies to spend the night with Tracey and Tim at Painted Warriors, a hands-on Indigenous cultural and wilderness experience that invited conversation around the campfire, archery in the forest, star-gazing, and nature walks.  Among many other things, I learn I’ve been aiming with the wrong eye all my life (no wonder I always miss), how aspen makes natural sunblock powder, and that a professional archer can hit the top of a golf tee from fifty yards.  Above all else, I learn yet again that meeting good people always results in a good time.

We drive back to the city, pick up outrageously good smoked meat sandwiches and ice-cream at the Calgary Farmers Market, and head across the highway for Downhill Karting. It’s the same luge contraption I discovered many years ago in New Zealand outside of Rotorua, and it’s fun to share the experience with my delighted kid. It’s the first time we’ve done a trip just the two of us together, and while Gali doesn’t have gunpowder energy of his Tahiti-toting sister, he’s observant, measured, and willing to give everything a go.

We’re here for a good time, not a long time, so it’s off to Lazy Day Rafting Rentals to float down the Bow River and experience one of Calgary’s more iconic summer activities.  Gali super-soaked ducks and geese as the river gently floated us from our entry point to the Bow River Pathway Bridge.   Drop off the boat, check-into the Residence Inn, and stroll over to The Mash, which upcycles grain from a microbrewery into delicious pizza dough.   My pizza had everything on it, Gali ordered plain cheese.  One day he will order toppings, add Tabasco, and say: “So this is why you order pizza with everything on it.”  I look forward to that day.
 
We’re heading out the city again, but before we do, we pop into the National Music Centre to see Randy Bachman’s insane guitar collection, learn about Canada’s outsized role in the history of popular music, mix some beats, and gawk at the 64-foot one-man orchestra known as the Kimball Theatre Organ.   We pop into the Hangar Flight Museum by the airport, and hit the road for the Good Knights Medieval Encampment for an evening of medieval glamping.  This is an actual thing, and as you can read in my column for Canadian Geographic, it’s a very fine thing indeed!    We dressed up, threw fake axes, jousted with real swords, and watched lords and ladies dance under the big prairie sky.  We’d immersed ourselves in a fun, family-friendly world that is one-part history and one-part Lord of the Rings / Game of Thrones / Dungeons and Dragons fantasy.   The things you can do in Canada never cease to amaze me.  

​A few days later, we’re out the country so I can take my kids to a place I swore I’d never take them to.  You can read all about it here, with an honest column that I hope captures the parent’s experience of Disneyland.  I’m not a theme park kinda guy, but visiting Disneyland was never going to be about me: it’s all about the kids, and the kids had a great time.  We stayed the Grand California over the 4th of July weekend, when the park was heaving with visitors.  The Genie + pass was essential to avoid the line-ups, but we probably should have eased Gali into the rides before kicking things off with a dark rollercoaster of Space Mountain. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.   His sister, meanwhile, gravitated to the fastest, loudest, scariest rides.  It’s remarkable these kids came from the same womb.  I turned a shade of lime after the rollercoaster and falling elevator rides in Disney Adventure Park.   In truth, the ride I was looking forward to most was a Harley Davidson Road King waiting for me back in Vancouver.

Last year I researched a story about renting a Harley from EagleRider Rentals in Vancouver, joining a bike crew on a road trip up Vancouver Island, ferrying to Bella Coola, and back through the BC interior.  A year later, I join most of the same group (which happen to include the excellent Daniel Cook Band), and we roar off for a four-day loop of Vancouver to Osoyoos to Nelson to Lillooet to Vancouver.  Once we got out of the congested city and past the summer construction, our bikes could blitz through the sweltering, rolling countryside.  Motorcycles were out in full force, giving the eponymous biker wave when passing each other.  Daniel and his band busted out their instruments in the evenings, which added a wonderful dimension to the trip, and delighted large groups of bikers with an impromptu roof top party at the Adventure Hotel in Nelson.    We swam in the warm waters of Christina Lake, did a long, knee-cramping day in the saddle, played obligatory games of cribbage and did a memorable sidewalk jam in Lillooet.   The diverse landscape and excellent roads of British Columbia delivered the goods.   I’ve joined EagleRider’s membership program, and look forward to making this an annual tradition.  

​A weekend in Birch Bay, Washington (or as I like to call it, Canada in the USA), back across the Rocks for a wonderful wedding at the River Café in Calgary, and we’re up to date! I’m leaving early tomorrow morning to hike the East Coast Trail in Newfoundland.   July has been one for the books, but it’s going to get really busy in August.  Reading a Grisham can wait. 

​

It’s difficult to describe the cultural whiplash, the immaculate jet set disorientation, that accompanies any traveller finding themselves in Bora Bora one day, and Sudbury Ontario a few days after that.  As usual, I’m going to give it a go.      
It was my first time in French Polynesia, although the coconut islands of Tahiti, Mo’orea and Bora Bora have long haunted my dreams, having featured in the pages of a paradise calendar that I cut out and plastered across my dorm room wall.  I’d long heard about lagoons so clear you’d think the sea was an infinity pool, about beaches that squeak and opulent overwater villas.  In truth, a week in the Maldives had made this nothing new.  I’d also encountered Polynesian culture before through travels to New Zealand, Hawaii and the Cook Islands.  I’d even explored the oddness of a French Overseas Territory before,  on the island of New Caledonia in the Pacific and the Atlantic island of St Pierre and Miquelon off the coast of Newfoundland.  Yet it’s the people you meet who create the paradise you find, and the people you travel with too.

Researching a story for an upcoming Islands and Wellness issue of Dreamscapes Magazine, I had set sail to capture the essence of multi-generational travel, how knowledge and attitude is transferred through experience.   Joining me on this assignment was my mom and my daughter, completing a three-generation arc.  We’d travelled together before, on a fantastic cruise around Atlantic Canada which resulted in a wonderful story for the Vancouver Sun, save for one critical detail: the cruise company went bankrupt shortly after our trip.  Our days aboard One Ocean’s RCGS Resolute exploring Sable Island, Gros Morne National Park, St Pierre and the Magdalen Islands - and kitchen party nights in the ship lounge with the wonderful Barra MacNeils of Cape Breton - was truly a once-in-a-lifetime deal. On the other side of Covid, the time felt right to find a new ship, a different ocean, and see if magic can repeat itself.

Cruising on a small ship is a world away from cruising on a big ship.  I learned this on the Star Flyer in the Caribbean, on the Scenic Eclipse down the coast of South America, and onboard the Wind Spirit as we anchor in Mo’orea surrounded by the island’s sharp granite peaks.  Unveiled in 1988 as one of Windstar’s original vessels, the old girl – as her affable captain referred to her – is a beautiful ship:  four towering masts, a fantastic crew, plenty of water toys, and just the right mix of luxury and adventure.  We shared a cabin on the lower deck, and as the only child on the ship, my daughter quickly stole the show, running about as if she owned the boat.  We visited a vanilla plantation and pearl farm, hired a scooter to circle Bora Bora (twice), kayaked and stand-up paddle boarded, and took advantage of some of the best snorkelling on the planet.  Chats with the kids about shark conservation bore fruit when I watched my daughter jump into the sea with dozens of black-tip reef sharks, the first passenger to do so.  The next day, my mom was molested by lovable stingrays in search of a cuddle.   We listened to local storytellers, devoured fresh tropical fruit, did the cha-cha on the pool deck, and conversed with a diversity of personalities from around the world. 

A few days later - luggage successfully retrieved after being lost in-transit between Tahiti, Los Angeles and Vancouver - I took my second red-eye of the week to catch an early morning flight from Toronto to Sudbury.  The last time I was in the Big Nickel was for a book tour in 2013, when I spoke at the local Chapters bookshop.  This time I had arrived to deliver a closing keynote at the Travel Media Association of Canada’s Annual Conference, which gathered over 200 of the country’s top travel writers, PR pros, influ..content creators, destination marketing organizations, and other professionals that make the business of travel media tick.  It’s one of the few opportunities my profession has for stories to be told and sold, for connections to be forged, and destinations to be discovered. Workshops and panels inspire professional and personal development, and this year’s host city of Sudbury put on a show for our travelling circus. 

​Still bombed from the red-eye, I could have fallen asleep on the bed of nails inside the excellent and interactive Science North centre (a few minutes in the gyroscope woke me up and turned me green).   An outstanding meal at the highly-rated Kouzzina was the first time I’ve had my appetite for carpaccio truly satiated.  The event was an opportunity to reconnect with colleagues I haven’t seen since the pandemic, all of us bearing a few scars of that fever dream.  It was an opportunity to chat about our industry, to learn, to gossip, to grow, and to plan the adventures you’ll be hearing about in the future.  It was also an opportunity to taste fine Irish Whiskey (courtesy Tourism Ireland) and participate in the best karaoke party this side of Osaka.  Sabrina Robson of Destination BC belts a version of Amy Winehouse’s Valerie that kicked up a storm and left the veteran karaoke DJ speechless.  I did my part with perhaps the best karaoke performance of my career:  Home for a Rest by Spirit of the West was simply the right song, delivered at the right time, for the right crowd.

​My closing keynote addressed the past, present and future of travel media.  I told everyone that we’ve been at the crossroads of change for so long I’m surprised nobody’s opened up a hotel resort at the intersection to take advantage of it.  I looked back to the remote and recent past, discussing the transformations of mediums, the growth of tourism, overtourism, and the challenges and opportunities awaiting us around the corner.  Stitched throughout was my own journey, discovering how to travel as an awkward teenager (Lawless Rebel!), learning how the media works as a student, and how I used curiosity to recognize potential.  My goal was to celebrate our unique profession, and celebrate our good fortune to live and work in Canada.  Receiving a standing ovation from my peers, colleagues and friends was truly humbling, making Sudbury yet another trip I’ll remember for a lifetime.   Proving yet again:  a bucket list experience is only as special as the people you share it with.

Canadians know that any country sitting in the shadow of a more popular neighbour is often overlooked.   Spare a thought for Slovenia, that small nation in Central Europe within sight – quite literally – of Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia.  While international visitors to Europe might beeline to nearby Venice or Milan, Salzburg, Budapest or even Zagreb, many would be hard pressed to locate Ljubljana on the map, much less be able to pronounce it.  Slovenia lacks the attention of its more famous neighbours, but discovering its historical capital, frosted peaks, glimmering lakes and lush countryside, it’s clear this modest nation can compete with all of them.   

With its central location and abundant natural beauty, Slovenia was considered a prize territory for the conquering armies of Rome, Austria-Hungary, Croatia, Germany, Serbia, Italy, and finally, the Communists who incorporated it into Yugoslavia. Claiming its independence with an impressive lack of political turmoil in 1991, Slovenia officially joined the European Union in 2004, adopting the euro but keeping its identity intact.  The nation of two million people has quietly got on with the business of becoming one of the most prosperous, stable, and successful of all the post-Soviet states.  It frequently ranks among Europe’s best economies, scores big in lifestyle indexes, and it really wants you to not confuse it with Slovakia, a different (and take it from me, less impressive) country altogether.

​As I wander the streets and canals of old Ljubljana (say it with me: Yoo-bli-yana), I’m reminded of Copenhagen, Stockholm and Budapest.  Yet Ljubljana feels cleaner and more civilized than those capitals, immaculately maintained with arty cafes, old world architecture, copper Church steeples, ample bike lanes and manicured parks.  Locals roam about, stylishly dressed in that casual, modern European manner of looking fantastic without much effort.  I take care not to trip on the city’s polished cobblestone for fear of cutting myself on those striking Slavic cheekbones.  Students bike across the Games of Thrones-ish Dragon Bridge and distinctive Triple Bridge, the public art is impressive, and even the urban graffiti is tasteful. Overlooked by the 900-year-old Ljubljana Castle, the capital is a template for any great European capital, with half the tourists. 
 
I expect to find more visitor’s at Slovenia’s premier tourist attraction, historic Lake Bled.  Sitting at the foothills of the towering Julian Alps, you might have seen images of the lake on screensavers or Instagram or any platform hoping to illicit a ‘wow, where the hell is that?’ response.  It had taken me less than an hour to drive the smooth highway from Ljubljana, and ‘WOW’ got cap-locked when Lake Bled came into view.  Framed by mountains and thick forest, the placid, emerald-coloured water has a small island in the centre with a notable European landmark.  The gothic Church of Mary the Queen was first consecrated in the twelfth century, and restored to its current state in the seventeenth century.  “Europe,” as Eddie Izzard remarks, “where History comes from.”  Long before the island became a site of Christian pilgrimage, it was a cult centre for Slavs to worship the Goddess of Love and Fertility.  Fittingly, couples flock from around Europe for destination weddings in one of several grand lakeside hotels, the remains of former royal palaces. Tradition holds that grooms must carry their bride up ninety-nine steps to the chapel, and ring the famous bell three times for good luck.  Judging by the strain I see on the flummoxed faces of several men, carrying anyone up ninety-nine steep steps and then ringing a heavy bell is more difficult than it appears.  The rest of us will just fall in love with the warm, azure water, four-hundred-year-old rowboat transportation (called pletnas), lovely ambiance and a location so striking you’d think it had been airbrushed onto the cover of a romance novel.  

​Visitors to Slovenia often complain they should have allotted more time.  More time to explore the notably affordable all-season mountain resorts.  More time to hike, fish, bike, raft, and enjoy the country’s abundant outdoor splendor.   More time to visit Lipica, the ‘cradle of the race’ of the unicorn-white Lipizzaner horse that have dazzled dressage events for centuries.  More time for show caves, the world’s deepest underground canyon, the robber-thief Predjama Castle, or visits to old churches and abbeys.    The country is compact and easy to get around, English is widely spoken, and the local cuisine draws heavily on the best traditions of its neighbours:  outstanding beer influenced by Hungary; pizza, gelato and coffee by Italy; schnitzels and pastries by Austria.  
 
Yes, we know all about living in the rain shadow of a more famous country that soaks up the world’s attention.  This is why Canadians will particularly appreciate that quiet, overlooked and underrated Slovenia might just be the most enticing country in all of Europe – east, west,  and otherwise.  

​We’re just minutes into the rally, and I’m clutching onto some key advice:

•  It doesn’t help if you’re on time, but off course.
• Race your own rally.

I’m also clutching a clipboard, as I call out instructions from the passenger seat in Dave Cohen’s 1964 silver Porsche 356.   His car is effortlessly hugging the pastoral roads of the Oregon countryside, Number 43 in the annual Northwest Classic Car Rally.   Based in Portland, it’s the oldest classic car rally in the USA, drawing drivers from as far afield as Colorado and BC.   It took us eight hours to drive from Vancouver to the starting line, and I had learned my first lesson when it comes to rallies:  these people love their cars, and they love to drive them. 
 
Dave, my rally Obi-Wan, is a case in point.  A successful businessman living in West Vancouver, he’s the owner of over a dozen classic cars, including a pre-war Bentley and Rolls Royce.  That’s pre-World War 1.    A 20-year rally veteran, Dave’s run the Peking to Paris (twice), along with rallies in Australia, New Zealand and Europe.   For this year’s Northwest Classic, open to pre-1981 collector cars, Dave’s selected his reliable 356 Porsche.  He explains it will allow him to focus on the race, as opposed to keeping the car going.   Race is not exactly the right word.   It’s more like a Sunday drive, with two hundred good friends, and a purpose. 
 
Crawling along the I5 to Portland, Dave gives me the basics of time-speed-distance rallying.   Drivers and navigators are given instructions that must be followed to the letter, and to the second.  Each car is spaced one minute apart, driving at suggested speeds to enable us to reach, say, a particular stop sign in exactly 2:43 seconds, or a right turn at 7:29.   Teams calibrate their odometers, and must factor traffic and rally rules.  We never exceed the speed limit, unless we’re running late, in which case, well, these are classic sport cars.
 

Wouldn't it be fun to go on a bucket list adventure with some of Canada's top photographers, explorers and travel journalists?   Yes, it would. 

I'm delighted to become a Royal Canadian Geographic Travel Ambassador, continuing the great work of this illustrious society to promote the natural and cultural wonders of Canada.   This means I'll be hosting select, exclusive trips that tick my own storytelling and adventure boxes, and belong on anyone's Canadian Bucket List as well.   

Working with fantastic companies and brilliant guides, I'll be enhancing your experience with stories, advice, support, a bucket list presentation, and the knowledge you're indeed enjoying a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.  

August 23 - 30, 2022:  Prince Edward Islands Culinary Delights by Bike
Cycling across PEI is pure bucket list: incredible scenery, spectacular coastline, literary and Indigenous history, and the best seafood on the planet.   Foodies and adventurer's rejoice!   This amazing itinerary combines it all together, as our bags are shuttled ahead to lovely inns and lodges, and our carefully curated itinerary delivers the best experiences on the island.  The terrain is mostly flat, and you can even choose to do this week-long trip on an e-bike.    I've been working with Ottawa-based Great Canadian Trails for years, and they've perfected the art of a quality, bucket list outdoor Canadian experience.   It's going to a blast, culminating with a stay, farm tour and feast at rockstar Chef Micheal Smith's countryside inn.   Click here for information, and bring an appetite! 

August 24 - 30 / August 31 - September 4, 2023:  Discovering Banff by Horseback
Discovering one of the world's most spectacular alpine landscapes on a 6-day horse ride, staying in luxury yet rustic backcountry lodges, sharing wild stories with fine wine by the crackling fireplace, SIGN ME UP!   They did, which is why I'll be hosting two trips in partnership with the fantastic Banff Trail Riders. We'll be riding along a historic pack trail and up Allenby Pass, crossing jagged rock formations and hitting altitudes above 8000 feet.   Mountain air, bubbling rivers, wildflowers, soaring peaks, and a great chance t encounter wildlife along the way.  Let's tick this one off the bucket list together.  Click here for more information and giddy up! 

Can Geo Adventures are working with fantastic tour operators and other fine Travel Ambassadors to showcase the very best adventures across the country.    Check them out, and I hope to see you on the road!

It’s been too many years since my last gift guide, which gathered an eclectic collection of travel-ish products I thought were interesting, helpful, appreciated, unique, or fun. What do you give to someone who has everything?  For starters, you can remind them how lucky they are.  You might consider an experience (memories tend to stick around much longer than products).   If that doesn’t work, maybe something on the list below will work.  A list that includes fire, feet, fun, and something for your butt, because that's how my Gift Guides roll...

Solo Stove Backyard Fire Pit (Ranger + Stand)
 
Here’s a fact:  You can’t roast marshmallows over a propane fire pit.  Well, you can, they just taste like propane, which isn’t very nice at all.  Propane fire-pits might be convenient, but it also lacks the crackle and pop of wood, those five senses of a real fire. It’s also a pain to carry around.  All of which makes the stainless-steel Solo Stove so appealing.  It takes seconds to set up, holds (and with clever air-flow design) sustains a lovely fire, and its base ensures no damage or scorch marks to grass, wood or any outdoor surface beneath it.   Sitting about knee high,  the Solo Stove has a metal net option to trap any unwanted embers, and burns way less smoke than your typical fire put.    Once you’re done and the ranger has cooled down, simply tip the pit over and feed your plants with fine ash.  All of which makes for an instant, easy-to-use fine looking fire pit, and s’mores that don’t taste like a gas tank.  
 
From: $299
Link: https://ca.solostove.com/fire-pits/fire-pit-stand-bundles/

Brutrek BaseCamp Travel Press
 
Coffee was a contentious issue camping this summer.   We obviously needed a good cup to get us going in the morning, but it takes time to do coffee properly, and instant coffee is well, instant coffee.   Introducing a clever travelling press that lets you enjoy your favourite beans, without worrying about smashing glass, or the black gold losing its steam.   The sturdy, double-walled, insulated stainless steel body is topped by a spill-proof, leak-proof lid with a press that keeps the ground beans firmly at the bottom and avoids overcooking the brew.   Available in two sizes, it’s an easy clean-up, and a trusty companion on long hikes too. 
 
From $100 including shipping
Link: https://planetarydesign.com/product/basecamp-french-press/

Keen Tempo Flex Waterproof
I live in a coastal rainforest masquerading as a city. Vancouver is wet, and waterproof shoes are a must. Trainers and runners are fine for rare sunny days, but soaking my cold wet feet in cold wet socks is an experience I’d rather avoid. Keen’s light Tempo Flex waterproof running/hiking/walking hybrids have a speed-lace, slip-on fit, high traction rubber sole, and importantly, don’t look like a baboon’s butt on your feet. They aren’t as wide as Keen’s usual hikers though, but will definitely cut it for urban wear, day hikes or trail running. Most importantly, they keep feet dry. I just checked the weather: solid rain for the next 7 days. Guess there’s only one pair of shoes I’ll be wearing then. Available for Men and Women.

Link: https://www.keenfootwear.com/
From: $180

Sigvaris Travel Compression Socks

Here’s a couple travel tips that will forever change your experience on long haul flights. Firstly: stay away from tomato juice. It’s loaded with sodium, and in the compressed cabin at altitude, it will have your feet swelling up like helium balloons. I only used to drink tomato juice on planes figuring it must be good for you, but a well-versed flight attendant informed it’s the opposite. Stay off the salt! Secondly: slip on a pair of compression socks, which dramatically improves blood circulation to your legs and feet. The result are feet and limbs that feel fresh, rested, and ready to go just as soon as you arrive. Sigvaris Compression socks come in a variety of pattern, styles and fabrics, and will become your new essential travel companion.

​Link: https://www.sigvaris.com/en-ca/shop/experience/travel
From: $40

Fix n Zip
You have a perfectly fine daypack, backpack, sleeping bag or tent. More than perfectly fine. You’ve broken the mustang in, made it home, figured out every compartment, worked out the nooks and crannies. Then the zipper slider breaks, because that’s what zippers eventually do. You might repair it with a zip tie, and now you have a really ugly piece of equipment. You might call a tailor shop who will charge you more to repair the thing than it’s worth. Or you can take this handy little gadget that slots over the slider, thumbscrews in, and voila, instant repair. No thread, no needle, no tools, no fuss. Fix n Zip is made out of durable nickel and works on plastic and metal zippers. You can unscrew it and use it on multiple zips, and it might just save your dress or clothing too. Simple, effective, and adding a few more years to my old trusty backpack.
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Link: https://www.fixnzip.com/
From: $10

PackStack

When it comes to backpacking, packing remains one of the biggest pains in the, well, back. We tend to take too much, use too little, and spend way too much time squeezing and shoving in our stuff when it’s time to pack up. Top-down packs are particularly difficult to get organized. PackStack is a simple system of stackable water or weatherproof compartments where everything can finally have its place. There’s a top handle to pull everything out, and its crescent shape naturally take care of dead space in your backpack. Compartments can separate toiletries from electronics, food from clothing, and it naturally stacks within itself once you’re done.
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Link: https://www.hillsound.ca/products/packstack
From: $25

Luxe Bidet

Here’s one you can’t take this one with you (unless you install it in an RV or caravan). Trust me, once you bidet, it’s hard to go back. There’s something intrinsically refreshing about having a washed derriere (as many Eastern cultures know only too well). There’s quite a few of these gadgets on the market. I found Luxe Bidet to be affordable, easy to install, and great to deal with too. At just $50, it’s easily my most gifted item of 2021, although everyone I gifted it too didn’t think they needed such a thing – seriously Esrock, what the hell?! Then they installed it, tried it, and now they thank me. What gave me the idea for a bidet? Well, my bestselling Bucket List books have always made great toilet reads.
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Link: https://amzn.to/2Zoienn
From: $50

How to Invent Everything by Ryan North
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I used to think I was the only one worried what might happen if a solar storm wiped out electricity, or the internet went down forever, or humanity suddenly reverted back to the Stone Age. How do things actually work? How does the average person save thousands of years of invention without having to figure everything out… again? Using the construct of a stranded time traveller, Ryan North takes on, well… everything we’ve ever invented, and explains how to recreate it using only the basic elements available to someone stranded thousands of years ago. Short, punchy chapters with illustrations teach us how to build kerns and ploughs, art and engineering. The breadth and research of this book makes it, literally, the only manual that needs to survive Armageddon to give humanity some hope of returning to civilization. In the process, you’ll learn tons about history, philosophy, the environment, engineering, the stars, and just about everything North focused his unflinching and impressive curiosity on.
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Link: https://amzn.to/3vHOFt3
Costs: $20