When I travel, I like to explore twists and turns: A windy road, a crooked bookstore, the cozy nooks in tiny coffee shops. What I don't like, and generally avoid at all costs, are ups and downs. I avoid mountains, caves, ledges, edges, ladders, crevices, tunnels, and trenches. I am not a gal designed for adventure and I'm rather proud of the fact that I've proved that you can travel around the world without the need to parachute, paraglide, or procure a pair of trekking poles. 

But every now and then, there's a chink in my armour. I ignore decades of ironclad evidence that I don't have daring bone in my body and I do something rash, something utterly beyond my bravery. And that, precisely, is what I found myself doing at the Mont-Orford Ski Resort in Quebec's Eastern Townships.

This is what happens when an anti-adventurist rides the world's tallest*, steepest*, most terrifying chair lift.

Picture this: Saint Croix Island, the first French settlement in Canada, where in 1604, 79 brave souls faced a winter beyond description. Water, food, and shelter were all but nonexistent. 35 men perished from the cold, disease, and lack of provisions (including scurvy-preventing vitamin-rich foods). If the French wanted to establish a presence in North America, something had to change, and quickly. 

It did. Thanks to the generosity of the local Mi’kmaq people, the French learned about a more hospitable site nearby on the mainland, a site that was likely very close to the current Port-Royal National Historic Site. Conditions improved, but life for a French soldier in the early 1600s was anything but luxurious. Scurvy persisted, and morale was poor. But what to do?

Turns out, soldiers living about 400 years ago are just like you and me. They work best with full bellies and a little good cheer. As such, in 1606 Samuel de Champlain founded The Order of Good Cheer, the first dinner club in Canada (and probably all of North America). These dinners were spirited affairs, complete with gourmet food and visiting dignitaries. Here's what it's like to walk in their footsteps.

​I can’t tell you when Labrador first hit my travel radar. 

This rugged, remote Canadian region, a part of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador but physically connected to north-east Quebec, is not a spot for a wimpy traveller like me. Distances are far, amenities can be sparse, and the mosquitoes will strip you bare in seconds. Yet the place they call The Big Land has been calling for me for years. Labrador has topped my travel wish list since the beginning of the pandemic. When I had the opportunity to visit as part of the annual Travel Media Association of Canada conference, I knew I had to go.

I dearly wanted to make Labrador’s acquaintance, but it’s doubtful that the region wanted the likes of me. I have no good reason to be enamoured with small Labrador fishing communities like Red Bay and Battle Harbour. My aversion to boats is both legendary and well-founded. Similarly, I can’t tell you why stories from events such as Cain’s Quest, Labrador’s legendary annual 3,100-kilometre snowmobile endurance race capture my heart. I dislike cold weather, sporty things, and noisy fanfare. Frankly, even the process of getting to Labrador is determinedly very non-Vanessa-ish. I like cold foam on coffee, not ferry decks, thank you very much. So, sure, the villages are cute, and the events are spirited, but this is clearly the kind of place I should appreciate through a documentary and not my own Gravol-addled brain. 

Thankfully, my heart is immune to common sense.

Twenty some years ago, National Geographic devoted a cover story to the topic of Africa and, in doing so, they did something unusual. They declined to use a cover image, rationalizing that there was no one symbol or picture that could encompass the continent. 

If they had asked me, I would have made my case for the baobab tree. True, they don’t grow everywhere in Africa but they are an icon of the continent. Residents love them for their fruit, shade, and fibres, as do animals. Visitors adore these funny looking plants that have the appearance of being stuck in the ground upside down. They’re huge, imposing, aloof and yet there’s something about the baobab that’s decidedly homey. Perhaps this is why the Baines' Baobabs in Botswana are so popular.

The Baine’s Baobabs are named for British artist Thomas Baines. Baines wasn’t just a painter. He was also an explorer and an active participant on many of the earliest European expeditions to Africa. As such, he both contributed to and memorialized early colonialism. His work fed a mania for “exotic” images of the continent and his painting of seven baobabs in northern Botswana certainly fit the bill. They’re a little weird, a little other-wordly, and utterly captivating. 

Located in northern Botswana in Nxai Pan National Park, the group of trees that Baines immortalized are estimated to be over 1,500 years old. Also know as "The Sleeping Sisters" (as one tree is growing sideways) they’re considered to be some of the tallest in the area, hitting about 20 feet in height. Thanks to Baines’ legacy and the trees' own magnificence, they’re a popular tourist attraction and Ryan and I were able to see them for ourselves during our camping safari. Here’s how you can do the same.

You've probably heard a lot about Victoria Falls, one of world's most majestic wonders. But have you heard about its next door neighbour, the small city of Livingston, Zambia?

Livingstone is often treated a bit like a base for exploring other destinations and, to be honest, we were a bit guilty of that ourselves at first. We stayed in Livingstone for about a week as we organized trips in Zimbabwe and Botswana. Thankfully, along the way we clued in to the fact that this is much more than a town that takes care of all the traveling essentials, from groceries to pharmacy, banks to stamps. There is a long list of Livingstone activities to enjoy during your visit and exploring the city was a highlight of our time in Africa. Here's what should be on your radar during your visit.

Once upon a time, Halifax, Nova Scotia, wasn't just known as a lively city for music, travel, and seaside fun. It was first and foremost a military port. Halifax was on the frontlines of defending Canada from foreign attack. It's a role that thankfully never had to be enforced but for centuries the city has been soaked in military preparations. Now one of Halifax's oldest fortifications, Georges Island National Historic Site is open to the public and I was fortunate to explore it myself.

Georges Island sits in the middle of Halifax Harbour. You can see it from almost any point in the city - I had superb views from my room at the Westin Nova Scotian- but visitors were prohibited until 2020. My friends and family jumped at the chance to visit when the Parks Canada site opened during the pandemic and their reviews were GLOWING. Locals absolutely love this destination and they're extremely proud of their city's history. As they should be! 

The main attraction on Georges Island is Fort Charlotte. Fortifications here date to 1750 and include an underground tunnel system. While Georges Island has never been attacked, Fort Charlotte and the surrounding area has been used for important military operations over the centuries. Two thousand French soldiers were imprisoned here during the Seven Years War and an estimated 1,660 Acadian civilians were detained during the Expulsion. During the American Revolution, privateers were held prisoner in Fort Charlotte and, during World War II, an anti-aircraft was stationed there. 

Visiting today is decidedly peaceful experience and a wonderful way to get to know Halifax better. Here's what to expect and how you can explore Georges Island National Historic Site.

You may have come to Volcanoes National Park to satisfy the child within, to hunt down fiery lava and stalk ancient eruptions. But it’s your inner artist who will be squealing with glee if you’re fortunate enough to explore the legendary ancient Hawaiian petroglyphs at the Pu’u Loa site.
​
Roughly translated as “the hill of long life”, the archaeological site of Pu’u Loa contains over 23,000 petroglyph images, carved into lava bedrock and dating back centuries. With a keen eye, you’ll see a feathery cape, the billowing sail of a canoe, and the squiggly flash of a lizard.  But even if your imagination is a bit rusty, you’ll have no problem deciphering many human forms. And there’s no way you can miss the thousands of ‘dimples’, little cups carved into the rock, which served as repositories for umbilical cords. With the promise of blessings and a long life for a new baby, it’s easy to see why ancient Hawaii families considered the Pu’u Loa such a precious spot.

The bones are loose and barely holding together. The meat and sinew have all but disappeared. What little is left threatens to slip away at any moment, taking what remains of the little elephant and scattering it along the river bank,  letting it slip into the water, letting it melt away.

There's a sense the other elephant knows this. Though he uses his trunk to jostle and even toss what is left of the baby's remains, there's a gentle urgency to it. Wake up. Wake up now and you won't be left to fragment. Wake up and you won't be reduced to crumbs.

I am intruding. There is an intimacy here between the living and the dead that's palatable. This is a private moment. While our safari vehicle is a safe distance away - respectable, even - I feel awkward, embarrassed by our proximity, ashamed by how hungrily I suck back the scene. If asked, I would use my interest in nature as a shield. Exactly how often does one see an elephant mourning ritual? Perhaps if I cling to this I'll feel better about the moisture which goes everywhere save for my parched mouth.

​The sun is starting to set. In less than an hour the park will be black. I am haunted by this jumbled-up pile of bones and by this adult who won't mosey on. I want to scream at it to move lest it spend all night next to a corpse, easy pickings for predators and ghosts alike. But its grief is a glue.

A distant passage I once read awakens in my mind, like a lazy cat indulging in a luxurious stretch after a very long nap. "Her face was like stone." It takes me more than a year to place it. It's from Bruce Northam's Globetrotter Dogma: 100 Canons For Escaping The Rat Race and Exploring The World and it reads:

​"While visiting a hospital in Delhi, India, I observed a mother carrying her dead infant down a long dim hallway, out the front door of the hospital, and into her gruesomely impoverished neighborhood. Her face was like stone."

The beauty of Botswana's Chobe National Park contains an embarrassment of riches. It is a lifetime of journeys away from the grim hospital and tableau of death Northam observed decades earlier. But his words about grief won't leave me. I can hear them in the elephant's gentle grunting breath.

Her face was like stone. Her face was like stone. Her face was like stone.