Museum of Anthropology
One of Arthur Erickson’s most iconic buildings, completed in 1976, is the Museum of Anthropology at the University of British Columbia. It sits on traditional and unceded territory of the Musqueam people, at the tip of Point Grey, facing the Salish Sea.
I’m told that the post-and-beam construction was inspired by the architecture of the Northwest Coast First Nations. The floor-to-ceiling windows of the Great Hall let in all the light. And when you stand outside and look back at the museum, you see the sky reflected back at you.
The building incorporates several World War II gun placements. Rather than ripping them out, Erickson incorporated them into the building’s design. One has been repurposed as the base for Raven and the First Men, a sculpture by Haida artist Bill Reid.
The Museum of Anthropology began in 1949 as a department of the Faculty of Arts at UBC. It has one of the world’s best collections of Indigenous art and is particularly known for its Northwest Coast collection. In 2023, the museum closed to undergo a seismic upgrade that involved completely rebuilding the 25 concrete pillars of the Great Hall. It reopened again last June in time for the centenary of Erickson’s birth.
Trees of Oahu
As remarkable as the flowers of Oahu are, I find the trees almost more so.
Why is that? Simply because they are so different from the trees you see in Canada.
I don’t know all the names of the ones I’m showing you here, but I do know the name of this flowering tree.
The ʻōhiʻa lehua is the most widespread of Hawaii’s native trees. It’s an evergreen in the myrtle family, comes in both shrub and tree form, and is one of the first plants to grow over lava flows. As such, it’s an important plant for rebuilding the ecosystem after a volcanic eruption. The most common type has bright red flowers, but there are also varieties with orange or yellow flowers.
There is a legend associated with this tree’s name. ʻŌhiʻa and Lehua were lovers, but Pele, the goddess of fire and volcanoes, demanded that ʻŌhiʻa abandon Lehua and declare his love for her instead. ʻŌhiʻa refused. Furious at his rejection, Pele turned herself into a column of fire and ʻŌhiʻa into a twisted ugly tree. Lehua burst into tears in front of the tree that used to be Ōhiʻa and begged Pele to turn her into a tree as well. Pele ignored her, but the other gods took pity on Lehua and transformed the sparks of fire in her hair into bright red flowers, which they placed on the tree. It is said that if you pick the flowers of the ōhiʻa lehua tree, it will rain. The raindrops are Lehua’s tears, because she cannot bear to be separated from Ōhiʻa.
Flowers of Oahu
You’ve seen it, I’m sure, in old movies. The traditional Hawaiian greeting upon arrival, where a garland of flowers, called a lei, is placed around the neck of the person arriving. The practice dates back to the early Polynesians who came by boat from Tahiti to Hawaii.
A lei can be made from any object — leaves, shells, feathers — but the one we all think of is made with flowers. The lei is a symbol of love and friendship and aloha. Although used as a casual greeting in the Hawaiian Islands, aloha has a much more spiritual meaning for native Hawaiians.
The flowers of Hawaii are everywhere. Here, have a look. I have no idea if all of these are native to Hawaii, but they sure do make it beautiful.
Cinque Terre
Here in Vancouver, we’re going through the first atmospheric river of the season this weekend, and I’m finding it hard not to feel green with envy toward anyone who might be vacationing in much more pleasant climes right now.
Like, oh, I dunno, Italy?
Except, it turns out that the folks I know who are vacationing in Italy right now aren’t immune to bad weather either.
Cinque Terre (literally “five lands”) is a collection of villages along Italy’s northwest coast. Connected by train and hiking trails, Monterosso al Mare, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore are collectively one of the most stunning areas of Italy.
My people had gone to Cinque Terre on my recommendation, but no sooner had they arrived when they learned that the trails, the restaurants, and the shops were closing the next day due to inclement weather.
Above is a photo I took some years ago of Vernazza, Corniglia, and Manarola from one of the hiking trails above Monterosso al Mare. And below is a train pulling into the station at Manarola. It’s easy to see from the terraced landscape and steep cliffs why heavy rains are a problem in Cinque Terre — in fact, floods and mudslides devastated the villages in 2011, killing nine people.
My family was able to rejig their itinerary and head to Tuscany a few days early. I felt bad they missed out on spending time in such a special part of Italy, but, as I always say, when you don’t get to see everything on your list, it just means you have a very good reason to go back.
MacMillan Bloedel Building
Ahem.
I promised you a series of blog posts about Arthur Erickson buildings that have shaped Vancouver, way back in (checks notes) June.
What can I say? A glorious BC summer got in my way and I’ve been spending as much time away from my computer as possible. I’m sure you understand.
However, I do want to showcase those buildings, and so, here we go.
First up is the MacMillan Bloedel Building that stands prominently in the centre of downtown Vancouver.
It was completed in 1968 and is a typical example of Brutalism, the style of architecture the dominated the middle of the previous century.
Each window measures 7 feet by 7 feet and is a single pane of glass. The lobby is separated from the street by a series of sunken pools and concrete planters filled with trees and other vegetation.
Standing 27 storeys tall, the MacMillan Bloedel Building was the tallest in Vancouver when finished. It was built to house the headquarters of MacMillan Bloedel, a forestry company that hasn’t existed for 25 years. Although it was renamed Arthur Erickson Place in 2019, it’s still commonly referred to as the MacBlo Building.
Through My Lens: Beech Tree
We are well and truly into the season where we start paying attention to the trees around us, and what will be eventually be some pretty spectacular colours.
Until then, here’s a beech tree I photographed last weekend in Stanley Park. Also pretty spectacular, even though its leaves haven’t yet turned.
Wapiti
My camping mini-break at the end of August with my brother and his kids got me thinking about camping when I was a kid. Back then, everyone I knew went camping in the summer. It was the only kind of vacation most parents with a carful of kids could afford.
Most of our school friends went to the Okanagan every summer, but my parents’ preference was to camp in the middle of the forest, so we headed to the mountains. A fully-treed campground was always the destination — I suspect my parents would have not cared for Ruckle Park because of how exposed the campsites are.
The “mountains” was what we called Banff and Jasper. We would do a circuit, spending some time in Jasper, then head south to Lake Louse and Banff, and then, when we were badly in need of showers and clean laundry, Dad would point the car towards Lacombe. There, we would spend time with our grandmother and all the aunts, uncles, and cousins who lived in the area.
When the news broke last July that the entire town of Jasper, along with some 20,000 park visitors, was being evacuated because of encroaching wildfires, my co-worker (who had also spent her childhood camping in the mountains) and I spent a horrified morning looking at video on social media. We were both relieved to learn that only (only?!) a third of the structures in Jasper townsite had been destroyed.
At first, there was no word about the rest of the park — it would take some months before the wildfires were under control. In fact, it wasn’t until last week that the news showed images of some of the campgrounds. Given the scale of the wildfires, I knew it would be bad. And it is. The forest is just … gone.
Forests rebound, I know that. But until they do, camping in the forests of Jasper National Park will be much different.
One of the campgrounds we used to camp at is named Wapiti. Wapiti, or elk, are commonly seen throughout Jasper — I took this photograph of an elk cow just as we were leaving our campsite for a day of hiking the last time I was in Jasper. Wapiti is a Shawnee word for “white rump.”
Ruckle Park
When I first visited Ruckle Park on Salt Spring Island, I made a promise to myself that one day I would return with my camping gear and spend some time here.
Who knew it would take several decades for me to fulfill that promise?
Located on the southeast tip of Salt Spring Island, Ruckle Park is one of the largest parks in the Gulf Islands. Its seven kilometres of shoreline give you oodles of tidal pools to explore at low tide, but there are also numerous walking trails throughout the coastal forest.
Most of the campsites are walk-in (first come, first served), but the bonus of that is you get to pitch your tent right by the water.
The sunrises? They are spectacular.
Once the sun is up, the morning’s entertainment starts with a round of musical campsites. Campers who spent the previous night in the overflow area come around to ask when those of us camped beside the water are intending to leave. The morning we left, there were four separate parties interested in our spot. The mornings we weren’t going anywhere, we got to watch people move gear and tents from one site to another, and then watch someone else move into the just-vacated spot.
The summer’s campfire ban was lifted the afternoon we arrived (talk about timing!) and the communal firepit makes it easy to get to know your neighbours.
Ruckle Park also has a working heritage farm.
My three days of camping at Ruckle last week with my brother and his kids was the absolute perfect way to finish off my BC summer. And I made another promise to myself: it won’t be several decades again before I return.
I’m already making plans to return next summer.
Salish Heron
Time for my obligatory summer post about touring the Salish Sea on a BC ferry. I took this photo last month from the southern tip of Galiano Island. That’s the Salish Heron entering Active Pass.
Like the other Salish-Class vessels, the ferry is covered in original Coast Salish artwork inside and out. Penelakut First Nation artist Maynard Johnny Jr. was the artist for the Salish Heron.
Paris 2024
I cannot lie. Paris 2024 hit all the right notes for me.
I love the spectacle of the Olympics. The biggest sporting event on the planet bringing together thousands of athletes from more than 200 countries to compete in dozens of sports never fails to catch my attention, whether it’s in my own city or in one far away.
I especially loved the historical setting of these Olympics, which were hosted by my second-favourite city in the world. The iconic competition venues with magnificent backdrops like the Eiffel Tower or Château de Versailles never let any of us forget where these games were taking place.
The Opening Ceremonies (yes, yes, I know, but les Français, they’re just so … French) weren’t held in some generic sports stadium, but in the centre of Paris itself, putting the City of Light on display. The Olympic Cauldron (like Vancouver’s Olympic Cauldron) was accessible to Parisian residents and visitors alike from its location in the Jardin des Tuileries, where it aligned with key landmarks: the Louvre, Place de la Concorde, and the Arc de Triomphe. In a nod to history, the fuel-free cauldron was built in the shape of a hot air balloon to commemorate the first-ever flight by humans, which took place over Paris in 1783.
Even the medals are historical: each one contains a piece of the Eiffel Tower. (The fragments of iron were left over from renovation work done over the years.)
And if you doubt that the City of Love has special powers, remember this record set by athletes during Paris 2024: the most number of marriage proposals ever at an Olympic games (seven).
It’s always difficult for me to choose just one photo when I write about Paris, but then I found this and knew it was the one. That’s the Tour Montparnasse as seen from the Arc de Triomphe. I took this photo in the summer of 2017, mere weeks before Paris was announced as the host city for the XXXIII Olympiad.
There and Back Again 