Departure Time

in ,

 

            A few days later Jannet accompanied her family to Sergeant MacDonald's presentation at the mill. The sergeant described Lord Selkirk's dream of a settlement on the Red River in North America. To this end he had purchased five thousand square miles of prairie land from the Hudson's Bay Company. Under questioning, MacDonald admitted neither he nor His Grace had ever been there.

            In the crowd Jannet shifted from foot to foot. Her inner voice screamed, Where exactly is the Red River? How do we get there? She was too timid to holler aloud, but someone else did.

            In response MacDonald unscrolled a crude map, marking the sailing route across the Atlantic to the southwest shore of Hudson's Bay. This map did not reassure Jannet. She knew the fate of Henry Hudson, set adrift in a skiff after his crew mutinied in the frozen wasteland. Besides, MacDonald's map did not pinpoint the location of the Red River.

            In the days that followed one thousand people enrolled as prospective settlers. Jannet couldn't believe so many people trusted an emigration plan with so few details attached. Such as....how do we reach the Red River? MacDonald admitted there were no roads, not even trails—just hundreds of miles of dense forests and wild rivers. Even thinking about the journey made her head ache.

            In mid-May Lord Selkirk installed himself at the Helmsdale Inn for a week. Da and Mr. Sage were summoned to confer with him. Several days later, while Jannet was eating supper, their cottage door burst open. Da stood there beaming, looking ten years younger. He had helped His Grace whittle down that long list to ninety stalwart souls. Gave character references, Da said.

            The lucky ninety included their family plus Angus and Jean and their neighbours the Gunns. They would leave on a Hudson's Bay ship in mid-June. Jannet didn't feel at all lucky. Nevertheless, the next morning she was sucked into a vortex of frenzied activity.

            Sent to retrieve their sheep from the high meadow, Jannet trudged across the family garden plot. She recalled how comforting the soil had felt a year ago when she planted seed potatoes. Last May when she still belonged here...before her entire parish was torn from their ancestral land. The ache in her heart threatened to explode.

            She crouched to sift the dark loam, enriched with hundreds of years of cattle droppings. An image flitted though her mind. She was a wee child tagging behind Da, while he tucked potato eyes into the ground. She patted the soil over each chunk, as Da related stories about their farm.

            This plot had sustained her ancestors with turnips and kale since St. Donan brought the first Scots here. Her own grandfather had intoduced potatoes to this valley. Some neighbours were loathe to plant them, being supicious of all things Irish. Da always laughed at this point. They came round after hearing how nourishing they were.

            Jannet's body ached to begin the planting dance: dig, plant, cover, step forward, repeat. The spring dance to tuck seeds onto God's good earth and reap the bounty for winter survival. She stood up with a sigh. Only weeds will grow here now.

            She remembered her mission to bring down the sheep. Straightening her back, she strode across the soft earth onto the rocky path.

            As she passed the rigs she noticed a few farmers sowing barley and oats. Jannet felt a twinge of envy. Some families were allowed to stay until Lord Selkirk could arrange further passage next spring—a reprieve granted by Lady Stafford after shaming lectures in the southern press.

            Just postponing the heartbreak till next year, Jannet reminded herself.

            She plodded uphill where a stream gurgled over rocks and bubbled through stretches of young grass. She laboured up the switch-back trail she had climbed with Ian Gordon during that snowstorm in February. When the ground leveled out she was at the high measdow.

            At the broad flat top of Coimhead Creag  Jannet spread her arms wide. My last chance to stand atop our famous lookout rock. The day was so clear she could see miles up the valley. Near Kinbrace her eyes lit upon the castle ruins she and Da had explored once. Da had lifted her up to a window seat in a half-collapsed wall. She posed on its wide ledge pretending to be the beautiful daughter of a laird. The last time I'll ever see this castle. A sob caught in her throat.

            Jannet rounded up the six sheep and paused at the top of the switch-back trail. Her eyes followed the Helmsdale River as it broadened and flowed into the North Sea. In the clear air she spotted Granny's cottage nestled in the seaside village.

            My last view of Kildonan strath from this height. The next truth sliced through her mind like a dagger.  From now on everything I do will be the last time!  

            With a heavy heart Jannet herded the sheep downhill to their barn. For the next week Ma kept her busy shearing, cleaning, carding and spinning the wool. Already a capable knitter, Jannet sat by the window for another week, clicking wooden needles. Every hour she stood and arched her aching back as the wool became scarves and mitts. Ma used her skill to create high-necked sweaters. All big and loose to begin, but felted and windproof after they were waulked in hot water. Parted from their woolly coats, the sheep were sold for meat.

 

            Shortly before emigration day, Jannet and her mother visited their parish church for the last time. Sitting in their family pew, Jannet whispered farewell to the Chiefs of Clann Gunn sleeping beneath the altar. She studied each corner of Reverend Sage's church, trying to fix it in her mind.

            When Ma rose to leave, Jannet hurried to hold open the heavy door. She willed her feet to follow her mother home, but they would not budge. Her hand stuck to the brass doorlatch. Silent tears rolled down her face.

            Ma turned around with a scowl. “Whatever is wrong, Jannet?”

            Collapsing on the front step of the church, Jannet exhaled a long gutteral moan. The throat muscles that suppressed her anguish failed her completely. “'Tis is the last time I'll ever see this church,” she wailed. “I have to leave behind everything I love.”

            In the most unlikely miracle of love, her mother softened, sat on the stoop beside her daughter. “Ye will not leave everything behind,” she soothed. “Ye'll carry yer memories and these memories will always comfort ye.” Jannet looked into Ma's eyes and felt comforted.

             The day of departure arrived. The wagon was packed and George perched on the seat, reins in hand. The wagon box was crammed with trunks and food supplies. Da helped Ma settle on the bench beside her son. Her face was rigid, revealing no emotion.

            Jannet knew she had to walk to Helmsdale, a journey she used to enjoy. But not today. Now her legs felt so weak, her chest so constricted, her stomach so nauseous, she didn't think she could manage a single step, let alone ten miles. She clutched the side of the wagon.

            Nobody spoke. They waited...supended in time. For Da...but he had vanished. Finally he appeared on the path from the barn, holding aloft two blazing torches. Whatever..? Jannet thought. Before she could form a complete question, the answer was clear.

            With a mighty heave Da hurled one torch onto the thatched roof of their home. He walked forward and heaved the other torch onto the far end of the roof. As Jannet stood there, rooted in horror,  tendrils of acrid smoke coiled through the trees. Da had set the barn ablaze too.

            Da turned a grim face to his family and hollered through the crackling fire, “We're not leaving anything for that bastard Sellar to use.” He flipped his Sutherland plaid over his shoulder like the proud Highland warrior he was and strode up to George. “Let's go, man.”

            The heavily-laden wagon creaked forward, inching away from the monstrous bonfire that their cottage had become. The Sutherland family was on the way to their new life.

            All except Jannet. She stood still as stone, transfixed by the enormity of her loss. This must be how Noah felt after the flood. Everything familiar is destroyed. She imagined mud oozing down the mountain as Noah abandoned the ark and led his animals into a land completely altered and foreign.    

            Suddenly Jannet's mother let out a sustained lament. Ma's high-pitched wail unhinged Jannet even more than the spitting flames devouring her cottage. If Màmag has lost her strength, how will I survive this ordeal?

            Still in a stupor, Jannet turned toward the cart lumbering away from her and began to shuffle in the same direction. Da walked back and clasped her hand.

            “Head up, lass. Remember the strength of yer people. Highlanders have been beaten to the ground many times. We have always risen again. We will build a better life in a new world.”

            Jannet tried fervently to believe this. The sorry parade of refugees grew as more carts fell in behind the Sutherlands. They stopped for Jean and Angus who threw their packs atop Da's cart and joined the walkers. Jannet managed a rushed hug with Aunt Nessie before the procession moved on.

            It was then that Jannet heard the sound that would sustain her. Gordon McKay emerged from Nessie's cottage playing his bagpipes as he had never played before. First the sprightly tunes of the Highlander's Farewell and Lochiel's Farewell.

            He's trying to instill heart in us, Jannet thought. As the procession travelled on and the sound wove through the trees, the tunes became more haunting, spilling over with heartbreak and loss. Lochaber No More, then Loch Lomond. The last tune Jannet strained to hear was the Skye Boat Song. The slow mournful notes hung in the air long after Gordon finished playing. 

            Beyond the village of Kildonan, Reverend Sage stood at the crossroads with his heavy church bible. He blessed each family as they passed. When Jannet stopped to receive his benediction he looked straight into her eyes and spoke only to her. “Go with God, young woman. You have Highland strength in your bones. You will rise again.”

            “Thank ye, sir,” Jannet whispered. “I'll ne'er forget ye.”

             She plodded on with the parade of evicted farmers, headed to Helmsdale to await the ferry to Stromness where a ship would sail them to the end of the known world. With every footstep Jannet mulled over Mr. Sage's parting words.

            She felt taller. She held her back straight and lifted her chin. I carry childhood memories with me, but I go into the world as a strong Highland woman.

Chapter Eleven: Farewell to Scotland

in ,

It was late April. Spring leaves cast a green mist through the trees. It was time for George to lead sheep and cattle to the high meadow to feed on tender young grass. But George's father had sold most of their livestock. His parents were irritable—waiting to hear back from Lord Selkirk. Waiting for news of London from Sergeant MacDonald.

George busied himself away from his family. Anywhere but home became his motto. He helped move Angus's father in with his sister Jessie. Together George and Angus hoed Aunt Jessie's garden plot and sowed barley in the rig farmed by the McKay family. 

One afternoon Angus spared time to tutor George in the games of competition. He pointed to a long straight log lying at the edge of their rig. “Since the time of Robert the Bruce, clan chiefs have used such logs to judge our readiness for battle.” Angus shrugged out of his leather jacket. “Push this caber upright and hold it fer me.”  

George looked askance at his brother-in-law. Is Angus trying to make a fool of me? He had been working at the mill part-time—chopping logs with a heavy axe. He knew his upper body was gaining strength—but not enough for this task. Cautiously, George lifted the narrow end of the log.

“Nae, laddie,” said Angus. “See how I've whittled the bottom to make it the right size to grip. This end stands on the ground.” 

George already felt foolish. He had never noticed this detail in any caber at the clan games. He raised the wider end, got under it and pushed the heavy pole upward. Angus corrected the angle. Fascinated, George watched Angus squat and wrap his large hands around the whittled base. 

“Stand aside, lad.” Angus grunted and pulled himself upright with the caber nestled against his shoulder. He ran forward and tossed it. The caber flipped mid air—landed twenty feet straight in front of him. “I'm getting better,” he puffed. “But nae good enough fer competition yet.” He smiled at George. “Wanna have a go?”

God's breath! I feared he'd ask that! I can't possibly toss that caber. George tried to muster a confident smile. “Of course,” he said, pulling off his work jacket. 

Together they raised the log. George wiped his sweating hands on his trews, squatted and clasped the whittled base. “Make sure the caber leans a bit against yer shoulder,” Angus advised. “Else it will tumble forward afore yer ready.”

George expelled his breath in a mighty grunt. Pulled himself up. Staggered forward. Hefted the log, which rose in an arc and landed splat in the dirt. It did not flip in the air. George's cheeks flamed with the shame of failure.

“Mo bhràthair,” exclaimed Angus. “'Twas a mighty fine toss fer a first turn.”

George couldn't contain his grin. Angus just called him brother—and complimented him to boot. “Mo bhràthair,” he asked, “why are ye training fer the games? Aren't ye coming to Lord Selkirk's settlement?”

Angus brushed his dark curly hair back from his eyes. “I wrote His Grace asking to join, but I didna hear anything yet.” He shrugged. “The muscles I'm developing will stand me in good stead in the New World also.” Angus squeezed George's arm. “I'm planning to build up yer strength too.”

Together they walked back along the footpath to Kildonan. At George's cottage they parted and George reluctantly went inside for dinner. His mother had just removed a heavy pot from the pommel hook and was lugging it to the table. 

“That pot's too heavy fer ye, Màmag,” he said, wondering why Da had not carried it for her. On closer inspection, Ma's face was tear-stained. Da stood at the window with his back toward George.

“Son,” his father said gruffly, “Tomorra ye'll take the milk cows into Helmsdale. The innkeeper offered to buy them.”

Ma laid the pot on the floor. One glance at her slumped shouders and George knew what the argument had been about. Ma could not publicly challenge her husband. But he could—he was a man now. “Shouldn't we keep them until the last minute, Dadaith? Don't we use the milk every day?” 

Da swung around, huffing like a bull. “And where would we sell them at the last minute? The innkeeper is buying now. If we dinna take his offer, he'll buy elsewhere.” Da strode up to George's face and hissed, “Dinna contradict me in front of yer mother, ever again.” 

Bile rose in George's throat. “I am not a child now,” he spit through clenched teeth.

Ma stepped up— put a hand on each shoulder. “Settle down, men. Ye both have sound points. But the sale is settled and ye'll take them tomorra, George.”

Da set the pot on the table and Ma scooped out three bowls of stew. George swallowed a bite of the thick broth, swimming with chunks of turnip and potato. Then he announced, “Angus showed me how to toss the caber today.” His parents both laughed—the tense moment was over.


The next morning Ma milked Moira and Millie, then handed their ropes to George. “Dinna go past Jessie's cottage. Jean loved these wee beasties like her own children. I dinna want her to rush outside all upset and fuss over them. Best she should find out later.” 

George led the cows out of the barn. Their trusting eyes gazed at him through long fringes of black wavy hair. On their short stocky legs, Moira and Millie sauntered behind George. As he turned to wave, Ma stood at the door staring at their hindquarters. Two shaggy tails swished contentedly. 

George took the back way through the village. Everyone he met nodded in sympathy. Many other folks were dismantling their farms. Three hours later George led the cows into the stable behind the Helmsdale Inn. He was securing them in a stall, when he heard a rider dismount at the stable door.

“Lad, can you feed and water my horse? We've ridden far.” That voice sounded familiar. George pivoted around⸺stared at the travel-weary, dishevelled man. “Sergeant MacDonald! We've been waiting fer news of ye!”

“George Sutherland. Forgive me. I mistood you for the stable boy.”

“I dinna reckon this inn has a stable boy. I'll be glad to tend to yer mount.”

“Thank you, man.” Sergeant MacDonald slapped him on the shoulder. “I'm going inside to procure a room. When you're done, come and join me for a dram. I have much news for you.”

George settled the sergeant's steed in a stall, found water and hay—no oats available. Probably have to buy a bag inside, he thought. George did find a homespun cloth and a brush. He towelled off the lathered horse and groomed him to a shine. 

He was thrilled the sergeant had invited him for a drink—but nervous to converse in a public inn like a social equal. Finally George removed his bonnet, smoothed down his hair and brushed off his clothes. He squared his shoulders, marched to the front of the building and climbed the steps.

It was unsettling to stand on the porch where KcKid and Sellar had tried to arrest the leaders of the Kildonan resistance. With a deep breath George supressed his unease. As he opened the front door, he rubbed his hand across the unicorn engraved into the heavy oak plank. The fiercly independent unicorn who preferred death to capture—emblem of Scotland since ancient times.

In front of a wide staircase, a balding man perched on a stool behind a counter. He dipped his quill in an inkwell and started writing in a ledger book. His other hand was in his lap.

“I've brought two milk cows from John Sutherland of Kildonan,” George announced. His eyes wandered to the stairs the deputies had climbed with rifles in their hands.

The innkeeper's voice broke into George's reverie. “Ye must be young George Sutherland. Sergeant Macdonald said ye'd be in shortly.  Go sit ye in the public room and I'll bring ye a wee dram, courtesy of the esteemed Sergeant.”

George had never been in a public room. There were ten small tables crammed close together. Being mid-afternoon there were only two other customers. Judging by their handsome capes, they were travelling gentlemen of some sort. George chose a table as far from them as possible. 

Soon the innkeeper brought a small tray. He placed two glasses of whisky and a leather pouch on the table. “'Tis payment for the cows.” George nodded but his attention was distracted by the hand setting down the pouch. That hand was badly scarred and had only two fingers.

The innkeeper nodded grimly. “I was a soldier in Ireland in '98. Took the king's shilling from Seargeant MacDonald himself. Sent me home after a Paddy mangled me hand. I got off luckier than the rest of me company—dead every one.” 

“James Duncan of the Sutherland Fencibles, are ye still fighting those Fenian rogues?” Sergeant MacDonald cuffed the innkeeper on the shoulder—lowered his hefty body onto a chair next to George. He lifted one of the glasses. “To you, my friend, the best soldier I ever dispatched to Ireland.” Guzzling the contents in one gulp, he added, “Who lived to tell the tale.”

As soon as the innkeeper refilled his glass, MacDonald turned to George. “And now a toast to you, young man. The best Highlander I shall ever send off to America.”

George felt his heart soar. “Is it really happening? Has Lord Selkirk arranged a ship fer us?”

“Well, now, you have a nip of that whisky while I get these broadsheets out of my satchel.”   

Tentatively George sipped the whisky. This drink was smooth, easy to swallow—not the burning bite of his da's homebrew. He downed the rest in one gulp, feeling like an experienced soldier.  MacDonald stacked three newspapers on the table. Noticing George's empty glass, he called for a refill.

“'Tis true, young man. Lord Selkirk is negotiating with the Hudson's Bay Company to send a contingent of settlers on their next supply ship. There's much indignation in London at the moment over the way the tenant farmers of Sutherland have been treated.”

MacDonald flipped to an inside page of the first paper. “Here, young man, is the March 16th edition of The Star of London. A letter mocking the Marquis and Marchioness for their heartless evictions in Sutherlandshire.” MacDonald pointed to the letter which occupied almost an entire column. “Written by an anonymous Highlander—actually my cousin Alexander.”     

George pored over the letter. The print was small, so he moved his finger to keep to the correct line. “He calls us brave and loyal people and says 'tis a national calamity that we have been threatened with removal.” 

Macdonald chuckled. “And he concludes with the most biting irony.” He scanned to the end of the letter. “I should be glad to know what had been the fate of Russia, in the momentous struggle she is maintaining to oppose the most pugitious tyrant with which mankind has ever been visited, if instead of a brave and loyal peasantry, she had to oppose him only flocks of sheep.”  

George had no idea what a 'pugitious tyrant' was but he grinned at the sarcasm. 

The sergeant opened the next newspaper. “Without doubt the marquis and marchioness were humiliated because they pressured a friend to write a rebuttal. Then my cousin tore apart the so-called eminent naturalist's flimsy arguments.” He was just opening the third paper when a hand tore it away.

“Are you spreading those wicked lies to the treasonous savages of Kildonan?” Patrick Sellar stood there, his sneering face red with rage. Sellar glared down at Sergeant MacDonald then turned to George. “And you! I've a mind to arrest you right now for complicancy with rebels.”   

George leapt to his feet and pulled his dirk from its sheath. Sergeant MacDonald rose at the same time, placing a hand on George's arm. “Steady, man. I'll handle this.” 

MacDonald unsheathed his own dirk. “You will do no such thing, sir. This young man is a fine specimen of the best troops to ever fight for King George.” He glanced at George. “Time for you to be going. Head home over the uplands. Tell your father I'll be there tomotrrow.” 

George replaced his bonnet and swung his Sutherland plaid over his shoulder. He scowled at Sellar who had stolen his moment of joy and turned it inwards to a place where George felt only rage. 

“Yer an evil man, Mr. Sellar, and Highlanders will remember ye as such.” 

With his head held high, George marched out the door. 


Goodbye to the Garden

in ,

It was May. The sun was warming the earth.

            Jannet bent down to feel the dark earth of their garden plot, enriched with hundreds of years of cattle droppings. Sifting the loam through her fingers, she remembered how comforting the garden had felt last year in May when she planted the seed potatoes.

            An image flitted though her mind. She was a wee child tagging behind Da, while he tucked  potato eyes into the ground. She patted the soil over each piece, as Da told her stories about their farm.

            Jannet knew the stories well. This plot had sustained her ancestors with turnips and kale since ancient times when St. Donan brought the first Scots here. And her own grandfather had been the first to intoduce potatoes. Some neighbours were loathe to plant them, being supicious of all things Irish.  But they came around after hearing how delicious they were. Da always laughed at this point.

            With a sigh Jannet stood up. Her body knew the planting dance and ached to begin: dig, plant, cover, step forward, repeat. This year there was no point―they would be gone in a few weeks. Only weeds would grow here now.

            She straightened her back and strode across the soft earth onto the rocky path.

Embracing Eighty

in ,

 

            Too often, people in my demographic bemoan an approaching birthday as further evidence that we are 'over the hill'. I know I am an annoyingly cheerful optimist, but really? Isn't each additional year something to celebrate, proof we are still here, still witness to the fascinating drama of existence?

            I have long passed the seventy-year milestone, which many people view as the tipping point into frail old age. Too often, the news commentator assumes a soft, patronizing tone to describe an elderly person who has had some mishap. Then the report reveals that the person is seventy-two years old. What! I think, seventy two isn't elderly. Well, it better not be, since I am now seventy-eight!

            Last year, I began a project called Embracing Eighty. I promised to sample eighty new activities outside my comfort zone before reaching that venerable age. I had a few items in mind, but I did not have a prescribed list. I left my options open to physical, intellectual or psychological challenges. I figured opportunities would arise and my goal, publicly announced on Facebook, would motivate me to embrace them.

            Steering a stand-up paddleboard was an early undertaking. My son-in-law, Sean, offered a lesson on a sheltered lake near Victoria. How hard can it be? It's just a flat plank sitting on calm water. I was so confident, I ignored his instructions. I climbed aboard and started to paddle. Whoa! It felt so tippy, I tensed every muscle to keep balanced, including core muscles I didn't know I had.

            Over-confidence subdued, I followed Sean across Thetis Lake to a secluded nook aglow with water lilies. It was smooth sailing while I kept my eyes rivetted to the tip of the board. At our destination I glanced at the glorious lilies. In a heartbeat, I found myself deep underwater. When Sean turned to speak to me, he saw the board and the paddle but no Nanna. In the watery depths he spied a turquoise circle slowly rising—my sunhat. Under it I was giggling as hard as I could without access to oxygen. Luckily, Thetis Lake is very warm in June. I clambered aboard with no damage done, except to my dignity. I learned not to prejudge the ease of a new activity.

            Fast forward past many experiences: scrambling through the caves at Horne Lake Provincial Park, sitting inside a Triceratops skull, learning several methods of firing glass, riding a dogsled through northern tundra, etc. My family cheered me on and I was having fun.

            When the pandemic closed attractions I was planning to try, my twelve-year-old grandson stepped up to keep the Embracing Eighty momentum alive. He offered to use his guest pass to lead me through the adventure courses at WildPlay, which had never been on my list of potential activities. Located in a forest, it was still open.

            “It's really easy, Nanna, and I'll help you!”   

            What could I say with that eager, freckled face smiling at me. “Uhhh...I'm scared of zip lines...okay...I'll try the easiest level.” 

            I completed the beginner circuit with flying colours. On to intermediate, where the challenges moved higher in the trees. My daughter's video recorded my grandson demonstrating each step while Nanna expended every ounce of strength to traverse the rope bridges between platforms. Turns out the zip lines were the easiest part of the course.

            I reached the end of intermediate level, out of breath, but still...it counted. The employee supervising our safety confided that his mother, twenty years younger than me, had needed a rescue halfway through intermediate. My Embracing Eighty project impressed him. “This is number thirty,” I boasted.

            Fueled with over-confidence, I climbed behind my grandson to the highest scaffold. The swinging and balancing acts between platforms became more demanding. Midway through the difficult course, my legs started wobbling, no strength left.

            “I don't like this!” I cried.

            “Do you want to be rescued?” shouted the supervisor from forty feet below.

            “No, I'll tough it out.” My grandson was calling encouragement from the landing ahead and  I didn't want to fail in full view of a twelve-year-old. A few rubbery steps further, my arms gave out and I collapsed miserably on the thin bar beneath my feet.

            “I want to be rescued.”

            The young man scooted up the ladder, across the cable and buckled me into a harness. “Consider this number thirty one,” he chuckled as he lowered me to the ground. With his blessing I experienced the rescue itself as another adventure.

            In retrospect I realize I did not fail the WildPlay challenge. I pushed myself to my limit, which was a feat to celebrate. The comments on Facebook proved I challenged expectations for my age group: “OMG, you're going to kill yourself!” and “The video was too scary to watch.” In fact it was totally safe. Each participant is tethered to a cable above. You may lose your footing but you will never fall. I temporarily forgot this safety feature when I faced my next WildPlay adventure.

            I was wondering what to do for number forty [the half-way point] when I got a telephone invitation from WildPlay: a free bungee jump 150 feet into the Nanaimo River canyon. My astonished mind raced. Absolutely not! Only crazy people launch themselves into an abyss upside down...on the other hand, it's free. After some discussion I agreed to the Primal Swing⸺basically a bungee jump where you and a partner sit upright, harnessed together. My daughter, equally afraid of heights, agreed to share the ride.

            With the doomsday date set, I did some research on their website. The free-fall looked terrifying with speeds of 140 kph. I lost a night's sleep to nightmares. My rational brain reframed a more positive outlook, so that on the drive to Nanaimo I was breathing normally. The admissions desk expected me—an old lady doing eighty new things.

             I trudged up the stairs to the narrow footbridge. Squeezing past the shirtless, tattooed young men waiting to bungee jump, I felt really old. That thought immediately morphed to: What am I doing here? Am I out of my mind? My daughter and I huddled together.

            Two cheerful employees spread harnesses for us to step into. My body went into high alert,  muscles tense, heart drumming, Then they said, “Wriggle forward and let your legs dangle over the edge.” I stopped breathing. The video showed my mouth open in a silent scream, but it was too late.

            We were in free-fall, rushing through air. My brain was too numb to feel fear. In the next instant our rope fully extended and we began a graceful pendulum swing deep within the canyon walls. I breathed again; in fact I laughed. My daughter and I congratulated ourselves. Easy-peasy! Lots of fun!

            Now I know there is nothing remotely dangerous about the Primal Swing—no opportunity to strain, stretch, or wrench any body parts. My friends still applaud my courage, swearing they could never do that. Really, it didn't require courage; it required embracing new assumptions on appropriate activities for my age.

            I think I'll go again and share the ride with my grandson.