By BOB FOULKES

Airplanes are frenetic, providing me a few hours of inflight sanctuary after running the gauntlets of check in and security. Travel by auto has its own anxiety; there are too many cars and trucks hurtling past me as I navigate to my destination. Both are deadline driven; I am anxious and uncertain, running a gauntlet to meet tight schedules.

A train trip is  a mini-vacation, providing a convenient option for getting where I want to go and going off-line for four days. The train provides a warm cozy cocoon to read, write, think, dream, sleep or just stare out the window. I get on, I settle in; I leave the details to someone else. I am safe, secure, responsible for nothing and off the grid.

The mighty engine is an EMD F40PH, a 4-axle 3,200 hp, 16-cylinder diesel-electric locomotive intended for passenger service, built from 1976 until 1992. It has a top speed of 103 mph (166 km/h). Its nickname is "Screaming Thunderbox".

The train trip from Toronto to Vancouver covers 4,466 kilometres and takes four nights and more than three days. In mid winter, a berth costs about $1,000 including meals and access to the dome and the club car. There is also a range of private rooms.

The observation dome provides stunning views of the passing scene. It sits above the Club Car.

It is a chance to cast off the electronic chains that constrict my life, no TV news channel yelling at me, no email marked urgent, no wi-fi to connect me instantly to someone else’s problems. While trains in the Montreal/Ottawa/Toronto corridor offer wireless, on the Canadian, travelling across Canada I have nothing. I cast off the tools of my enslavement and store all my electronics.

I board the train in Toronto at 10 p.m., find my car, locate my berth — already made up into a bed — and get settled with my bags. I do my own orientation tour. The train comes with all the comforts – my new home is a lower berth, a full-length bed curtained for privacy that turns into seats by day. Each car has a large shared washroom with toilet and sink, a separate shared shower room, all tight but manageable.

The whole car is incredibly clean. My porter, Kevin helps me navigate my new home. The club car with a glassed dome is at the end of the train, then several sleeper cars are connected by narrow corridors to the dining car where we enjoy sit-down meals on starched tablecloths, with full silver, decent glassware and remarkably good food. Reassured that all is well and I know the layout, I settle in for my first night’s sleep on my train. I drift off watching the ever-changing kaleidescope of lights pass my window while I try to hum through my personal anthology of rail-related songs; Gordon Lightfoot, Paul Simon, Willie Nelson top the charts.

The view from the dome: breathtaking. Below: The club car, seldom this empty, is a meeting place for passengers.

It’s winter, yet surprisingly our group of cross country travelers is dominated by Brits on a tour. I would have never suspected that train travel across Canada in winter would be a vacation activity, yet the Canadian is on most top train tour lists. I am delighted by their presence; it gives me a greater sense of the scope, majesty and untamed vastness of my country through their wide eyed wonder. One couple at breakfast as we cross northern Ontario comment; “This is awesome and it’s such endless wilderness, does no one live here?” I try to describe Canada’s north and fail miserably. We see a coyote, they call it a wolf. We see a fox, and they express a high hope for seeing moose. They sight something, I hasten to point out that brown cows aren’t that rare in this part of the country.

I refuse to confirm that many of us still live in igloos, but being a bit naughty, I don’t deny it either. I prefer to save that joke for Americans who, I decided long ago, should know better. My new British friends are awestruck to see so much land untouched, unowned, uncultivated and uncivilized.

Because we are all together on this short voyage we talk, the casual yet intimate chat of folks who know they’ll never see each other again. Each meal offers new companions; new people to share insights, ask and answer questions, communicate in the good old fashioned way, face to face.

By day, passenger seats provide an outside view, or a chance to look inward.

The conviviality of meals contrasts with the pleasant opportunity for isolation. I read, I stare out the window, I shoot a few pictures, I write some random notes, I think and I let my mind wander across the ever-changing exterior landscape.

The endless tracts of northern Ontario remind me of the vastness of Canada, how sparse and citified we have become. Trappers and harvesters have joined the great cube farms found in every downtown office.

At night, the seats transform into a cosy bed.

We arrive in Jasper in mid-afternoon near the end of our trip. Our Brits jump off and are replaced by Japanese tourists, loaded with the all important mementos and chachkas that the folks back home eagerly await. Because trains were integral to the development of tourism in the Canadian Rockies, the train station runs parallel to Main Street.

After Jasper, I get a few hours to view the magnificent Rockies, the trip’s wonder of wonders. We sit in the bubble-car, wide-eyed at the vistas, until darkness takes over. Finally, we climb into our sleepers and awake in time for a trip down the Fraser River valley and on to the extensive delta that has become Vancouver and its sister cities.

I arrive home, rested and refreshed.

In early morning, we arrive in Vancouver on time. I am refreshed, relaxed and renewed; I’m also happy to get off; too much introspection is uncomfortable. There has been no epiphany, but I’ve had a brief sojourn away from the daily treadmill. I have again been reminded how big my Canada is, and how blessed I am to live in such a breathtaking country. I’ve kicked my electronic habit for a few days and engaged in warm direct human interactions.

It’s a trip that is cheap at twice the price.

Took a look down a west bound road,
Right away I made my choice;
Headed out to my big two wheeler-
I was tired of my own voice.
Took a bead on the Northern plains
And just rolled that power on…

Bob Seger, Roll Me Away

 By JOHN SKINNER

The bear was scrawny and probably pretty cranky. It was early spring in the valley and the critter had most likely just emerged from hibernation. The bear was maybe a year or two old, and likely still with its mother, who was disturbingly not in sight.

The bear emerged from the woods 100 yards – and closing – from my onrushing Kawasaki and sat in the middle of the car-free stretch, looking alertly — he might have been grinning — in my direction.

Uh, oh. I’m prey.

I made myself big, shifted into neutral, revved the engine to a red-line roar and hit the horn. The bear saw a freakishly large and horrific monster with a huge black bug head and armoured thorax barrelling in its direction, shrieking like the ursine angel of death.

Or so I hoped.

The smarter-than-the-average-bear (I have come to think of him as Yogi, sitting on his haunches with his paws at his chest, just like a practitioner of the ancient art. Or a baseball catcher) looked quickly from side to side, found the odds not to its liking and bailed into the bush. I tore by and didn’t stop for an hour. A whole lotta nature, as a late friend of mine was fond of saying. Up close, minus the steel and glass protection of the car.

I was on Highway 7 just west of the small city of Hope, British Columbia, returning from an upcountry ramble of 1,200 kilometres on both sides of the Canada-U.S. border past a whole lotta nature of the more placid variety – deer, mountain sheep and goats and a couple of coyotes. And endless vistas of forest, canyon, lake, river and farm.

A whole lotta human nature

He was an average-looking, middle-aged dude, with the beginnings of a pot belly lending some geography to his Dockers and Hawaiian shirt. Topsiders on his feet. A real straightarrow, lizarding in the sun at a table outside Starbucks, grande coffee in hand. Just another local guy enjoying a glorious summer Sunday afternoon gazing at the mountains surrounding Squamish, B.C., “the outdoor capital of Canada.”

“Mind if I sit here?” I said, pointing at the only empty chair.

“Help yourself,” he smiled, gesturing. “Nice bike you got there. Great day for a ride.” We chatted about the weather and sports. His cellphone rang.

“Yeah,” he said, and listened for a few seconds. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.” Turning to me as he walked away: “Have a good one.”

He strolled over to a black Harley-Davidson Road King, unlocked a hard bag and pulled out leather chaps, biker boots and a black jacket with a death’s head logo and the words “Hells Angels British Columbia” across the back. And roared off to who-knows-where. Weeks later, I recognized him in a newspaper photo after he had been charged with various criminal offences. Some months after that, he walked on all counts. Just another average guy you meet on the road.

A whole lotta cruel nature

The two-lane, lightly travelled blacktop in the British Columbia Interior was bordered, as so many of those roads are, by a river. It was spring and the river was bouncing and billowing with snowmelt from the mountains, a rushing, roaring torrent of whitewater funnelled into a narrow channel that, by later in the summer, would become a lot more placid. I stopped for a look and a listen. Flotsam was everywhere, logs, sticks . . . and a deer, eyes large with terror, being swept along in the current. The deer was working hard to keep its head above water, but it was flailing out of control. In an instant it disappeared around a bend. I hoped it could find a place to climb out, but I wasn’t optimistic.

And a whole lotta scary nature

The sun was bedding down under a blanket of dark clouds. The temperature was dropping. I was most of the way to my day’s destination when the hail started. Big as marbles, bouncing harmlessly off helmet and armoured Rocket jacket, but creating treachery where the rubber met the road. Slowwwly, now. After a couple of small but ominous skids, I rolled gingerly to the shoulder (it looked like this) where there was no shelter, but little danger of skidding to my death under a truck. The hail stopped about 20 minutes later. Soaking and cold, I rode the remaining few miles into Merritt, B.C., found a motel room and poured a shot of single malt from my travel flask. The only good view of a hailstorm is in your rearview mirror.

The Zen of it

“Travelling in a car is too much like watching television,” writes Darwin Holmstrom in The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Motorcycles, “I feel as if I’m viewing my surroundings through the end of a glass tube. When I’m on a bike, I feel as though I’m actually there, experiencing the world. Not only do I see my surroundings, but I feel them, smell them, taste them. I feel part of something larger, something complete instead of feeling like an uninterested voyeur.”

Or, as the legendary motorcycle philosopher Anon put it: Only a biker fully understands why a dog sticks its head out of a car window.

So why not give it a try?

The venerable Honda 50.

Maybe you find the idea a little scary. So did I: My lifetime motorized cycle experience amounted to a couple of weeks puttering around some traffic-free backroads in northern Ontario on a Honda 50 (a one-cylinder, 49-cc putt-putt slightly more powerful than an electric bicycle) when I was an unlicensed 15-year-old. And 40 years later, here I was, considering hopping on a four-cylinder 750-cc monster and riding in traffic. So I enrolled in a motorcycle safety course run by the British Columbia Safety Council (which, sadly, no longer exists) and six weeks later I was up and running with my learner’s permit. The rest is just putting in the miles.

So if you’re new to this, or if you haven’t sat on a motorcycle since you were a testosterone-twisted teenager, take a course. There are any number available, either privately or through a provincial or state  agency. Any bike shop can point you in the right direction.

Reduced to its essentials, riding a motorcycle is about risk and reward. Done right, the risk is minimal and the reward, on a good day, is off the scale. Even in — or, more precisely, after — a hailstorm. And there’s a bonus: at your age, you’re safer. Grey-haired riders don’t get that way from pure luck.

Between 2006 and 2010, the number of over-50 male motorcyclists in British Columbia increased from 22,130 to 33,020 — a 49.2 per cent jump, according to the Insurance Corporation of B.C. The 30-49 group increased by only eight per cent to 29,830 and the under-30s on bikes went up 11 per cent to 7,450. There are more of us and our lead is increasing.

In 2010, under-30 male riders had an average of one crash for every 17 riders. The 30-49 group had one crash for every 40 riders and our guys had one for every 56 riders. In 2009 it was: under 30, one crash per 16 riders; 30-49, one per 33; 50 and over, one per 52 riders. Older, wiser, safer. There’s no reason to think other provinces and states haven’t seen a similar trend.

 Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, ‘Wow! What a ride!’

Hunter S. Thompson

 We don’t all want to experience the excesses of the late Dr. T, but for the less lunatic among us, the motorcycle experience can be dialed down to a more serene ride not completely lacking in thrills, planned or otherwise. For bad boys who observe the speed limit, there’s little to compare with the wide, sweeping curve of a hinterland highway with smooth pavement, light traffic and a 20-mile view down a valley cloaked in a million hues of green and washed by a foaming river. There’s little to compare to the heart-stopping moment you come a bit too close to edge and twist free of trouble. The former can be frequent, the latter rare — if you pay attention. Risk and reward can be set in balance. We can all get a taste of Dr. Thompson’s rush without pushing past the fine line between thrill and disaster.

“Motorcycling forces riders to transcend their egos — to empty themselves and exist in the world around them,” Holmstrom writes. “When you’re out in the world on a bike, you must be completely in the moment, completely aware of your surroundings, or you may find yourself meeting your concept of God earlier than you might have hoped.”

Plus, it’s a lot of fun.

And the things you see . . . .

Websites

There are zillions of motorcycle Websites. Some of my favourites:

The Complete Idiot’s Guide  Mostly about cars, but has some good motorcycle articles.

Destination Highways  A great guide to the best motorcycle roads in British Columbia, Washington, and Northern California. A Southern California edition is in the works.

Adventure Rider: Click on Forum for fascinating stuff from all over. Good photos, too.

AND WHATEVER YOU DO, watch this video.

I’ve always had a little pang of envy when I go past the coffee shop in the morning and see the parking lot filled with construction guys’ pickup trucks. Even in the winter they sit around the outdoor picnic tables and lean against their vehicles in easy conversation, steam rising from the heavy ceramic cups. It looks so damn collegial.

Then, recently, I had occasion to need to change a 40-amp breaker on my main electrical panel — it kept tripping, leaving the hot tub cold.

For some inexplicable reason I thought, “I could change that out myself.”

This was a very dangerous thought.

Not that I don’t have some years of experience with construction-related matters having built a house, renovated an early-1900s log home and more recently a place in the desert. My wife is in fact somewhat in awe of my handyman prowess, as I’ve heard her quietly refer to me, with what I believe is a certain amount of pride, as a “one-tool Wonder,”  which is to say I seem to be able to fix just about anything with the telephone.

After all these years of construction experience I have learned to recognize a dangerous idea, so I resisted the urge to simply pop off the panel and start poking around with a screwdriver. Instead I called my friend Murray of the Many Tools and asked him to come and supervise my efforts.

In short order we — well, Murray — had the faulty breaker out and I was informed that we were dealing with a 240-volt 40-amp GFCI stab-point breaker that cost somewhere in excess of $200.

Off I went first thing the next morning to the building supply store and, lined up outside, were a dozen construction-guy pickup trucks — the guys all loading up with supplies for the day.

The place had the kind of comfortable atmosphere I imagine one of those old country general stores would have had. Free coffee from the pot on the counter, the guys kibitzing, the smell of cut lumber and roofing tar.

“What can I help you with, young feller?”

Apparently irony is much appreciated in these environs.

“Well,” I said in my deepest voice, “I’m gonna need a 40 amp stab-point GFCI breaker for the panel I’m workin’ on.”

“They ain’t cheap ya know.”

“Nope, somewhere north of $200 I guess eh?”

“Yup. The old one wear out?”

[Geez. I had no idea these things could wear out. Was this a trick question to flush out an amateur?]

“Well the old one’s been in there over 10 years and its trippin’ for no good reason.” [Pretty quick eh?]

“Yeah, well you get 10 years out a anything nowadays and you done good! How long you been married?” Har, har, har.

Whew!

“What’s your name?”

“Al.”

“Okay Al, gonna have to order it in, be here tomorrow. Call me, ask for Raz. Get a coffee, I’ll write this up for ya.”

I poured a coffee, leaned on the counter, soaked in the early morning bonhommie feeling very pleased indeed to be part of it all, thinking, “A guy could do more of this handyman thing.’

When I go back tomorrow I’m going to borrow Murray’s pickup and stop in at the coffee shop on the way. “Yeah, just goin’ up to see Raz — gotta pick up a 40 amp GFCI stab-point breaker for a 240 volt panel I’m workin’ on.”

In his previous life, Al Wiggan was a serial entrepreneur, starting or buying, building and selling a number of businesses mainly involved in advertising, graphic design or public relations. His current life on Salt Spring Island with his wife of 40+ years features fishing, boats, binge reading and unpredictable golf.

By BOB FOULKES

I like adventures because they take me out of my comfort zone, and they force me into a challenge that mixes fear with hope.

My latest adventure is an eight-day trek called the Tour de Mont Blanc, an iconic 135-km trail through France, Italy and Switzerland around the Mont Blanc massif of glaciers, valleys and villages. Mont Blanc, at 4,810 metres, dominates the Haute Savoie region. Fortunately, we are not required to climb Mont Blanc only to circle it, with the highest traverse at 2,537 metres.

I like GAP  trips; they are well organized with good leaders, I meet interesting people and get good value. I booked my flight to Paris and train to Chamonix, then got down to the business of getting fit.

For me, training for these adventures works only if I choose an adventure that involves fear. Fear is a powerful motivator.  ‘Train or die’ works for me every time.

Preparing for an adventure is about honoring the challenge. It is more fun to do any trek with relative ease than to slog it out, head downcast, legs burning, hoping for the end. Training allows me to enjoy the moment, cherish the scenery and relax with the group. So I stayed in Vancouver for the summer. I hiked the Grouse Grind (a 90-minute stairmaster climb up 853 metres of Grouse Mountain) a dozen times, I charged around the city on foot, I went to yoga and I carried my knapsack to get used to the extra weight.

This trip does not require a big pack; we are travelling hut-to-hut — no tents, no sleeping bags, just rain gear, minimal personal grooming aids and enough clothes to last without offending others. I bought some walking poles — guaranteed to make me as agile as a mountain goat.

We meet in Chamonix the night before at the orientation meeting. We are nine: six women and three men. Our leader is Jose Miguel. He is Spanish; he has done this circuit five times this year and he gives solid no-nonsense advice, mostly about keeping our packs light.

The group is young, fit, wonderfully diverse and looks to be full of fun. Gary and Kate, recently married, are our only couple. Both were born in eastern Europe, grew up in New York and have recently moved to Canada. Chris is about 50, she is here visiting one of her children and decided to join a hike. She is a powerful hiker. Michael is a PhD auto engineer/designer and a serious hiker from Germany. He’ s my roommate and has brought ear plugs — smart man.

Kate No. 2 is from Washington D.C. a PhD economist with an adventurous streak. Charlotte is a financial planning analyst from San Francisco who signed up for the hike just two weeks earlier. Helen is from Vancouver and just finished qualifying for the Boston marathon. Lisa is an Ontario police officer with a ready smile and a great laugh. I’m the eldest by 25 to 30 years. I claim the back of the pack.

The weather is expected to be unsettled, a reminder that weather becomes crucial in such adventures. I have a new waterproof and windproof French jacket and a toque and mittens just in case.

DAY 1  starts in Chamonix and heads south around the Mont Blanc massif. In this leg, we cross many ridges coming off the Mont Blanc range. It takes us up and over cols into several valleys across the western and southern end of the ellipse; we end in Courmayeur, the Italian terminus of the 15-km Mont Blanc tunnel.

Our first day is my test, starting with a tough climb of about 600 metres. I struggle; whether from jet lag, elevation or anxiety, it is the toughest part of the hike. The weather isn’t very accommodating: clouds, drizzle, and a downpour at the end of the day.

The author tries to figure out which way to go.

We stop in a village for a double espresso, track an ancient Roman road, cross a 2,000-year-old Roman bridge and reach our first refuge. Our reward is a hot shower, a bunk bed, and a tasty, restorative three course meal.

DAY 2 includes a 1,000-metre uphill hike over 14 kilometres to the col du Croix du Bonhomme before lunch. The weather clears on our descent, a relative lark and we have a great evening in les Chapieux, which consists of  10 buildings, one of them a cheese shop. Welcome to France.

DAY 3 is a hiker’s dream. Clear and crisp, we summit the 2,580-metre col de Seigne, by noon. This col, the gateway to Courmayeur, offers an amazing vista of the Mont Blanc range, the southern valley, and the Matterhorn off in the distance, a view for the most amazing lunch imaginable. A long downhill hike, a bus ride into Courmayeur and the first leg is over. I am still upright, smiling and in full control of my bodily functions. In my running career, two out of those three was okay; today I can claim all three.

We are tired, happy, full of joie de vivre and in the company of fellow travellers who don’t need an explanation for why we do this. We all know. Dinner at the pension is superb: pasta, salad and veal meatballs.

Courmayeur, in the shadow of Mont Blanc.

DAY 4 is a break, we relax and explore Courmayeur, a fashionable Italian ski town — trendy, stylish, laid back, even more than the French, even if things don’t run on time.

DAY 5: We start the second leg of our journey, a two-hour, 800-metre climb ending with a lunch break and a panoramic view of the Mont Blanc massif. Weather is ideal, sunny with a few clouds.

After lunch we traverse the south side of the valley — when you gain elevation, you don’t give it up. Rifugio Bonatti is a true oasis in the middle of the mountainous nowhere, owned by Walter Bonatti, a famous alpinist, adventurer, author and photographer. We have slippers in the boot room, a separate room for our group, a dining room with a bar and a cappuccino machine and showers with hot water. This is my kind of hiking. Dinner is superb; whether it is the mountain air, the strenuous hikes or the accomplished chefs, we eat like champions.

Lisa and Michael are the most energetic members of our group, usually first in line. Today, Lisa is in the lead but, as they approach the rifugio, Michael seems to be catching up to her. Unbeknownst to him, Lisa considered this to be a race. As she later described it to me: “He was catching up so I decided to run for a while. Michael, mystified, resists the temptation to run too. He has lost a race he never entered.

I am incredulous; “You ran?”

“Oh yeah. Besides, I needed to get my heart rate up for a while, so it was good for me.”

These are the kind of people I’m hiking with.

At the rifugio: tasty meals, hot showers.

If you’ve done back-country hiking, you know that simple pleasures are just that. You can go five or six days with no showers, tents have to be carried, are cramped and usually wet. Toilets are non-existent and food is lightweight and non-perishable — flavor is not a consideration in planning the menu. Everything carried in is carried out. I’ve known folks who’ve cut the ends off their toothbrushes to save an ounce on a backpacking trip.

But this trip is more civilized. Breakfast at our refuge is hot coffee, bread, jam, Nutella. Croissants and yogurt are commonplace. We buy lunch or eat at a refuge along the way. Dinners at the refuges are nutritious and tasty.

We are consuming 10 times our daily requirement of cheese. The only thing not topped with cheese is the cheese course. The chocolate is the best in the world. This is hiking that I’m liking.

DAY 6: We cross into Switzerland at the col de Fours and begin a major descent into Val Ferret, ending at our refuge at Champex. Jose suggests a diversion, a tough climb across a high mountain pass with  a great view of two valleys. We are going to hike our butts off for a great view? I vote yes to make the decision unanimous, but with trepidation.

I have been dumping stuff out of my knapsack at an alarming rate. Every time Jose scares me, I try to lighten my load. I may make it to Chamonix with an empty pack. This night upon hearing of our small optional route change, I dump some more; an extra pair of socks, a T-shirt and a flashlight.

Our hike through the Fenetre d’Arpette, requires a climb of 1,200 metres to the summit at 2,665. My legs are spaghetti long after the al dente had been cooked out of them, but I must admit, the view at the top is indescribable. We are on top of the world. A powerful sense of accomplishment and wonder reward my summit effort. The hike is always worth it.

At the end, a team picture.

On the last day, we whip through a 950-metre climb out of Switzerland and back into France, down to the local bus depot, have a quick celebratory lunch and head for Chamonix. The hike is officially over. Elated and sad, we conclude with a celebratory dinner. Cheese fondue, of course.

My hiking boots have climbed their last mountain. I’ll speak well of them as they hit the dumpster floor. Like Chamonix and the tour de Mont Blanc, they were full of great memories.

In eight days we hiked 120 km, climbed at least a kilometre of elevation every day and wandered in and out of three countries. I made it and, more importantly, I had the time of my life.

Adventures fulfill my need to explore, test my limits, challenge myself and engage with strangers. This was a great adventure.

Bob Foulkes is a business consultant and writer with extensive experience handling business, energy policy, government, politics and media issues as an executive with major Canadian energy companies and as an independent consultant. He served on the staff of several federal cabinet ministers. He has several degrees including a MSc in Management from the Sloan School at MIT. He has run a number of marathons, many triathlons and now road-bikes for fun. His first book, Adventures with Knives  chronicles his six-month chef’s training program at Vancouver’s Pacific Institute of Culinary Arts, where he was judged best graduating student in the culinary program.

By CAT WHEELER

In contemporary western culture we can talk about anything. Sex, drugs, sex on the rug with drugs, PMS, bizarre fantasies, snoring … anything goes. Except that last taboo, the subject most people decline to acknowledge at all: our own mortality.

Death is the last taboo in our culture. Most people don’t want to think about it, talk about it or prepare for it. But popping our clogs, falling off the perch, passing over or whatever you call it at your house, death is not optional. Fenced into a dark corner of our daily lives, we decline to engage it. So when it slips through that fence and manifests in our lives we have no tools, no terms of reference to deal with it.

One day it comes and sits beside us and will not go away. We have to acknowledge it then, and learn to walk with it.

Is it my imagination or does my little expat community in the Indonesian island of Bali have an unusually high mortality rate? I’ve lost count of the friends and acquaintances who’ve checked out on my shift, mostly from cancer. I’ve shared that journey with some of them over the years, trying to provide whatever they needed — talking, listening, cooking, giving Reiki sessions or just holding the space for them.

Then, less than a year ago, my younger sister was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Some people do well with the major surgery that’s sometimes offered for this illness, and win years of good-quality life from it. Robin was not one of the lucky ones. Since the surgery in April she’d been in constant pain and unable to eat. I went to Canada in winter for the first time in more than two decades and spent a few days with Robin in her forest house on the B.C. coast before the whole family traveled up from the city for the holiday.

On Christmas Day Robin collapsed and we rushed her to the local hospital. She had a life-threatening infection and was evacuated by air immediately to the main hospital in the city. We followed by ferry the next day. The next two days in the Step-Down Unit were tense; nurses poured platelets and antibiotics into her veins until she was strong enough to have a life-saving procedure. Beth, my other sister, and I stayed with Robin constantly and over those two long nights she grew increasingly weak; we thought we would lose her then.

After the procedure she was moved to another room on the noisy, busy surgical floor. A constant stream of doctors, nurses and technicians interrupted her rest to poke more needles into her. Doctors began to talk about moving her to the Palliative Care Unit, but she resisted. The words palliative care bring dread to most patients and their families. This is the end of the line, no more pretending that things might change for the better, that there still might be a happy ending. Coming to terms with a move to the PCU means a major shift in our thinking.

But when Robin did agree to go, we found the best-kept secret in the hospital. Rather than being a place of darkness, the PCU was a wonderful haven of quiet and compassion. The rooms were private and bright. Patients were not bothered every four hours for their vital signs any more; as long as they had some, no one cared what the numbers were. Blood tests became infrequent. Whenever possible, IV lines were removed. The nurses had time to sit and chat.

Ironically, there’s a lot of competition to work on this floor “because there is so much love here,” as one nurse told me. The bottom line in the PCU was keeping patients comfortable, and that meant all the morphine they needed, whenever they asked for it. Visitors were welcome 24/7 and if they brought well-behaved pets and a bottle of wine, so much the better.

Beth and I took turns staying in Robin’s room with her, sleeping on a cot by her side, trying to tempt her to eat, talking quietly in the middle of dark night, sharing tears and laughter, holding the space. As two weeks went by we filled the room with books and flowers and food and our own energy. It became a sanctuary within a sanctuary, a place of deep intimacy.

There was a lot of turnover on that floor, of course, and when we heard the gurneys pass the door to pick up the shells of people who no longer needed them, we made dark jokes. It helped.

There were nights when Robin spent hours kneeling beside the bed with her head on the mattress because it was the only position that offered relief from the pain. I would go to the nursing station to ask for more morphine for her, and the nurse would give me a hard, brief hug before going off to fill up the syringe. It is so hard to watch a loved one suffer, and I talked to people on that floor who had been nursing their husbands and wives for two or three years. How do they do it? After three weeks Beth and I were physically and emotionally exhausted.

The PCU was the place between – a safe, respectful, comfortable place of transition where patients and their families and friends could come to terms with their new reality. It made me think how ironic is was that people had to get this sick to escape from the noise and chaos of the rest of the hospital and come to this peaceful haven, this secret floor that no one knew about unless they had a loved one there.

And it made me think of how we save things up, put things aside for later, thinking that there will always be plenty of time. As John Lennon observed, life is what happens when we’re making other plans. The last few weeks have been a lesson in cherishing. Treasure your health and your loved ones. Time is precious. We should hug people often and tell them we love them, spend our love instead of saving it. Love earns a lot more interest when it’s out in the world.

Robin has been transferred to a hospice in her town of Sechelt now where she is tenderly cared for by nurses who have often walked with death. Beth and I are with her every day. This journey is not over. But we have learned to cherish every step of it.

Cat Wheeler is a Canadian writer who lives in Bali, Indonesia.

This is the first of an occasional series of offbeat, yet simple, recipes for your dining pleasure. It is written by offbeat, yet decidedly not simple, food and drink aficionado  Zahid Makhdoom, a bon vivant with a social conscience who lives in Vancouver.

An evening of camaraderie: some humble suggestions

Chef Zahid: "When a need is felt to see or to hug a friend or a loved one, we must bribe them with our thoughtfulness, with food being the most palatable expression of thought."

Inviting friends and loved ones to engage in a protracted evening of sharing is to me as inspirational as reading a fine couplet from Rumi or visualizing Omar Khayyam in a state of delirium pouring a glass of wine.

The mere smell of the ones we crave to have around us is magical. Truth must be told, when a need is felt to see or to hug a friend or a loved one, we must bribe them with our thoughtfulness, with food being the most palatable expression of thought.

It’s logical to infer that when a friend accepts an invitation, they do so, notwithstanding the myriad other opportunities for a fun evening, purely on the grounds that they desire your nearness and fellowship as well. I always get surprised when visitors tend to observe the strange yet thoughtful custom of bringing along some sort of “host gift”; they do not seem to realize there is no better present than the proximity of their being and the accessibility to their wisdom.

Humanity tends to follow celestial signs, such as the sighting of the moon or a star, to herald a coming event. A simple human like myself who has yet to fully appreciate and discover and love what’s around me, seeking celestial signs is far down the list. In my books, arrival of beloved friends heralds the beginning of festivities. For I consider organizing a soiree at my home as a labour of love in pursuit of togetherness.

Hence, assembling few canapés won’t do. We need an evening of togetherness to prolong slowly to get etched in your memories.

So here are the two startup items. In subsequent instalments, I shall recommend two, maybe three, main courses and a couple of desserts. If live in an apartment like I do with kitchen part of your living space, you may consider preparing the first starter in the presence of your friends.

The only prep is to wash and cut pear into thin lateral slices; other items listed below handily available. After getting hugs from your generous friends and supplying them with the drink of your choice, you can present them with an assortment of nibblies such as a variety of olives, cheeses, cold cuts, smoked salmon, dried fruits, etc. that you have already prepared.

Now you are set to start working on Starter #1.

 Zahid’s Almost Decadent Baked Brie

PROVISIONS

• Double Cream Brie: One round (preferably triple cream if you are an adventurous person with clean arteries; size depending upon the number of people being served)
• Pear: one (if you choose a larger size of Brie, a couple of pears wouldn’t hurt).
• Walnut halves : Half a cup (depending on the size of the Brie round).
• Brown sugar: Half a cup.
• Mango juice or Orange juice: One cup
• Grapeseed oil: One tablespoon
• Cinnamon powder: One teaspoon.
• Liqueur such as Cointreau or Triple Sec: Half an ounce (for a larger version try an ounce)
• Nice old rum like Pyrat or Havana Club seven years old – Two to four ounces
• A loaf of baguette or walnut bread.

PREPARATION

1. Put on some music. Since the dominant theme of this soiree is South Asian fusion, you may try some musical fusion gems such as Ragas and Sagas, a musical collaboration between the tenor saxophone great Jan Garbarek and Ustad Fateh Ali Khan, or collaborations between Shujaat Hussain Khan & Kayhan Kalhour, Ry Cooder and VM Bhatt, Taj Mahal & VM Bhatt, or some material from Yo-Yo Ma’s remarkable work on his Silk Route Music project, or music from Shakti (John McLaughlin, Zakir Hussain et.al). If South Indian music is not your thing, try non-intrusive smooth jazz such as Miles Davis, Gato Barbieri, Cassandra Wilson or Dianna Krall. If you like Western classical composers, try Bach’s French Suites preferably the one played by Andrass Schiff or the great Glen Gould,. Since I have learned to stream music from my computer into my amp, I always make up a playlist for the evening inspired by the personalities and musical choices of my friends coming over, well that’s the reason I have sometimes included the somewhat intrusive, but hugely pleasant, tracks from the likes of The Who, The Cure, Pink Floyd or even Eminem, Snoop Dogg or Black Eyed Peas.

2. In a ceramic dish slightly larger than the Brie round (for a smaller Brie round of 125g you may find a ceramic ramiken dish useful) spread about a teaspoonful of brown sugar, unwrap Brie and place it in the dish. Take a few walnuts and shove them into the Brie, wiggling these slightly to make room for some brown sugar: use about a teaspoon of it now to spread over cheese. Leave the dish in your fridge until you are ready to bake.

3. Pour yourself a couple of ounces of rum, take a small sip marvel at its taste, appreciate the fact that your friends so incredibly beautiful, and then get to work (you may become error-prone if you drink all of it at once; a wee sip will suffice for now). Preheat the oven to 400 degrees.

4. In a fair-sized heavy stainless steel frying pan or a wok mix juice, oil, cinnamon, walnuts and pear slices. Cook it over the medium heat reducing the liquid substantially then pour brown sugar to caramelize walnuts and pears. Time for another wee sip.

5. When the liquid in the pear concoction is half way reduced, place the brie dish in the preheated oven.

6. Place your previously prepared Brie concoction in the oven, on the middle rack. Set bake timer to 10-14 minutes, depending upon the size. Do not let it become too watery.

7. At the time you put Brie in for baking, cover half of the baguette or walnut bread in an aluminum foil and stick it in the oven so that the bread is warm by the time your appetizer is done.

8. Nicely arrange the caramelized concoction over baked Brie, topping it with half an ounce of Cointreau or Triple Sec. Finish your rum and serve! You are tipsy, not intoxicated, so I am sure you won’t forget toasty baguette or walnut bread.

9. Serving Suggestion: Use a small serving spoon to scoop the stuff onto a quarter plate or directly on to the baguette/bread. Be nice and slice it, serving each friend; if your hands shake as mine do let your guests cut a piece of bread to their likeness. Hot bread is fun to slice but have a clean cloth napkin to hold bread in place.

Starter No. 2 should be prepared the night before and warmed up shortly before your friends arrive.

Zahid’s Stinky Nuts

A probable challenge for the olfactory senses but tasty on your palette, to warm up and raise deliciously the temperature at your soirees.

Let’s get started. You need something to facilitate your pursuit since you are working on this the night before your soiree. So first prepare a couple of glasses of Sindtini (affectionately pronounced Sintini). I have named this helpful item after my place of birth – Sind or Sindh or, as some Orientalists would call it, Scinde.

Sindtini from scratch

• Four ounces of good cognac (brandy if you have spent all your money on books or music).
• Two ounces of Cointreau (Triple Sec for the reasons enumerated above if you are using brandy).
• One ounce seven-year-old pale Cuban rum (three-year-old or even still-born for the reasons above)
• Two fresh lemons
• One teaspoon of sugar (Splenda if you’re a diabetic like me)

Process

• Obtain some long stringy zests from the lemons. In my usual lazy manner I wash lemons thoroughly, dry them with a clean cloth or paper towel and use a potato peeler to peel the top layer of skin. Sometimes I just set them aside, sometimes I let them soak in Cointreau and other times, when I am feeling somewhat alert, I caramelize them lightly with sugar (sadly Splenda doesn’t caramelize properly).
• Squeeze lemons and mix these with all other ingredients. I pour all ingredients into an empty whisky bottle with a good cork lid and shake it vigorously.
• Transfer a third of the ingredients into a martini shaker with lots of ice and shake it vigorously. Strain the beverage onto a chilled martini glass. Place the remainder in your freezer; you will need it real soon.

You are now ready to roast nuts  – and you guessed it right: really stinky nuts that may be served as an appetizer with cocktails at your soirees. I recommend serving these nuts with Pyrat Rum or whisky with distinctive spice such as Glenrothes 1994 (try finding the one distilled in 1994 and bottled 2006 or later), or Glenlivet 18 years old or, if you don’t want to spend lots of money, 10-year-old Glenmorangie will do just fine.

Once the room temperature gets too high, put on some Chet Baker to cool things off.

And now . . .  ZAHID’S STINKY NUTS

INGREDIENTS

• Raw cashew nuts: Two cups. (I usually buy these from Persian grocery stores where one is likely to find organic and very fresh cashews).
• Raw almonds: Two cups whole, unblanched variety.
• Grapeseed oil: Two tablespoons (or more if you like really oily stuff).

STINKY STUFF (aka SPICES)

• Allspice: Six pods.
• Aniseed: Two teaspoons.
• Black pepper: One teaspoon.
• Cumin: Half teaspoon.
• Dried red chili: One, or just half.
• Green cardamom: Seeds from eight pods.
• Nutmeg: Pinch.
• Salt: One-half to one teaspoon (depending on your health needs)
• Whole coriander: Two teaspoons.

PROCESS

Take a swig from your Sindtini, breathe, reflect upon how beautiful all your friends are family are. Take another swig. You are now ready to tackle the pressing pursuit of changing but not cracking the nuts.

Combine all spices and grind them to medium coarse state. Pour oil into a large, deep stainless steel frying pan or a wok. Heat it up at medium heat (the idea is to heat, not scald or burn.

Add ground spices and roast for about a minute. Add cashews and constantly keep turning and scraping them from the bottom of your pan for three to four minutes or until the cashews get a faint golden hue. Add almonds and continue to turn and scrap them, ensuring they are roasted only lightly and not charred or scalded. (I appreciate that working simultaneously on your Sintinis is challenging when you are busy scraping and turning nuts but, I’m sure you’ll develop the skill of performing these disparate but highly rewarding tasks).

Testimonials

“Great nuts, Zahid” — T.A. a great European scholar and author.

“Zahid, I love your nuts” — C.G. a Dutch art critic.

The road to Chenda’s village is barely passable, bringing to mind a ride on a mechanical bull in a cowboy bar. The flood waters receded only days earlier after carving deep ruts that have our high-sprung pickup truck rolling and tumbling. Only the skill and patience of our driver, Vannak, keeps us upright and moving forward.

Tino Touch directs driver Vannak over a makeshift bridge of palm tree logs after floods washed out the road near Chenda's village.

I’m with my partner Daphne Bramham and Tino Touch of Plan Canada, riding resolutely, if slowly, toward the village of Daphne’s sponsored child near Siem Reap in northwestern Cambodia. On both sides, the shallowing remnants of the flood waters pool in the rice paddies as skinny cattle and hulking water buffalo graze idly.

We hang on to whatever’s available as the truck plies the last 10 kilometres. The truck lurches and I bang my elbow on the frame.

I should complain. When Chenda’s mother and father heard we were arriving today, they left their sweet-potato field 100 kilometres from the village and journeyed home — by foot, boat and on the backs of motorbikes — to join their daughter, her three brothers and sister for an important day in Chenda’s life: a visit from her sponsor.

Plan Canada is part of Plan International, a non-governmental aid organization whose 8,000 staff and 60,000 volunteers work with children, families and communities in 68 countries.

At once grinning and shy, Chenda is a bright nine-year-old with a evident flair for photography.

Chenda’s village has no electricity and no running water. Her family lives in a wooden house on stilts — flood season makes raised homes mandatory — and until a new Plan-financed well was dug recently, Chenda walked two kilometres to get water for her family. The family’s only luxury is a small TV that has seen better days. It runs off a car battery.

Our arrival is greeted by a ragtag swarm of children. The teenagers hold back, too cool to participate. In the middle of it all is Chenda, at once grinning and shy, and her mom and dad, Huoi and Heav. Heav cuts open two coconuts, inserts straws and invites us to join the family at the table outside their home. It’s about 33 degrees and very humid.

As we talk (with Tino interpreting) out come the cameras and we start snapping. Chenda is enchanted. With hand signals and encouragement, Daphne shows her how to use the digital camera, and the nine-year-old is off. She spends the next hour wrangling her friends and family into various groups and snapping merrily away. She smiles with delight at the results of her work, chattering to her pals and showing them her pictures.

Chenda took to the camera quickly.

We do and we don’t understand what she is saying. The words are incomprehensible but the body language is clear: Fun is being had.

Yet, life in the village is hard. Chenda’s family depends on a small rice paddy nearby and the far-away potato field in Heav’s mother’s village. Those plots supply food for the family with little left over to sell. Other necessities — soap, shampoo, toothbrushes, clothing, blankets — are not always affordable.

But because of Plan sponsors like Daphne, Chenda goes to school every day and has access to health care. She is happy, energetic and curious about the world around her. And very bright, if her quick grasp of photography is any indication. You can see the results of her work below.

Chenda shows her mother and father the results of her work.

If a child like Chenda can reach her potential — she wants to be a teacher — her village and her country will be one step closer to breaking the cycle of poverty, the generations upon generations that grow up profoundly poor, materially, intellectually and culturally. That’s why sponsors play such an important role.

“You could see the family was proud and grateful for Plan’s help because it was given in a way that respected them,” Daphne says. “They weren’t made to feel they were unable to care for their children. It was so obvious how much they loved their children and how they, like every parent, wanted their kids to have a better life than they do.

“But donors have to realize that development is a process. It’s slow and generational. I’d like to think Chenda could achieve her goal of being a teacher, but I’d be content if she is able to read and write and have a better life than her parents. Her own children would start their lives with more advantages.”

Plan’s work in Chenda’s village has already produced a new elementary school and a nearby health centre where a nurse and medicine are available to treat such common ailments as colds and diarrhea, which can be life-threatening in this climate. There are midwives to deliver babies — five dollars per birth, but free if the parents can’t afford to pay.

Chenda's brother, Throng, 14, in the family home. The annual flood season makes raised housing mandatory.

Siem Reap province has two such health centres, but it needs three more, and they are in various stages of development.

“Before,” says Tino, “if people had a cold or diarrhea, they would just wait and expect it to get better. That can take a long time. Now they will be able to go to the health centre for medicine. The health of the villagers is better now. And the children are getting a better education.”

Indeed, 97 per cent of the village’s primary-age kids are now in school, compared to virtually none a generation ago. A Plan-financed secondary school, within walking distance, is expected to open in May 2012.

But although Plan sponsors support 572 children in Siem Reap province, more than 100 others are waiting.

Chenda's daily duties include drawing water from the well recnetly installed near the centre of the village. Before, fetching water involved a long walk.

Like most adults in the village, Chenda’s parents can’t read or write, but her mother has higher hopes for the children: “I would like them to study and when they grow up, get good jobs. But it will be difficult, because it’s hard to get an education.”

Many children drop out after primary school because after a certain age they’re needed to work in the fields. Marriage and having children traditionally begin around age 16 or 17. And learning is doubly difficult because illiterate parents aren’t able to help their children with homework.

Chenda’s day begins at 6 a.m. when she gets up and walks about 20 metres to the well to bathe and collect water for cooking. At 6:30 she and her best friend Sokhim walk to Thlouk primary school, about 30 minutes away. There, they eat breakfast of rice and canned fish, and work on their lessons. Chenda’s favourite subjects are math and social studies. At 11 a.m. Chenda and Sokhim walk home. They play in the afternoon – skipping rope and kicking a soccer ball — until it’s time for Chenda to help cook dinner which invariably includes rice, often supplemented with fish.

Her mother and father spend their days tending to their rice paddy, although their far-away potato field needs attention, too. When mom and dad are away, the kids stay with an aunt in the village.

Chenda goes to bed around 7 p.m., perhaps to dream of becoming a teacher — or a photographer.

• Something to consider

In the over-50-guy world, we have it pretty good. More disposable income as we get older. We have the time and money to travel. Many of us are mortgage free and presiding over empty nests. A lot of us are looking for ways to contribute.

Interested in giving a child a future? Click here.

• Here are some photos by Chenda

From her family (below, with Plan Canada’s Tino Touch in the background) to village children, a first-time photographer displays an extraordinary ability.

By BOB FOULKES
I got hooked on adventure during an eight-day Outward Bound trek in the wilds of British Columbia north of Whistler. Since then I have completed a 77-km struggle along the Westcoast Trail on Vancouver Island, the 53-kilometre Chilkoot Trail in B.C., made famous by the Klondike Gold rush, and the 154-kilometre West Highland Way in Scotland.

These adventures get tougher as I age. I am always filled with a deep sense of gratitude when I finish, gratitude for having the health to undertake them and for coming out of them in one piece, ready for another shot of sweat and adrenaline.

Here are 10 things to consider if you want to make the most of your adventure.

1. You are capable of more than you think. It doesn’t matter how many times I surprise myself, the only constant is this: I continue to surprise myself. We are resilient, adaptable and capable, even as we advance in age. At 62, I’m comforted by seeing many on the trail who are older than I, giving me hope that I may have a few more treks left in me. Do not underestimate your potential. Take on a challenge that tests you.

2. Honor the challenge and respect the task you’ve set out to accomplish. One member of our group I on my recent 120-km Tour de Mont Blanc signed on two weeks before the start. She was a desk jockey; she did little to prepare except buy some gear. But she was 30 not 60; she was slim and fit, not 20 pounds overweight. At our age, most of us don’t have that luxury; we need to train. Climbing the fitness ladder takes time — several months to be able to enjoy these trips. See your doctor before you go, and buy insurance, for the peace of mind if nothing else.

3. We need all the help we can get to level the playing field with our younger companions. I had never used hiking poles. I bought a pair before one trip and thanked the gods that I had overcome my hubris. The poles saved my ass and I will use them in the future. In addition, I became relentless in dumping useless stuff out of my pack at the beginning and as the trip wore on. I did not need two pairs of rain pants; one stayed behind at a refuge. I dropped about a third of what I had in my pack. Real or psychological, it helped.

4. Swallow your pride and make it to the finish. I am the slowest and the last; it has almost become a point of pride to be the team sweep. If I try to be faster or move at anything but my optimum pace, I may not finish. Finishing is what you’ll remember.

5. Leave the self doubt and trash talk behind. Taking self doubt on an adventure is like dragging a piano.  Turn off the negative. Optimism and a can-do, will-do, must-do attitude is the only one we can afford at our age.

It's a team sport.

6. Join the team and enjoy it. I seem to always have a great group; they are interesting, diverse, energetic individuals filled with life who have stories to tell, insights to give and advice worth taking. The leader knows what he is doing and deserves your full attention and trust. If you choose to join the team, all this happens. If you choose to not join the team, the adventure turns sour.

7. Know what you don’t know. You can be so anxious to predict how the the trip will proceed, to read the map, to picture the whole event in your mind’s eye that you’re unable to relax and just let it all happen. Nothing will be as expected. Weather changes everything, each day will be beyond your expectation, nothing happens as you imagined. Surrender to the zen of the unpredictable.

Stop and smell the cacti.

8. Stop, look and listen. I’ll never forget cresting a ridge and seeing a valley laid out before me, being on top of everything I could see. I’ll never forget the smell of the pine forests we walked through or the startling clarity of the air we were breathing. Bright, tiny flowers; monstrous peaks; enormous glaciers and the spiritual wonder of it all are there if you look for them. Even the sight of the refuge at the end of the day is a spiritual experience, that exquisite feeling of well-being that comes from achieving the goal and knowing a shower, a hot meal and a bed are waiting.

9. Write it down, buy a map, take pictures. If you don’t record what’s happening, you’ll forget. The most memorable adventures will become confused. A map, a picture, a journal entry will lock it in. Write about your emotions: what it felt like to make it to the refuge on the first night, to cross over into the valley and see home in the distance.

10. Celebrate. I have raged against the dying of the light. Now I get to roar. The kids don’t get it — most of my friends don’t get it — but each adventure at my age means I have completed something life-affirming. I have earned the right to celebrate. So I dance around the edge of the fire. I deserve it.

By QUANTUM MERUIT

If you long for a bold, exciting, active life where men are usually men, where good is good, where bad is bad and where smart, rough, direct action gets things done, a burgeoning world of great reading awaits you. Things may not have been more comfortable back then, but they were simpler.

Warrior lit, often presented as the written (in the first person) recollections of an aging and battle scarred warrior (Viking, Saxon, infantryman or naval officer) who fought, wenched, rode, sailed, marauded or marched through wars, military campaigns, forests of women with varying degrees of tree-hugging, action and intrigue is gilded and upholstered with different levels of historical detail. The quality of these works varies widely, but their huge following and the number of books that are published attest to their appeal and entertainment value. They are diverse in setting and characterization but remarkably parallel in their focus on men of action, their behaviors and their values. A few of the best are described in the following.

Bernard Cornwell (http://www.bernardcornwell.net) is the dean of the genre. His series of novels about Richard Sharpe follow the exploits, loves, crimes and life of an orphan who becomes a petty crook, joins the British army and works his way up through the ranks in the Napoleonic wars. The books are straightforward, well told stories that move quickly with a good level of period historical color. Cornwell has written other series about an archer at Agincourt, about the Arthurian legend, the American civil war, and his best series is, in my view, about a war leader in the service (most of the time) of Alfred the Great.

The historical detail of another series, the Flashman books, by George MacDonald Fraser (www.complete-review.com/reviews/frasergm/flashman.htm) is impressive. Fraser seamlessly weaves his character Harry Flashman, the bully from Tom Brown’s Schools Days, in and out of classic works of fiction and real history. Flashman is at the Khyber pass when the British retreat, leads the charge of the Light Brigade, he’s at Harper’s Ferry with John Brown, with Custer at the Little Bighorn and meets and describes insightfully people like Queen Victoria, Lincoln, and Gladstone. These books are easy to read, works of detailed, but readable and interesting historical scholarship written with an often brilliant comic perspective. You can’t go wrong.

Stories about Vikings clearly lend themselves to the genre and make a connection with readers. Books by Giles Kristian, (www.gileskristian.com/) Robert Low (www.robert-low.com/) and Tim Severin (www.timseverin.net/) ring with swords hitting shields, winds whistling through sails, action, history, bravery, courage and folly. These are good stories, well told. Great hammock reading.

Without the history, but very much of the genre, are Lee Child’s Jack Reacher novels (http://www.leechild.com/). These books have a huge following. Jack Reacher is a big, rugged (more about that in a minute) former military policeman, who quit the army and moved off to see America. An army brat, Reacher was brought up on military bases all over the world and knows America from education and upbringing, but not first-hand. Jack sets out in search of America and what he finds and does has to be read to be seen and believed. This man of action takes it all the way with his own rules and unique abilities. As part of the appeal of the books is watching the character develop, you should begin with the first book, Killing Floor and read the books in order.

Interest is intense in these books and telling more about them will detract from the experience of reading them. You will get an idea of the commitment of this community of readers’ when you take a look at how they have received the news that Tom Cruise, the antithesis of Jack Reacher, has brought the rights and intends to star in a movie as Jack Reacher (http://blog.chron.com/bookish/2012/01/tom-cruise-as-jack-reacher-im-weeping-thoughts/). Not so happy. There’s even a Facebook page called Tom Cruise is Not Jack Reacher.

Curiously these books are significantly better written and more entertaining than most western novels. Somehow the old west has yet to be translated into these kinds of stories. Adherence to the Code of the West seems to make cowboys into wooden mannequins when compared with the very human, quasi-savages of warrior lit.

So, good stories but not great literature. Warrior lit consistently presents and reflects a point of view, one of the more extreme ones, in the on-going discussion of what it means to be man.