Ambling

I discovered Edmonton's river valley system when I moved to the City in 1983 from Vancouver.  I remember my amazement to find traces of snow in May, in the cooler, shaded slopes along the south bank.  The ravines arising from the main valley of the North Saskatchewan River seemed to penetrate every part of the City.  I would begin a Saturday stroll or bike ride by descending into the valley from Strathcona and later in the day find myself at the edge of the countryside or emerging into a new district of streets, homes and shops.  I discovered the odd neighborhoods nestled down the valley -- some of the oldest in the City, without running water, still reliant on outhouses.  I found quiet nooks, and hidden urban wild places.

I also re-learned the art of ambling.  Too often I would start my explorations at the hurried pace of weekday life, leaning forward and striking the pavement with each quick, determined step.  I had no place to be, but I would set out as a man with a destination and deadline.  Finally, it would dawn on me that I had neither.  Even then, I could not just slow my pace.  I had to stop, take a deep breath, and reset myself within the world.  And then I could begin again -- not just with slower steps, but with a entire new view of life.  I could appreciate the nuances:  the patterns of things, the gentler sounds, and the taste and smell of the air.

I remembered those walks this week.  Last Thursday, returning in the mid-evening from a meeting:  the night air felt as comfortable as a pair of old runners, and I slouched into a lazy amble, hands in my pockets.  The streets  seemed as familiar and intimate as an old photograph.  I listened to my own footsteps on the pavement.  And then, today, as I left the house for work, I breathed in the perfumed, tropical air that had brought thunderstorms in the night.  I could smell the ocean from five thousand miles away, and I recalled standing awestruck on the shore of the Arabian Gulf, looking out at the place where Man first took to the sea.