Photos: Colour Me Rad

During my trip to B.C. in August, I accompanied my sister Julia and my honourary sister Lindsey to the Colour Me Rad* five-km run at the University of B.C. campus. Scores of cheery people dressed in white (I even spotted a wedding dress) jogged while volunteers pelted them with coloured corn starch. Their sweat made the corn starch stick to their bodies.

As icky as that sounds, the whole thing was actually very entertaining to watch and the runners had a blast. At first I was jealous that I'd neglected to sign up, but soon realized I'd get some pretty great photos out of the event. Part of the proceeds from the run, which tours Canada and the U.S., went to a local charity.

I'm bummed there's no Toronto run scheduled for 2013. Fingers crossed for 2014. In the meantime, enjoy some colourful photos.

*The actual name of the event is Color Me Rad, but the Canadian in me just couldn't handle spelling colour without a 'u.'

River + Sky

We drove up Highway 400 in late July to attend River and Sky, an annual northern Ontario music festival. Some friends of mine had filled the past two years with grandiose tales of a grassroots gathering that included dancing, camping, swimming, talking, eating and jamming, leaving me suspicious a festival could be so perfect.

Up until our trip, my short time in Ontario had never taken me north of Barrie for more than a weekend, not counting the cross-Canada country drive that saw me and my mom stop briefly in Thunder Bay and Sault Saint Marie. We saw mostly trees and hunters with dead moose strapped to the roofs of their pickup trucks.

A five-hour drive from Toronto took us to Fisher's Paradise, a private campground nestled on the Sturgeon River between Sudbury and North Bay. A dozen different bands performed over three days.

There was a well-balanced mix of hippies, hipsters, families and locals at River and Sky. A big green bus-turned-diner served up coffee and basic breakfast fare. Mild mannered baristas clad in tight jeans and cycling caps slung espresso and ran a bike-fixing station. While bands played on two different stages, volunteers cooked whole wheat pancakes and an assortment of gourmet grilled cheese sandwiches.

Two different camping areas ensured families with kids weren't bothered by our passionate 2 a.m. conversations about stars and constellations and the meaning of life.

During the day, a ragtag group of kids trailed after a bear of man with a bushy beard who split them into two teams for a neverending game of tug-o-war. A pack of adorable toddlers bouncing on an old rubber innertube sitting on the grass, occasionally knocking skulls, noses and knees, held my attention for more than an hour.

When we weren't listening to music on the grass (bands included Young Galaxy, Library Voices and Honheehonhee) we swam in the river and piled into a homemade sauna made from a retro camper parked on the beach.

When night fell I had my first experience with northern Ontario mosquitoes, whose swarms were so thick I thought I could open my hand in front of my face and quickly catch dozens inside my fist (note: that doesn't work). I doused myself with OFF! (note: that doesn't work either).

We danced anyway. The later it got, the more the energy of the crowd started to swell. Matthew danced so hard and so fast to Hollerado that when he stopped and lay in the grass, steam started to rise from his t-shirt.

We had every intention of listening to a midnight music session at the beach on Saturday night but instead fell asleep in our tent like the late 20-something working professionals that we are. Our last day was spent back at the beach, launching ourselves off an embankment into the river's lukewarm water and lamenting the end of the weekend.

I left River and Sky feeling calm, fulfilled and the good kind of tired. I didn't notice it until an organizer pointed it out, but the festival didn't have any security. No one started any fights. For the most part, people seemed to pick up their garbage. The crowd kept errant toddlers from heading towards the river.

I'll be back next year. And yes, I realize I managed to leave a music festival without a single photo of any performers.

To Market, To Market, To Buy Two Mason Jars

My love for secondhand items began at the age of 10, when I bought a typewriter from my neighbour during a massive garage sale on my suburban street. I lugged it the 25 metres home with two hands. My mother wasn't thrilled (given the purpose of a garage sale is to get rid of used stuff rather than acquire more of it).

The typewriter's case smelled like mildew and dust but I loved that old machine. I've since purchased three more. They don't actually work but I don't mind. I'm happy just to look at them.

I was thrilled to find out my Toronto neighbourhood, the Junction, would host a flea market four times this summer. I woke up early on July 8th and walked up to Dundas Street West, where more than a dozen stalls had taken over a vacant lot.

In between all the pastel coloured Pyrex and mason jars, there were clothes, maps, furniture, globes and plenty of other knicknacks. I found a statue of Albert Einstein's head. I did several loops and took some photos before deciding what to purchase. I'm no expert on prices but my friend Vikki, a flea market veteran, said what vendors were asking was reasonable.

Vikki picked out a bright blue typewriter (pictured above). I picked out two Pyrex bowls, a couple of glass jars and a painted owl figurine. I wanted to buy a mirror but couldn't quite find the right one.

In addition to our goods, we also bought mango mohito popsicles — laced with real mint. There were stalls selling coffee and dumplings, both of which smelled delightful. There was even a fortune teller inside a old camper but I was too cynical to step inside.

The Junction flea market will run again this Sunday and again on Sept. 9. I probably won't be able to stop myself from going back.

Captured

Last weekend a group of us went on a coffee hop in Toronto's west end. After a slew of espresso shots and iced lattes, we ended up at The Local, a restaurant and bar along Roncesvalles Avenue. While messing around with my camera — a six-year-old Nikon D40 — I captured this shot of Mr. Evan Bergstra. I'm pretty pleased with it. Evan is a heckuva talented photographer himself, so it's nice to make a decent image of him, even if it was entirely by accident.

A weekend at Awenda

Last month I went camping, something I haven't done since I was 15 (not counting an ill-fated May long weekend experience in 2004 that I'm still not ready to talk about).

North of Barrie, Ont., sits Awenda Provincial Park, a 30-square kilometre swath of land on the edge of Georgian Bay. Full of tall skinny birch trees growing side by side, the park in the shade was 10 degrees colder than sweltering downtown Toronto. The water in Georgian Bay was warm and blue. I lay on the beach and read an entire novel. I sunburned my shoulders. I felt relaxed and completely disconnected from my everyday life, a welcome vacation for my body and my mind.

Camping doesn't come naturally to me. I've always associated camping trips with wet socks than never quite dry and the heaviness of homesickness that never quite abates. I grew up in North Vancouver, British Columbia, a mountain suburb known for its constant downpours and menacing black clouds. I was also a reluctant Brownie and Girl Guide. Like most packs, we camped. Like most dwellers of the Lower Mainland and Vancouver Island, we camped in the pouring rain.

Nothing quite inspires 8-year-old girls like standing in a downpour wearing sweaty raincoats and listening to their Girl Guide leaders explain the seasonal cycle of deciduous trees. My inside source (AKA: my mom) revealed those leaders weren't having a lot of fun either. To be fair, we played a really excellent game at dinner time that involved choosing an outlandish kitchen utensil from a box and using it to eat our meal of spaghetti.

My high school curriculum included three camping trips per year in Grades 8 and 9. Anxiety prone, I'd panic in my tent in the middle of the night, much to the amusement of those sleeping beside me. I'd awake in the darkness and start pawing at the sides of the tent, wondering where in heck I was exactly.

Another trip took place on a sailboat during which we were, ostensibly, meant to learn how to sail. Prone to seasickness, I spent most of the trip with my head hung over the port side, upchucking my Cheerios into the Pacific Ocean.

The Awenda trip was thankfully without vomit or tears. It rained as we were packing up to leave but the experience was otherwise incident free. I was, however, the recipient of several stern looks from Matthew because I kept leaving the door of the tent unzipped — a big no-no in bug country, apparently.