Best Paddling Ever

When I had a job but would go on vacation, I always used to say that I needed a few extra days after vacation to recover from my vacation. If DW and I travelled abroad, we would always try to book a return flight that would give us at least one full day to rest before returning to work.

I now have the luxury of time after a vacation because I don't have a job to go back to. And this week, I really needed the past couple of days to recover from our trip.

There are some metrics that my Garmin smart watch takes that I don't put a lot of stock into, but there are some that seem to be quite accurate. For example, it has a reading that's called Body Battery, where it measures my heart rate, my blood-oxygen levels, and activities, and determines how energized I am.

Any time I feel exhausted and look at the Body Battery reading, my watch seems to agree with me, showing a low percentage of energy. When I feel that all I can do is rest, for example, my Body Battery reading agrees, showing me at five-percent "charge."

When I awake feeling well-rested, the Body Battery shows a high "charge" level.

Each morning, it shows stats that indicate how ready my body is to tackle activities, and on this vacation, it showed me some interesting numbers.

DW and I spent 10 days in Québec's Laurentian mountain region, including the fjords of the Saguenay River. We camped for the first seven days, did plenty of kayaking and hiking, and sampled some great beer from this region.

Oh, and we saw lots of whales.

We started of with five nights in Parc National de la Jacques-Cartier, a beautiful park that's only a half hour north of Québec City. And because we started our vacation on the Labour Day weekend, it was crowded with day trippers from the city.

Our first paddle was a short one, only a 4.7-kilometre paddle along the Jacques-Cartier River where the water is mostly flat, but on which there is a current that will gently lead you southward. The hills that line the sides of this river are nothing short of stunning, and it was gently raining throughout our paddle, with clouds creeping around the ridges of these mountains.

The next day, we paddled another part of the river, when the weather was nicer and the temperature warmer. We had just finished a gruelling 6K trail that had us climbing steep parts of the hillside below where we were paddling now, and the short 3.7K paddle was just what we needed to decompress.

However, the next day of paddling was going to be a tough one.

DW and I reserved a seat on a shuttle bus that would tow our kayaks along with rental crafts—both kayaks and canoes—and other paddlers up 20 kms to a put-in spot, and we would paddle down to the park's discovery centre, where our car was parked.

This was no easy paddle, even though we were paddling with the current. The river has a lot of hazards, from low water levels to rocks, and with rapids that ranged from Class I (gentle ripples) to Class III (white water with strong currents and slight drops in elevation).

One of the Class III rapids required a mandatory portage for all paddlers. There were simply too many rocks to navigate and it was just too dangerous.

DW and I were nervous about our kayaks hitting rocks but we wanted to use our own boats, rather than rent. Even though our kayaks are designed for open water, they can easily handle Class I rapids and, though tough, should be able to negotiate Class II rapids if you know what you're doing.

They aren't really recommended for use through Class III rapids.

We aren't particularly experienced in waters with rapids. We've run Class I rapids with our old kayaks but have never paddled through rougher water. We had taken a white-water canoeing course more than a decade ago and I never finished it because I got sick halfway through it. I had paddled through a set of Class II rapids in that course, but canoes and kayaks are very different beasts.

After our first set of rapids (Class I), I was very nervous for my kayak because I went over a large rock so hard that it lifted my seat up. When we saw on the map we had that the next set of rapids was Class II, we decided to stop at the portage to check it out. And when we saw that there were a lot of rocks, we decided to portage the 185 metres.

Only when we were carrying our second kayak along the portage route did we see some people in kayaks negotiate the rapids, and we saw the route that they took. They got through easily and we figured we could have, too, if we had spotted that way through.

The next set of rapids were Class III, and again we stopped at the portage spot to survey the rapids. I saw a canoeist get his craft through, and he turned in to the downstream section of the portage, so I decided to talk to him.

The man had been through these rapids the day before but had chosen a different route, and he said it had been a mistake, that he almost hit a large rock and nearly capsized. He explained the route he took this time and told me that I'd have no problem with my kayak if I stuck to this route.

He was right, and though it was terrifying going through Class III rapids in a 14-foot touring kayak, it was also exciting when DW and I got through the other side unscathed.

Foolishly, I forgot to wear a helmet, which was strapped to my deck for such occasions.

Apart from the first portage we did and the mandatory portage, further down, DW and I ran all other sets of rapids. It took us four hours and 45 minutes to paddle the 20 kms back to the park's discovery centre, and we were exhausted.

My watch agreed: when I pressed the button to stop my kayaking activity, my watch actually told me that I had overexerted myself, that I'd need 96 hours to recover. And admittedly, as soon as we returned to our campsite and had dinner, I just wanted to go to bed. I slept for about 12 hours.

And of course, I didn't take 96 hours to rest. We had more paddling ahead of us.

In the 10 days of our vacation, we got into our kayaks five times. We also hiked a lot more and I'll share more of our Laurentian-Saguenay trip next week.

We returned home on Monday afternoon, and after emptying our car, putting all of our camping gear away, washing our kayaks (and buffing out some of the scratches on the bottom hull), and throwing our clothes into the washing machine, I was too tired to even think about dinner.

My Body Battery reading was at only two percent.

I've needed most of this week to recover from our vacation and I'm glad I didn't have to return to a job. It was certainly worth overexerting myself, as my watch said. It was the best paddling we've ever done through some of our country's most beautiful landscapes. We paddled in all kinds of conditions, with whales only a short distance from us in at least one case, and this will go down as our number-one paddle.

I'll have more to say on Monday and I'm currently working on editing the video footage I've captured.

Stay tuned.

Where to Sing Next

I'm someone who went from singing at karaoke nights a couple of times a year to once every one or two months, from heading out once a month to being a weekly regular at a karaoke venue. This year, the only time I wasn't at my local karaoke spot was when I was out of town, and that didn't happen often.

Some of the Hummingbird regulars.

Over the summer months, my preferred karaoke venue, Hummingbird Hall, made a decision to shut down karaoke night until September. When they made that announcement, the regulars of karaoke night, including me, put up a stink, and that evening, they made the decision to stay open but to reduce karaoke night to once every other week.

Fair compromise.

Admittedly, not every karaoke night was busy. People were on vacations or at their cottage. But there was always a handful of regulars and a few occasional visitors. Hummingbird even saw a few newbies to the venue.

Three weeks ago, I attended the Thursday karaoke night and there was a good turnout. We had most of the regular crowd, a few people who would come once a month or so, and a few people who made their first appearance.

Everything seemed to be good.

However, while I was on vacation in the Laurentians, I received news that Hummingbird was suddenly cancelling karaoke night indefinitely. No explanations as to why: karaoke night was simply over.

I was crushed. I had found a cozy, well-setup venue that was less than 10 minutes from my house. I had made lots of friends and felt like I was in a place where I belonged. And then it was all gone.

Now, there are other karaoke venues in Ottawa. For years, I had gone to O'Brien's, on Heron Road. I've been to the occasional karaoke night at Stray Dog, one of my favourite breweries. I've been to St. Louis Bar and Grill, though I didn't care for it. And I've been to George's, in Munster Hamlet, which is about 15 minutes further away than Hummingbird: it's a good venue but there's a lot of country music for my liking.

There's nowhere that I feel I can make my new home for karaoke. I feel sort of homeless.

I've made several friends at Hummingbird and we have each other's contact information. I was told that some of them would be meeting at Mort's, in Bells Corners, for karaoke this past Tuesday. Mort's is a pizza restaurant that offers karaoke every Tuesday.

I was going to meet up but I was exhausted from my vacation, so I didn't go.

Tonight, there's karaoke at George's, and I'll likely go. I'll let my karaoke friends know, in case they feel like meeting me there. But I feel that we're all pseudo-refugees, without a central home for us to sing together.

Maybe, I'll go back to occasional singing, but it's become a hobby that I really enjoy. So, until I find a new regular venue for karaoke, I'll continue wondering where I'm going to sing next.

Les Laurentides

Friday Fiction: Prologue for a New Story

If I had known that writing crime novels would give me so much joy, I would have started writing them decades ago.

I had so much fun writing Dark Water that I couldn't wait to start the next book in what I hope will become a series: The Calloway and Hayes Mysteries. I have ideas flooding my head, often keeping me up at night, but I love it.

A few days after finishing the first draft of Dark Water, I started coming up with a new case, which is set mostly in Ottawa's ByWard Market. This story is even darker than the first novel, with many layers. There's a serial killer in Ottawa and ritualistic murders, but are they actually related?

As I said, last week, I've even come up with a title for the next book: The Watcher. And this week, I started laying out the outline for the story. As with Dark Water, I have spreadsheets and notes, with characters and plot lines, and I'm taking what I learned from the first book to be even more organized the second time around.

I've even written a rough draft of the prologue for The Watcher, which I've decided to share with you. But I need to set it up a bit, first.

In Dark Water, we learn that Detective Sergeant Erin Hayes moved to Ottawa after a promotion from the Niagara Regional Police Services. She had never even been to Ottawa before this transfer, so she's getting used to the city at the same time that she's settling into her new position with her new team.

Hayes lives in an apartment building in the Lincoln Heights area, her unit overlooking Mud Lake and the Ottawa River. On the nights that she can get home at a decent hour, she likes to change into something comfortable, pour herself a glass of wine, and sit on her balcony to enjoy the sunset.

Hayes lives with two roommates who are also OPS employees. Becca Pierson is a communications operator (dispatcher) and Maya Rahman is a patrol constable. The three often work hours that seldom sees them together in the apartment.

The Watcher begins on a rare night when the three have a Friday night off, together, and they decide to hit the ByWard Market. And that's where the story begins...

***

The rhythm of the bass and percussion followed them into the night air of the ByWard Market. Even at one in the morning, the streets were alive. Laughter echoed from the patios that still clung to their last customers, whilst taxis idled at curbsides, headlights cutting through the smoke that was curling from a nearby shawarma stand. The air held the sharp scent of gin and cigarettes, twisting together with the sweetness of fried dough from the Beaver Tails stall, its workers starting the shutdown for the night. The rise and fall of drunken voices, the clatter of bottles dumped into recycle bins by weary bartenders. Pooling light from streetlamps carved bright islands that contrasted the dark alleys that were to be avoided. A gentle breeze carried a quieter rhythm amid the careless laughter and echoing footsteps—an invisible patience in the air, like something holding its breath just beyond the reach of a neon glow.

The heavy club doors swung shut behind them, muffling the throb of music until it was nothing more than a pulse of memory. Becca Pierson was the tallest of the trio, her black dress shimmering faintly under the jaundiced streetlights, long legs moving with a confidence that was sharpened by heels. She tilted her head back as she laughed, light-brown waves of hair spilling over her shoulders, her giggle colored by the cocktails she had downed, inside. Maya Rahman walked beside her; shorter but solid, every step purposeful even after three vodka sodas. Her pink skirt caught and released the glow of passing headlights, and she tugged absently at the hem of her sleeveless blouse, smirking at Becca’s retelling of some clumsy pickup attempt. Erin Hayes trailed less than a half-pace behind, her sequined red dress catching moving light like embers. There was nothing loose or sloppy in her gaze, not even with the haze of tequila. She watched her friends with a warmth that softened the detective’s usual edge.

Image: Perplexity

All three were laughing, shoulders brushing close as a warm breeze swept the humid, summer night air. They carried themselves with a mix of loosened joy and the quiet gravity of women who lived their waking hours inside the machinery of Ottawa crime. Tonight, though, they were only three friends in the Market, teasing one another about desperate men and bad pickup lines.

They didn’t see the still figure across the street, the one who noticed them first for their laughter, then for the way the light caught their hair, and finally through the lens of a camera raised from a shadow.

Behind him, beyond the reach of laughter and neon, the chocolatier’s shop sat as if abandoned. Its window displays—rows of truffles, glossy pralines, brittle wrapped in gold foil—were now only vague shapes in the dark, dulled by the sheen of glass. Inside, the sweetness that usually hung in the air had curdled under the weight of silence.

On the tiled floor between the display cases lay the owner, her body carefully placed, as though she had been gently lowered rather than violently killed. Her arms rested neatly at her sides, her face turned up, expression softened into something almost serene, as if she were only sleeping amidst her creations. Around her, deliberate patterns had been scrawled and arranged: carefully positioned objects and markings that broke the order of the shop with unsettling precision. The symbols seemed to radiate outward, framing her in an unnatural tableau.

The harmony of the arrangement made the scene more chilling—not a crime of passion, but one of patience and intent, every detail calibrated. Had anyone been standing above her, they would have recognized that this was not simply a body, but a message waiting to be read.

Outside, the Market carried on with its noise and chaos, blind to the quiet horror concealed just one pane of glass away, reflecting the three women as they climbed into their hired HOVR ride and made their way out of the ByWard Market.

***

As of writing this blog post, I've also written the first five chapters of the story (writing crime fiction has become an addiction) but that'll be it for at least a couple of weeks, if not longer. Today, DW and I left for a vacation, where I expect to be offline for many days.

When we return, in the second week of September, I'm hopeful to have feedback from my Dark Water readers, and I'll start work on the third and final draft before submitting the manuscript for edits and, fingers crossed, publishing.

Only when I've sent Dark Water of to the printers will I devote my full attention to The Watcher.

Happy Friday!

Beer O'Clock: A Loss of Taste

About a month ago, someone from a marketing company reached out to me to invite me to visit Blyth, Ontario, a small village more than 45 minutes northwest of Stratford.

It's home to a well-loved brewery, Cowbell. As far back as 2016, I tried, loved, and reviewed their Kölsch, Absent Landlord. The person who contact me represents the brewery and was hoping that I would take a road trip and write a review of the brewery.

Unfortunately, I have no plans to head that way this year. I was in Stratford last year and the year before, but won't take in the theatre season in 2025.

Maybe next year, I replied, but not this year.

The marketing person said that she understood that a drive to Blyth is a long way to go to grab a beer. She then offered to send me some beer, with the hopes that I'd review it.

Of course, I said, telling her that I would give a fair review. But I cautioned her that if I had issues with the beer, I would say so in a fair and kind manner (I like Cowbell, after all). If I really didn't like the beer, I wouldn't write a review; instead, I'd contact the brewery and have a discussion about the brew—perhaps there was a flaw in the production line, and I wouldn't want to base my review on a bad batch.

So, sometime in the next few weeks, I can expect a care package in the mail and I will do my best to give a good review.

So long and thanks for all the beer.

But here's the rub: recently, I've lost my taste for beer. I KNOW! I'm as surprised as you are.

I keep very little beer in the house, these days. More than a month ago, when I was in Toronto, I stopped at a brewery and brought a dozen cans home—two of six different brews. I bought one that was recommended by the person who ran the shop and reviewed it the following week.

Since then, I've only occasionally gone to my basement fridge an pulled out a random can. The various brews are fine but they haven't given me that 'wow' factor.

When I go out to karaoke night, I've had only one beer for the evening. Hummingbird serves an IPA from Overflow Brewing Company that's quite good: Landlocked. When they ran out, a while ago, and were serving a lager, I stopped drinking beer and the server noticed. So he made sure to put in an order for Landlocked and he pulls one from the fridge whenever I walk in the room.

I drink it because I feel obligated, not because it's what I want. I'm kinda off beer.

At home, I may have only one or two drinks per week, and when I'm not trying to finish off the beer that's in my fridge, I make myself a margarita or a gin and tonic. On rare occasions, DW and I will split a bottle of wine.

I haven't become a teetotaller but I've significantly limited my alcohol consumption.

While I'm looking forward to the Cowbell brews that will be sent to me and I will whole-heartedly give a review my all, I'm thinking that Beer O'Clock has finally run its course. From being a regular occurrence on The Brown Knowser to being a rare post, I don't think beer reviews follow the new theme of my blog, which has turned to being mostly about writing, travelling, kayaking, and photography.

Plus a few rants here and there.

For all I know, my taste for beer will return and I'll want to write more reviews in the future. But until I want to make Beer O'Clock a regular part of my blog again, the Cowbell review will be the last one.

Stay tuned.