I wasted so much time over that past three-and-a-half days. And my long weekend started with so much promise.
I took half a day off on Thursday to attend a model photo shoot, just south of the city, in an abandoned house and barn, near the 416. Even though the weather threatened rain and the mosquitoes were relentless, the photo shoot was a success. For those of you who follow me on Instagram or follow my POTD project, you saw some of my images.
If you want to see them, I have to warn you: they're NSFW. I have more photos to edit from that day, and I meant to take some time, but the rest of my weekend didn't go as planned.
On Friday, I had hopes of traveling to Montreal, to take some photos, possibly visit a friend, and seek out some brew pubs. Unfortunately, I awoke with a headache that turned into a migraine, and I ended up spending the day in bed.
With the exception of editing a handful of photos from Thursday's shoot, my day was a writeoff. I barely remembered to shoot my POTD, hastily grabbing one of my kid's souvenirs from Cuba and my Android phone.
Surprisingly, I liked the last-minute photo.
I was still under the weather on Saturday, managing to only complete a few simple chores around the house. I spent most of the day resting up, recovering enough to fulfill a commitment I made to attend a friend's birthday party and photograph it for her. Luckily, I was there when her partner proposed to her. I captured it on video and snapped some stills of the event (making one of those shots my POTD).
At the party, I refrained from drinking any alcohol, and DW and I left the party relatively early.
On Sunday, we lingered around the house and had a leisurely breakfast that took us nearly to noon. DW, DD14, and I then drove to Westboro, where those two shopped while I captured photos for Daily Photo 225. We then shopped for groceries and returned home, where I rested some more.
I finally felt more like myself by dinner, and managed to take photos and notes for this Thursday's Beer O'Clock review. Stay tuned for that one.
Dinner finished, the kitchen cleaned, I was only in the mood to unwind with a bottle of wine. I asked Google to play some Dire Straits, and mellowed in my family-room chair while the music soothed and DD16 played her Nintendo Switch.
Laziest. Weekend. Ever.
I was going to go to Montreal, today. It would have been my third time in a month.
I booked the day off, at the last minute, yesterday morning. I tried to convince DW to take time off, too. We would strap our bikes to the back of the CR-V, park at the western end of the Lachine Canal, and cycle Vert Route 1 all the way to the Old Port, and back, stopping along the way to capture images on my camera.
Unfortunately, DW is in crunch and can't get away from the office, so we'll have to put that plan on hold.
The last time we were in the Old Port was two weekends ago, when we met with my aunt and uncle to watch the fireworks on Ile Sainte-Helene, with the Jacques-Cartier Bridge casting a silhouette in the foreground.
That was a great day.
Montreal will have to wait, but not for long. There isn't much left of the summer.
Happy Friday!
Every summer, from 1987 to 1991, I went whitewater rafting on the Ottawa River, near Beachburg, Ontario. I was introduced to the adventure by one of my journalism-school buddies, Marc, who had been doing it for a couple of years, prior, with his closest high-school chums.
I felt honoured to be invited into his inner circle of close friends.
Whitewater rafting can be as easy or demanding as you make it, but no matter how hard or how lightly you paddle, no matter where on the 12-person inflated rubber you sit, you have to keep your wits about you. You have to pay attention. One moment of inattentiveness could send you out into the raging rapids, or worse.
On my first trip down the first set of chutes, a person in the raft behind us didn't listen to her instructor. She sat at the back of the raft, paddling, one of her legs outstretched, rather than firmly bent, as required. Her raft, lightly paddled, went over the 10-foot drop and sent a rower from the bow catapulting to the back, landing on that outstretched leg.
We could hear the scream from down the river.
For the first couple of seasons, I paddled at the back, being nervous about leading the raft. I liked to sit at the stern, where I could clearly hear our guide as he steered next to me and shouted commands. In time, though, I learned that where the action was, was right at the bow, where you almost leaned over the raft, risked falling in, but where you attacked the waves head on.
If you reached out, dug into the water with your paddle, and pulled hard, you hit the rapids with explosive power. Water would crash over you and you would feel as though you were on the world's best roller coaster.
Only once, did the rapids throw me out of the boat. It claimed my friend, Andy, who continued to dig, in vain. We lost most of the rafts occupants, but man, what a great ride, on my back, down the raging waters.
For three of those years, I led groups of friends and co-workers; once, filling the raft, and thereby earning myself a free ride.
I never used sunscreen: hated the oily or greasy feeling on my body. Detested having it on my hands, making everything I touched become slippery, slimy. I never wanted to touch my camera after handling suntan lotion.
And every summer, on the Ottawa River, I burned to a crisp.
I earned the nickname Red-Bellied Rossasaurus because, when I wasn't rafting, I would lie on the beach at Wilderness Tours and fry.
I loved rafting, still miss it. Someday, perhaps, when my kids are old enough, DW and I can convince them to join us. The rafts have changed (they seem smaller and are now blue) and it looks like they have a guide at the front and back (we only had one, who steered, at the back).
Today's photo was shot in the summer of 1990. You can see the pinkness of my skin, though I don't think I was quite crispified at that point.
But there's no doubt: my nickname would be used at some point on that trip.
Happy Thursday!
It's been vacant for many years. And to be honest, when I decided to capture images of the building for Where In Ottawa, I didn't know what it had been.
It took some digging, but I learned that the building at 391 Gladstone Avenue, near Bank Street, built in 1911, was once the Salvation Army Citadel for Ottawa.
Congratulations to Christopher Ryan, who shares my love of photography and architectural history, as his blog shows.
Because Chris had solved the challenge so quickly, no clues were necessary. Good thing: I only had a few lined up.
According to Shaker Realty, which had listed the vacant building, it is now sold. It will be interesting to see how this structure evolves into its next incarnation.
Because it's across the street from Dave's Drum Shop, where DD14 buys most of her percussion equipment, I hope to capture images as the new tenants move in.
The next Where In Ottawa is Monday, September 4.
