Drive-by Bye.

London, ON — The darkness of night suddenly swirled in blue and red, the silence of a quiet evening shattered by sirens and high-revving engines.

Connecticut Avenue had become a police disco.

Had someone hit a cyclist? The response, within minutes, of more than a dozen police cars and fire trucks wailed of great tragedy.

Little did we know.

Behind our hotel, four men had jumped out of a carjacked Alfa Romeo and fired more than 50 rounds — including with a semi-automatic rifle — in a targeted killing that also left a bystander with significant injuries. My partner had walked past the spot 20 minutes earlier. I had been there a couple hours prior, and countless times before.

When I first started coming to Washington D.C. more than 30 years ago, it was understood you had to be careful to not cross the wrong streets or you could suddenly end up in a bad area. Having walked through much of the city since, I’ve never felt unsafe.

Row, row, row.

And, despite being the site of an assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan in 1981, the area around the Washington Hilton hardly qualifies as bad.

Violent crime and homicide have increased steadily in the district in recent years, though, reaching rates unseen in 20 years. It’s immediately obvious more people are experiencing homelessness than when I was there last. The pandemic cannot have helped.

Having spent the day driving home, we have been left reflecting on change, on life, on equity. And on a love I still have for D.C.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 969.3 kms
• Province/States: Washington D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Ontario
  
• Weather: Sunny and mild
• Wildlife: A panic-stricken coyote, struck by a car and unable to move its legs

Column Maybe.

Capital I, Capital I, Capitol I.

Washington, DC — With each swing of my arms, I water the plants dotting narrow gardens that extend like long, manicured fingers from colourfully painted homes.

Sun flits through the leaves, casting shadows that slow dance across the sidewalk like awkward sixth-graders, languid and tentative. It’s that hot. Even first thing in the morning, the air folds its grasp around my lungs.

It’s a greenhouse.

But I push on through Truxton Circle and NoMa, past Union Market and on to Ivy City. I've been through prettier, and apparently much safer, parts of the city. 

Arriving at the United States National Arboretum, my reddened face is in stark contrast to all the green.

Twenty-two Corinthian sandstone columns rise before me like chess pieces, seemingly misplaced in a vast meadow buzzing with crickets. I have come across the final resting place for most of the original columns of the United States Capitol.

Built in 1826, they served as the backdrop for countless historical events, including Presidential inaugurations from 1829 to 1957 — Andrew Jackson to Dwight Eisenhower. Now, they stand solemnly, a human creation set in nature, whispering stories amidst the low rustle of leaves.

Fitness, stubbornness and a love of exploring still have me walking everywhere. 

At 41 degrees, however, this may not have been the wisest day to hike 23 kilometres.

But my reward: top-notch beers at Other Half Brewing.

Czech Mark.

Will that be Visa or Mastercard?

Washington, DC — Beer? Check. Cheese? Check.

Embassy visit? Czech.

It may not be my conference, but I'm not often afforded opportunities to attend receptions at embassies. Think of the stories! Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take much convincing for me to tag along this evening. 

I’m still an Uber newbie, though, and am a little surprised when a Tesla pulls up. I fumble about the recessed handles, not entirely sure how to open the streamlined door. When I finally do, the dash-mounted screen blips with cars and pedestrians caught in the radar as they cross in front of us.

Space Invaders has come a long way.

Na Zdraví!

We wind through green hills in the north end of the city and slalom down a curvy road into which a few embassies have tucked themselves. My glasses dim with fog as I arrive at the gate framing the Embassy of the Czech Republic. Everyone files though security but me.

My passport is in another car.

We’re greeted with local Czech-style beer and wine, plates of cheeses and meats, and goulash with dumplings. Beef, salmon, pasta and salads. It’s a nice spread in a room lined with an inordinate number of nude sculptures and paintings.

We’re told that the grounds are largely devoid of flat spaces to prevent people from jumping out of windows in attempts to escape with information. Lessons learned, apparently.

Despite the conviviality, all I can think of as I look around the room at everyone eating and drinking without masks is the all-too-reality that someone here has COVID and is passing it around. I regret for a moment deciding this was a story I wanted to experience.

But there’s no escaping now.

(Postscript: COVID was indeed present and several attendees have since become sick.)

Signs of the Times.

Trucker convoy seems to have stalled.

Washington, DC — The sky blushes bashfully through a wispy veil as we leave the country for the first time in three years.

It’s an early start that’s reminiscent of our recent drives in Newfoundland.

We had rented a compact car, but have instead been "upgraded" to an eight-seat Toyota 4Runner. What a beast — good thing gas is now $1.74 a litre.

I'm made claustrophobic by the size of the vehicle and the narrow, curving construction lanes, which force me to narrow my eyes in focus. I reflexively try to make myself skinny as we pass 18-wheelers.

Remains of blown tires curl like sheep horns at the side of the road.

The drive is stunning, as it usually is. In Pennsylvania, otherwise beautiful green hills are scarred by trailers scrawled with Trump campaign endorsements. Some look like children have taken crayons to them.

"Guns! Coal! No socialism!" 

Civics teachers everywhere cringe.

Another billboard with a sleeping woman touts: "Sleep well. There is no climate emergency."

I ponder that as I take my customary walk, in 44-degree heat, to ChurchKey, where I have one of the best beers I've ever had. Despite my exhaustion, it's worth the pilgrimage to the city's best beer bar and to have a cheese plate.

As the day closes, I chuckle at the best directions we received from the GPS today: “Turn left at the white building with the pillars.”

Yes, that rather significant white building in DC.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours
• Distance: 976.8 kms
• Weather: Fog, giving way to a mix of sun and cloud. Short, light rain.
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Washington D.C.
  
• Wildlife: Deer

Grounded.

A bright day with a foggy future.

St. John’s, NL – Fog falls fast at Little Heart’s Ease, appearing below us like a glacier clinging to the hills. 

Stripped of life by hungry moose, the grey remains of trees stand like whale ribs. At Come by Chance, idyllic landscapes are whitewashed like memories. Tree lines are sketched out in charcoal over water that melts into the clouds.

Quirky names in Newfoundland add to its charm. Even for Random Island and Nameless Cove, where they seem to have given up trying.

Much like Air Canada, it seems.

At least we returned to Bannerman.

It turns out that our flight home is cancelled, leaving us with a bonus day in St. John’s. As we make our way back downtown, we're amazed at how much has changed in a week as the city prepares for Canada Day festivities and for the tourist season.

New patios have been built and new restaurants have opened. There’s a buzz of activity around George Street and security or buskers dot most corners. Most of all, there are people everywhere, in stark contrast from last week.

We were offered a night here or at Toronto Pearson International Airport, where massive delays have left people without bags, hotels or options to get home. Seems like a no-brainer.

The only catch: we need to be at the airport by 3:30 a.m. tomorrow.

(Postscript: We made it to Toronto and had our connecting flight cancelled for four more days. With Air Canada so busy their lines wouldn’t even accept calls, we found alternate travel home. But, we are among the fortunate ones.)

Rolling on The Rock.

Our time on The Rock is setting.

Clarenville, NL – Blackflies ping off our vehicle with such frequency and ferocity we think it’s raining. 

Our bumper is furry.
 
We have begun our return home by slaloming between potholes: a roadtrip version of whack-a-mole. Or at least whack-a-mile.

A cinematic beauty continues to play across the windscreen: a Lite Brite of yellow and orange wildflowers breaking up various shades of green along the highway.

Leaning over the gas pump in Gander, I chat with a man who played hockey for the London Knights in the 1960s. Even in Newfoundland, London is a small town.

But he wouldn't recognize the city, or the team, now.

Fjord (Pinto).

Pissing Mare Falls. (Hey, I don't pick the names.)

Shoal Cove, NL – By the time we arrive for our hike into Western Brook Pond, the mountains have been erased.

It's the first time I've had to wear my raincoat this trip.

In fact, the winds are so strong across Jerry's Pond that small waves curl into whitecaps and crash into the short scrub. As the Western Brook gorge acts as a funnel, it's common for winds to reach 100 kilometres an hour.

Our captains aren't even sure our boat tour of the inland fjord will take place. But they decide to give it a go and we soon find ourselves surrounded by 2,000-foot cliffs. 

Large rocks at the bottom are the remains of former mountaintops.

Gorge-ous.

The northernmost section of the Appalachian Mountains, Western Brook Pond has been carved by glaciers and is now filled with pristine freshwater that is 575 feet at its deepest. When the glaciers melted as recently as 8,000 years ago, the earth shifted, cutting off access to the ocean.

As such, Western Brook Pond is technically no longer a fjord.

Moving into the lake, the skies turn blue. It's as though we've wiped an Etch A Sketch and exposed a new drawing. The sun shines on rock previously hidden under a woolen cap, exposing a new dimension of beauty.

Suddenly, the mountains are a lot taller.

The other boat drops three hikers off for a three-day backcountry hike to Gros Morne Mountain, which can be seen 48 miles away on a clear day. It was once a key landmark for sailors.

"They won't make it," our guide quips.

 "Too many bears and blackflies."