the rail.

Rail travel is not meant to be as adventurous in the 21st century as it was in the days of steam trains, but I’ve discovered a way to re-create the past.

Currently: traveling Toronto to Nakina, VIA Rail: 3:00pm.

This 20 hour train journey was to begin promptly at 9am from Union Station in Toronto. At 9:15am, I find myself questioning the passenger behind me in a line of people walking towards Gate 10. The questions in my mind are verbalized as I become aware of the fact that my train was to depart from Gate 8, and I suddenly find myself herded along with the other passengers past the pillar with that label. “Where are you headed?” asks I. “Ottawa,” he replies. “You?” Knowing full well that Nakina, my destination, will mean nothing to likely every other person I unexpectedely find myself boarding a train for Ottawa with, I reply with my trains ultimate destination, “Vancouver.” And the reality of stupidity crosses my mind. I have just spent the last half hour waiting in line for a Gate that has been fully opened for likely an hour, welcoming those guests who wish to travel from Toronto to Vancouver via Nakina.

Finding the nearest VIA representative, I explain my situation, knowing full well that it is a hopeless one as the next train headed to Nakina leaves Toronto on Thursday, two days away. Mine is the route less traveled. Thankfully, the holiday spirit is still in the air as the VIA rep goes to ‘see what she can do’. Five minutes later, she returns with the hint of a smile – the kind of smile one gets when they know that it is guaranteed to be returned with another smile. “I found you a ride to Washaga”, or whatever it’s called. Washaga, Washabo, Wash-something-or-other. Whatever it is, it’s the next stop after Toronto for my train, and it happens to be an hour and a half north of Union Station. And I need to get there, pronto.

Ten minutes later, my ride arrives: a brand new Lincoln cab, driven by Sadar of Niagara Tours, complements of VIA Rail. The chase is on. Like two armed bandits, Sadar and I gallop full throttle in pursuit of the promising loot of a passenger-filled train, it’s rising steam disappearing in the distance. We have an hour and a half to meet up with a train that is, by VIA’s timetable standards, 1 hour and 20 minutes away. Under normal circumstances, this would be no problem. But the man at the reins is riding a new horse, and decides that this would be a great time to break in his trusty steed’s cruise control. Time is ticking as we pull into Barrie to check our status on a map and fill up on fuel. 50 km away, 25 minutes to go. With the cruise control mastered, Sadar sets our pace at 140 km/h , and we gallop down Highway 11, past Orillia and all the other towns along the way. My train is to arrive in Washago at 11:08am. We trot into the station at … 11:08am.

Suspense-filled pause.

A man waits alone on the platform, taking in deep breaths of nicotine, luggage at his side. Jumping out of the car, I dash over to him with one question on my mind: “Are you waiting for VIA?”

Suspense-filled pause.

“Yup,” he replies. And with a handshake and a hug, Sadar proudly declares our victory to timetables and runaway trains. Mission accomplished, Sadar jumps back in the saddle of his new pride and joy, and rides off into the, er…midday sun… with promises of a future meeting in Grimsby to discuss our adventurous tale over a round of Tim Horton’s coffee.

And now, four hours later, I find myself on the elusive train as it courses it’s way through rocky passages and lightly dusted snow on green pine and white birch, interspersed with the lakes of which can only be found in Northern Ontario. In the distance the sound of a train whistle emanates from the diesel engine three cars ahead, whose constant drone provides a perfect backdrop for the music that quietly plays through my headphones. I love train rides.

freedom in flying

There's something about flying that brings with it a deep sense of freedom. I don't know what it is really, but the peace I feel as I wait for my flight number to announced, the absolute state of relaxation I feel as I sit through the protocols of airplane safety is, truly, profound. Maybe it's because I know that everything I really need in life is "safely stowed under the seat in front of me" or buried beneath the belongings of my traveling companions in the cargo hold under my feet. Perhaps my sense of freedom comes from knowing that all obligations, all commitments, all of my daily duties have been left behind with Pearson International Airport.

Currently: Flying 482 mph at 36084 feet, Toronto to Vancouver. Home to Home: 2pm

I crave this sense of freedom that I feel right now. I have longed for it since returning to Ontario. And I find it ironic -- not that this freedom comes as I return to BC, but that it comes to me while in limbo - while flying thousands of feet above the earth that forces me to make decisions. Any decisions I make right now cannot affect my immediate life - except for the stupid decisions that cause emergency landings and terrorist interrogations. But those daily decisions that we make everyday have no impact on life when in the air: Should I get up today? Should I fill my car with gas? Should I print that job now, or wait for a more 'convenient' time? Do I make that phone call? Send that email? Talk to that person on MSN? None of those decisions can be made here. There truly is a sense of freedom in flying.

Plans. Our world seems to revolve around plans. We've got a 'plan' for reducing emissions in Canada. We've got a 'plan' for Iraq. We've got a 'plan' to solve the AIDS crisis in Africa. Those are the big things, but we're told we need to make plans for our lives. Plan your retirement now! Plan your child's education finances now! Plan your budget. Plan your funeral. Plan your holidays. Plan your day, right down to the quarter-hour. It seems there is no escaping our culture's need to plan.

Maybe I rant against our need for plans right now because I have none. No plans. Naughta. It seems that the things I plan end up finding a wrench in the gears at some point anyway. I'm trying to remember what the Bible says about plans. Oh yeah: Commit your plans to the Lord, and they will succeed. [Why do I remember that?] How much time do we spend planning our next plan and not committing our plans to the One who will allow fruit to come from them? It's a lesson I continue to learn. Over and over and over again. Okay, so it's a lesson that goes in one ear and out the other. Over and over and over again. And yet, I continue to plan my plans and assume that they are okay because they seem right to me, they seem like a logical next step in this plan-driven world I find myself in. And it feels right, dang it.

Does this all mean that we are really meant to live life on impulse? And does that really just boil our existence down to the age-old concept to fight or flight? If that's true, my impulses are locked in flight mode. Ha. The irony of typing this as I sit on Westjet flight #803 is, well....ironic. Maybe it's time to fight. Maybe we really are meant to, at some point, stop acting on impulse and fear, buckle down and strap the boxing gloves on. The question is: which battles do I choose to fight, and on which battleground? And perhaps the bigger question is: will I choose to fight alone?