Of Bears, Men & the Barrys of This World

There’s been a fascinating and at times uncomfortable conversation happening around the question: if a woman encountered a man or a bear alone in the bush, which would she choose?

As someone who spends a great deal of my time alone in the bush, hiking, backpacking, paddling and travelling through places where the only company may be the wind, the trees, and the occasional wild creature, I find the question particularly interesting.

I understand why it has struck such a nerve. For many women, it speaks to something deeper than a hypothetical encounter. It speaks to really terrible experiences that produce fear, vulnerability, distrust.  It’s the quiet calculations women have to make simply moving through the world.

But as someone who has spent so much time finding my way through wild places, I also find myself thinking about the men I have encountered along the way.

Some of the most beautiful moments of my travels have involved men I had never met before.  Strangers who offered help without expectation, kindness without agenda, a steady hand when I needed one, or simply a conversation beside a trail that reminded me how generous and connected people can be. Men who looked out for me without ever making me feel small. Men whose goodness was as unexpected and memorable as anything I found in the landscape itself.

This brings me to Barry.

This summer, Casey, Mandee and I found ourselves camping at a ranch in Kananaskis, Alberta, on the precipice of a much bigger adventure, the Wapta Icefield. 

Calling it “camping” was perhaps generous. We were really roughing it: tucked away in the middle of a field, no running water, few creature comforts, and the kind of wide-open wilderness that makes you feel very small in the best possible way.  It was PERFECT. 

Casey and I have been adventure friends for a long time, so we already had our own rhythm.  We have the kind of friendship forged through questionable decisions, big mountains, long days and probably more than a few moments of asking ourselves, What exactly have we gotten ourselves into?

Mandee, however, was new to the equation. We had only just met, but somehow she fit into our little adventure ecosystem beautifully. There was an ease to it almost immediately, as though she had been part of the gang much longer than she actually had.

That day, the three of us went horseback riding around the ranch, soaking in the landscape and getting to know one another. By later afternoon, we had settled into that lovely, loose kind of camaraderie that comes after a day outside.  Hiking boots kicked off, drinks in hand, stories beginning to get better with every sip.

We were sitting there, enjoying ourselves, when a man came riding up on an e-bike.

He peeled in and with a huge smile, asked us, quite casually, “Who has the British Columbia licence plates?”

That was our first introduction to Barry.

At the time, none of us knew that this slightly random encounter in a field in Kananaskis was about to become one of those small travel moments that sticks with you, not because anything extraordinary happened in the conventional sense, but because of the kind of person you happened to meet.

Maybe that’s exactly why Barry belongs in this conversation about bears. 

At first, we were a little reluctant. There’s something about having a complete stranger roll up into your little corner of the wilderness that makes you instinctively pause and cause you to be cautious. We had our own rhythm going, and the interruption felt a little unexpected.

But it didn’t take long for that feeling to disappear.  Very quickly, it became clear that Barry fit our vibe almost perfectly.

Barry is in his 60s and lives in northern Saskatchewan. He is, in every sense of the word, an outdoorsman. He bikes, hikes, fishes, explores and clearly has the same restless curiosity about the natural world that had brought the three of us to that field in Kananaskis.

Before long, we were swapping stories as though we had known each other far longer than an afternoon. One story led to another, and somewhere along the way the lines between stranger and friend began to blur.

Barry loves music. He loves life. He has that wonderful kind of enthusiasm that makes you want to keep listening, keep asking questions, keep the conversation going just a little longer.  So, naturally, Barry joined us around the campfire.

There were drinks, music, laughter and those unexpectedly beautiful conversations that seem to happen more easily outdoors, when the sky is enormous, the mountains watch from the distance, the fire is crackling and nobody is in any particular hurry to go anywhere.

A complete stranger had arrived on an e-bike, and somehow, by the end of the evening, it felt like Barry had always been part of the group.  I remember thinking: this is the part of the “man or bear” conversation that gets lost. 

When bedtime came we discussed plans for the following day. Casey, Mandee and I were hiking Yamnuska and Barry had plans for his own biking/hiking adventure. We decided that we would meet up the following evening for more conversation and maybe a few more drinks. 

After another wonderfully adventurous day, Barry showed up at our campsite again.  This time, we had a few more adventure companions with us, and we had actually planned a hilarious little prank for Barry. But somewhere between seeing him roll up and the sheer excitement of having him back, the prank completely fell apart. We were far too happy to see him to pull it off.

Once again, Barry slipped effortlessly into our little circle.  He had this beautiful way of drawing people into a conversation, weaving our new adventure friends into the stories and laughter even though most of us had never met before. It was one of those rare qualities that makes someone feel instantly familiar, a person who doesn’t just tell stories, but creates space for everyone else to become part of them.  So, once again, the evening unfolded around a campfire with laughter, drinks and stories stretching into the night.

But as the evening wore on, I felt that familiar heaviness begin to settle somewhere around my heart because I knew that tomorrow we would part ways.

That is one of the bittersweet truths of travelling. You meet people in the most unexpected places, sometimes under the most unlikely circumstances, and for a brief moment your lives overlap. You share a campfire, a trail, a meal, a few stories and somehow, in a remarkably short time, they become part of your story, and then you leave.

There are hugs. Numbers exchanged. Promises to keep in touch and then Barry climbed onto his e-bike and disappeared into the darkness, heading back toward his trailer.

I watched his little light fade into the night and thought about how strange and wonderful travel can be. How a complete stranger can arrive out of nowhere and, for a couple of days, become part of your world and how lucky we are when those strangers turn out to be people like Barry.

Nature has taught me that the world is not easily divided into safe and dangerous, good and bad, friend and foe. It is more complicated, more mysterious than that. And perhaps people are too.

I don’t want to dismiss the experiences that have led women to choose the bear. Those stories deserve to be heard. But I also don’t want the conversation to leave us with the impression that men, as a whole, are something to fear.

My travels have introduced me to some extraordinary men, quietly decent, generous, funny, courageous and deeply kind.  In a world that can sometimes feel determined to divide us into opposing camps, I think those encounters are worth remembering too.

 

So perhaps this is less about choosing between a man and a bear, and more about the stories we carry with us into the wild and what those stories have taught us about one another.

For me, one of those stories will always be Barry: a stranger who arrived on an e-bike, became part of our little adventure for a couple of unforgettable days, and left us feeling grateful that we had crossed paths. Because sometimes the wilderness doesn’t just introduce us to ourselves, it introduces us to wonderful people we never would have otherwise known. And sometimes, if we’re lucky, those people are named Barry.

The Wapta Icefields: High, Wild & Unforgettable

I went on another adventure to western Canada this July. This time it didn’t feel like a trip, it felt like a threshold. A line crossed into a bigger, wilder version of who I am. Specifically, my adventure crossing the Wapta Ice field, where in the end, a more impressive version of myself emerged. 

I could probably write a novella on my time spent out west. From the epic road trip, my time with Casey, another summit of Yamnuska, breweries, Whistler with Jeremy, horseback riding, getting to meet and become fast friends with Mandee and meeting incredible strangers, especially Barry. Who I’m sure you’ll hear more about in the future. 

But this time my journey into the Canadian Rockies was an introduction to alpinism in the truest sense: long days spent moving through alpine terrain, navigating crevassed glaciers, carrying everything we needed on our backs, and learning to find rhythm in an environment where the margin for error is smaller and the rewards are almost impossible to describe. The route was demanding, sometimes uncomfortable, and humbling in all the best ways. But every step opened onto another staggering view, endless fields of snow and ice, towering peaks catching the light, and a landscape that made me feel wonderfully small.

The glacier tour started when Casey and I pulled up to Yamnuska Mountain Adventures headquarters in Canmore.  I was fortunate to have met some of our trekking companions the night before camping out at a ranch in Kananaskis. Mandee, an exciting new addition to Casey and my adventure team, fit so effortlessly into our unique brand of joy and adventure that, by the time she came to sit beside us for orientation, she already felt like an old friend.

After receiving our alpine gear we set off for our departure point. With heavy packs strapped on, our crew of 15 trekkers and 2 guides, Peter and Jesse we began. 

We set off from the shores of Bow Lake, following the turquoise waters toward the head of the lake and into the wild landscape beyond. What began as a gentle lakeside walk gradually transformed, crossing river flats, winding through forest, navigating old moraines, and eventually emerging into a vast alpine cirque surrounded by towering peaks and ancient glaciers.

But the beauty of this hike wasn’t only in the landscape. Along the trail, stories unfolded as naturally as the scenery around us, stories that had us laughing, moments of quiet awe, and spontaneous dance parties that somehow felt perfectly at home among the mountains. Every turn brought another breathtaking view, and every climb was made lighter by the people beside me. 

As we climbed higher, the forest gave way to open alpine terrain, revealing an incredible panorama of rock, ice, and sky. The final ascent brought us to Bow Hut, perched at 2,350 metres beside the Bow Glacier, where sweeping views of the surrounding peaks and the canyon stretched back toward the valley below.

Our first day took us seven kilometres, 400 metres of elevation gain, and five hours on the trail.  

The hut itself was an adventure in its own right, a simple mountain shack that somehow became home to more than 30 trekkers for the night. Inside, we slept side by side in rows of bunk beds, summer-camp style, with the unmistakable soundtrack of a crowded hut settling in for the evening. 

There was no luxury here, and certainly no privacy, just a very stinky shared outhouse, cold mountain air, and the wonderfully communal feeling of everyone pulling together.

We quickly learned that staying at the hut meant doing our part. We headed out to collect water, bringing it back to be filtered and shared among the trekkers. It was a small reminder that up here, everything takes a little more effort and somehow, that made the experience even more memorable.

Outside, the alpine snow was simply too tempting to resist, and before long Casey, Mandee and I were in the middle of a full-blown snowball fight, laughing and chasing each other through the snow with the mountains towering around us.

As evening settled over the peaks, we ended the night on the hut’s deck, just Casey, Mandee and me, completely lost in one of those fits of hysterical laughter where absolutely nothing makes sense anymore. Eventually, knowing we had to be up in the morning, we quietly snuck back inside and climbed into our bunks, still trying not to laugh too loudly as the rest of the hut slept around us.

Day two began with a fast wake up, coffee and oatmeal followed by a view that was almost impossible to comprehend. Standing at Polaris Peak in the early morning, with the mountains and glaciers stretching endlessly around us, we were treated to one of those rare moments when the landscape feels almost unreal. The light, the silence, and the scale of the peaks, it was an incredible way to begin the day.

From there, the adventure became considerably more challenging. We headed out across the snow-covered icefield, trading the comfort of solid ground for a long, slow slog through sugary snow. In our big mountaineering boots, every step seemed to require twice the effort. We would take a few strides, sink, stumble, laugh, curse and carry on. It was exhausting, awkward, and exhilarating all at once.

And then, halfway across the icefield, we stopped for lunch.

There we were, tied into small teams, sitting on our packs in the middle of this vast expanse of snow and ice, surrounded by some of the most breathtaking mountain scenery imaginable. We pulled out our lunches and simply sat there, taking it all in. I honestly can’t imagine a more spectacular place to eat a meal. The food may have been simple, but the view was, without question, the most epic lunch setting I’ve ever experienced.

The crossing continued to test us, but those moments of stopping to look around reminded us exactly why we were there. The effort, the snow, the heavy boots and the endless landscape all melted into this epic story.

We crossed part of the Peyto Glacier just before arriving at our hut for the evening. It was such an incredible experience. It was like being in a bowl of blue ice surrounded by towering cliffs. A mastery of nature, and I remember thinking several times how incredibly small I felt. 

By the time we reached Peyto Hut, we had earned the chance to slow down, eat, and settle into the simple rhythm of life in the mountains. The hut was our little refuge at the end of another big day, a place to gather, play dice, have a few spiced rum and hot water, swap stories, laugh about the day’s adventures, and recharge.

Casey, Mandee and I took the opportunity to sit outside and be completely, unapologetically silly. Maybe it was the rum, the ridiculous fake moustaches Casey had brought along, or perhaps just the sheer absurdity of finding ourselves laughing uncontrollably in one of the most incredible places in the world.

After days of pushing ourselves physically and mentally, there was something wonderfully liberating about letting go for a while. No goals, no expectations, no trying to be tough, just three friends being ridiculous, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and remembering that adventure doesn’t always have to be serious.

Sometimes you need to stop, be silly, and laugh until you can barely breathe and honestly, there may be no better place to do that than surrounded by glaciers and endless alpine sky.

After supper, the atmosphere outside began to change. A storm cell rolled in, and suddenly the mountains were alive with electricity. Lightning flashed across the sky, followed moments later by deep, rumbling thunder that seemed to echo through the valleys and bounce off the peaks.

For hours, our crew gathered around the tiny table and squeezed into our bunks, watching the storm unfold through the windows. We’d catch a flash of lightning and instinctively look at each other, waiting for the thunder to follow. Then another bolt would light up the entire landscape, revealing the mountains for just a split second before plunging everything back into darkness.

There was something incredibly special about being tucked away in a remote mountain hut while a storm raged outside. We were safe, warm, and together, completely mesmerized by the show nature was putting on just beyond the walls.

We woke on our final morning to a completely transformed landscape. Sometime during the night, a dusting of snow had settled over the mountains, rocks, and ground surrounding Peyto Hut, coating everything in a fresh layer of white. It felt  magical, pristine, and impossibly remote. After everything we had experienced over the previous two days, waking up to a winter-like landscape in the middle of summer felt like one last gift from the mountains.

Our final day began by heading back onto the glacier, crossing the ice toward its lower reaches. The glacier was beautiful but demanded our full attention. There were a few sketchy sections along the way, and the steep descent off the glacier was particularly intimidating. Tied into the team, I found myself concentrating intensely on every step, with the very real fear that one wrong move could send me sliding and take everyone I was roped to down with me. It was a humbling reminder that out here, every person’s footing mattered.

Leaving the glacier behind, the terrain continued to challenge us. What was supposed to be a mostly downhill day turned into a series of steep, technical descents that tested tired legs and demanded patience. We picked our way down through moraines, rocky terrain, river flats and forest, and even had to be tied in to rappel down a little cliffside. 

Just when we thought our legs had given everything they had, we reached a river crossing, followed almost immediately by another major ascent. After three days of climbing, glaciers, snow and long stretches of rugged terrain, that final climb felt enormous. It was the kind of climb where you look up and think, Oh shit, that’s not really the way we’re going? But we kept moving, one step at a time, knowing that somewhere beyond it was the end of our journey.

And then, suddenly, we emerged onto the tourist trail.

The contrast was almost surreal. For days, we had been surrounded by nothing but mountains, glaciers, silence and each other. We had crossed icefields, slept in remote huts, watched lightning storms from the safety of our bunks and walked through landscapes that felt completely untouched. Now, within minutes, we had gone from total wilderness and isolation to hundreds of tourists gathered around the Peyto Lake lookout, all trying to capture a glimpse of the incredible wilderness we had just spent three days experiencing from the inside.

I couldn’t help but smile.

They were taking selfies of the view we had just walked through.

I felt that I was carrying something they couldn’t see, the memories of everything beyond the viewpoint. The snowball fights, the stories, the laughter, the storms, the challenging climbs and descents, the glacier crossings, the ridiculous moments, and the breathtaking silence of having those mountains almost entirely to ourselves.

Wapta was an adventure into the mountains, but it was also an introduction to a new way of moving through them. It challenged me physically, expanded my understanding of what alpine travel can demand, and gave me a glimpse into the world of alpinism that I already know I want more of.

And then, just like that, it was over.

As I sat in the parking lot waiting for our rides back to Canmore, the enormity of it all finally caught up with me. A huge swell of emotion rose in my chest, and before I knew it, tears were running down my sweaty cheeks. It felt almost ridiculous to be crying in a parking lot surrounded by cars and tourists, but I couldn’t stop them.

I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.

Not to the glaciers. Not to the mountains. Not to the wildness of those three days. And not to the people who had shared every step, stumble, laugh, fear and ridiculous moment with me.

There was grief in leaving because, for a little while, I had belonged entirely to that place. We had lived by the weather, the terrain and the rhythm of the mountains. I had carried everything I needed on my back, relied on our guides and my fellow trekkers, and woken each morning surrounded by a world that felt impossibly vast.  Somewhere along the way, the mountains had gotten under my skin.

I left the Wapta with tired legs, a full heart, and a deep ache for something I still can’t quite name yet. Maybe it was the wilderness. Maybe it was the people. Maybe it was the person I had become out there.

Or maybe it was simply the realization that I had found a world I didn’t want to leave behind.

The mountains had given me a taste of what was possible and I knew, with absolute certainty, that this would not be my last time chasing them. 

Until the next adventure, 

Deana 

The Side of My Dad Only Quetico Knows

My dad is the hardest working man I know.   For as long as I can remember, he has put long hours and a huge commitment into his career driving truck and operating heavy machinery. Even after his retirement, when he is needed my dad will show up to work a shift. Outside of his day job, his evenings were often filled with backyard chores, working on his truck or boat and fixing things at our camp. He is conscientious and instilled in me the importance of work ethics and creating a reputation for yourself, especially in a small town.  

My dad also holds the philosophy of “work hard, play hard” and my whole life is coloured with amazing experiences outside. Despite spending a lot of time outdoors, I wouldn’t really label my dad as an adventurous or particularly sporty guy. He likes to stay in his comfort zone, and probably because he had spent most of his energy working, he wasn’t super active in his leisure activities. 

We didn’t do a lot of hiking, canoeing or winter sports as a family, but we went camping or boating every weekend from May Long to Labour Day, my entire childhood.  In fall we hunted moose in the back country and in winter we were on frozen lakes ice fishing.  Even though we didn’t summit mountains, trek endless miles, or paddle vast open water crossings, my dad was never on the sidelines.  He was always there as an active participant, driving the boat, chopping wood, coaxing campfires to life or slowly walking down sun-soaked roads with a rifle looking for game.  The setting of my childhood is outside.  I remember that my dad always looked like he was enjoying himself but was tentative to embark into unknown and was not usually keen on activities that were strenuous.  The exception, however, is when he is at Quetico.

Out at Quetico, my dad becomes a slightly different version of himself. He is lighter, braver, more alive. The routines and responsibilities he carries so steadily at home seem to loosen their grip the moment we pull into that provincial park. We’ve been there  together twice now, once in the summer and again this past January. 

I have been wondering why Quetico has this magical impact on my dad and why it inspires him so much. Maybe it’s the quiet forest that wraps him tightly in rugged isolation that  he  can lean into adventure with quiet excitement,  saying yes to early morning snowshoeing, long days of paddling and one more trail just to see what’s there.  

The wilderness at Quetico pulls something awake in him. He moves more, laughs more and meets each challenge with a determination shaped by fresh air and stillness.  Whether it’s navigating the unknown, setting out despite bad knees and sore muscles, Quetico pushes him to be active in ways that feel less demanding, less like work with more of a reward.  Out there, away from distractions, he isn’t just visiting the wild, it’s bringing out a more adventurous side of who he’s always been.

In the summer of 2019, we pulled my parent’s camper out to Quetico for a long weekend. Mom, Dad, Steven and I went.  I had anticipated a typical low-key weekend outside with campfires, little walks in the front country and hoping that Steven and I would get on the water for a paddle. Shortly after arriving, my dad suggested we rent a canoe and go out for a paddle the following day. I have never been in a watercraft without a motor with my dad before and was curious as to why he was so excited to go.  Early the next morning after camp coffee and breakfast, we set out. My mom and dad in the canoe, me on my SUP and Steven in his kayak. We packed lunch, but I was positive that after an hour on the water Dad and Steven would be done and we would return to the trailer for afternoon cocktails. Not the case. That day we spent seven hours on the water and paddled all over French Lake and as far as we could up Baptism Creek.  I was astonished we’d gone that far. 

When we got back to camp that evening,  we had a few celebratory rum drinks  and watched the sun sink low in the sky and  cast glorious orange and golden light onto French Lake.  Maybe it was the beautiful siren call of the lake, maybe it was the rum, but my dad decided to try out Steven’s kayak. I have never seen my dad in a kayak but today seemed like the day for dad to do non-typical dad things.  So, in true Dean style, he made his way down to the beach in his jeans, hoody and ball cap  and got in. Well, he got about four paddle strokes, and the ‘Canadian Tire Special’  tipped over. My son and I were on the paddle board,  and we started to laugh hard. A few seconds went by, and he didn’t pop out of the water.  A few more seconds passed, and our laughter was replaced by worry.  

We quickly paddled to the overturned kayak. Just as we approached, my dadflew out of the water, eyes wide, gasping for air. “Holy Shit!” he exclaimed “I almost died!”

Maybe it was out of anxious relief, maybe because he looked so out of place, hat still on his head although cockeyed, wide eyes,  hoody  dripping and paddle in hand, but I burst out laughing once more. After catching his breath, he joined us. Dean learned a lesson that day: It’s probably not a great idea to jump into a kayak that is FAR too small for you, with zero experience after half a 26er of rum. You might get your hips stuck, tip over and run the risk of not coming out of French Lake. 

Fast forward to January 2026, after many heartfelt conversations with my parents, one thing was certain. It was time to return to Quetico.  Steven and I have an annual winter camping trip there, just the two of us.  As a Christmas gift for my parents, this year we decided to take them along. We rented the Artists Retreat cabin, packed up the truck and set out on snowy highways on a wintery Friday afternoon. 

My expectation for the weekend was that we would have some campfires, cocktails outside and that mom and I would go cross-country skiing while Steven and my dad took a drive to Atikokan to break up the weekend. Boy was I wrong. 

My dad was up at 5:00 am Saturday morning with the coffee on, and plans behind his eyes. Steven was keen to go skiing, and my parents were going to put on the snowshoes and explore the trailthat started at the back door of our little cabin.  

Steven and I skied through the park and after 2 hours came back. To my surprise, my mom and dad were still gone! A little nervous, we threw on our snowshoes and went out to find them. We discovered them on the trail with wide smiles and laughter. They had found a trail they were keen to explore but were coming back to the cabin for a drink and some lunch. We had a campfire, roasted some hot dogs and had a drink. I thought for sure that it would be the end of our adventures outside for the day, but after dad finished his beer, he wiped his hands on his jeans and exclaimed: 

“Let’s go check out that other trail”

Shocked, I turned my head to look at my mother. Her eyes were wide and she shrugged her shoulders. I looked to my son whose jaw dropped and quietly mouthed “Whaaaaat!?!?” 

Fearing it was a fluke and that he would  change his mind, we quickly strapped ourselves in our snowshoes and set out once again. 

The afternoon was magical.  The quiet snow-covered trails were delicately insulated from the winter cold. Fresh snow covered the ground in a fluffy sparkling blanket, and it felt like we were the only people in the entire park.  We followed a boardwalk down to French River and then did a huge loop through the campground. I think it’s the farthest I have ever seen my dad walk. 

By the time we crunched our way back to the cabin, the last light fading into a pale northern dusk, our bodies carried the ache of a day we’ll spend outside.  The smell of dinner sizzling that night felt like a reward we truly earned, each bite richer for the kilometers behind us.  

As night settled in the excitement didn’t. Around the table, the stakes rose over a handful of dice. Laughter, mock accusations and dramatic rolls filled the cabin and echoed across frozen water. Somewhere between the rousing games and the stillness outside I was reminded of that “thing” in my dad I don’t always see back home. 

We left Quetico as we always do, a bit tired, a little sore but more than anything, we left with something harder to put into words. A quiet pride of miles and memories. The laughs, adventures and the version of ourselves that only shows up out there.  Maybe most of all, I left with a renewed appreciation for my dad, the adventurous, fearless side of him that Quetico seems to draw out so effortlessly. It’s a side of him that reminds me where my own sense of adventure comes from, and the one I hope to continuously chase long after the snow has melted and the trails have faded from view. 

Until the next adventure

-Deana

 

They Called Us Savages: A note about hockey, heritage and humility.

Tonight my son’s U15 team played a game at the Fort William Gardens. An iconic ice cathedral for winter sport in Northwestern Ontario.  Stepping onto the ice at the Gardens feels like stepping onto a stage meant for legends. For kids from a small town in the north, it’s more than a rink it’s where dreams are lit under the bright lights and the roar of the crowd echoes like the NHL arenas they watch on TV. Every stride, every shot, every cheer makes them feel like they’re playing the big show, and for a few magical hours, the northern chill can’t touch the fire in their hearts.  

Our team just came from a heartbreaking loss over the weekend in the Eastern Zones championship against the Superior Stars.  Their silver medals hung heavy and they walked into the Gardens thirsty for a win.  It’s a body contact league and the Nipigon Elks lean into this sport with passion. They are a talented, competitive, gritty bunch of kiddos and have a reputation for being scrappy.

Nipigon is a small town and over the years I have come to know these kids and their families and can honestly say that every single one of them are amazing young people. They are kind, tenacious, amazing young men and women. Maybe not always on the ice, but when you have 13 and 14 year old humans in the thralls of a competitive, passionate and fast paced sport, cooler heads don’t always prevail. 

Being a parent of a child in a contact sport comes with a mix of pride and vigilance. You understand the bumps, bruises, and occasional rough moments are part of the game, it’s exactly what you signed up for. At the same time, you see your child gaining so much more than physical skill: they develop confidence, resilience, teamwork, and a healthy outlet for their energy and passion. The risks are real, but the lessons and growth your child experiences make every hard check worthwhile.  To be clear, this isn’t a platform for me to defend poor behaviour that happens on the ice. Sometimes bad hits are made, our kids aren’t always good sportsman/women, they make mistakes and they are an intense group of impulsive, hormone (and emotionally) driven kids.  They have good coaches and this game is monitored and regulated by trained league assigned referees that dole out punishment and retribution. 

Tonight as we were watching the game, some of our kids threw some big hits. Penalties were given but as the game progressed I overheard parents behind us yelling: 

“That kid is a f$&@ing asshole” 

“You are all a bunch of animals” 

“Go back to Nipigon, no one wants you here” 

The Nipigon Elks were winning by a considerable margin and the tension in the Gardens was high by the end of the third period.  When the game was over I was walking out with a friend.  Parents from the opposing team were walking behind us- a women, either a mother or grandmother says very loudly (obviously with the intention for us, and anyone else around to hear): 

“They are all a bunch of savages” 

I turned to my friend wide eyed and astonished and asked her: 

“Did they just call us savages?!” 

“Yeah” she replied. “They called us savages” 

In the moment, I didn’t react. I don’t think it truly sunk in. I was shocked.  I waited for my son to undress, we walked to the vehicle and we drove back to Nipigon. 

The drive back was quiet. My kiddo fell asleep a few minutes outside of the city, but that comment kept circling in my brain making me angrier and angrier and then overwhelming sad. It violently and unexpectedly shook a piece of my identity. 

In my family, my generation has been the first to acknowledge and practice our Indigenous heritage. My Papa never sought out his status and our ancestry was never talked about when we were growing up.  When my Papa and his brothers were younger there was so much systemic racism towards Indigenous people that my Great Grandmother tried to keep her children out of the sun during the summer for fear that their skin would get darker and their heritage would be exposed. She knew that they would be ostracized, bullied, have less opportunities and be the target of hate. She was afraid that her children would be called savages.  

As Métis people, they had the ability to walk with one foot in each world and benefit from the safety of white privilege of our partial European heritage. However many of the customs, traditions and teachings in my family were lost due to fear of residential schools, racism and segregation faced by Indigenous people in small communities in the North.  

It makes me sad that I wasn’t able to learn my culture from my ancestors. It makes me sad that there was so much pressure for them to assimilate and that my Dad, Papa and his parents felt so much shame about who they were as people. It makes me sad that at a hockey game in 2026, someone made a harmful and inconsiderate comment that brought all of that back to the surface. 

Most of the kids on my son’s hockey team are Indigenous. Most of them are First Nation. I think that people need to be more aware that calling a group of kids and families savages is deeply hurtful because the word is not just an insult, it carries centuries of racist history.

European colonizers used the term to portray Indigenous peoples as uncivilized, violent, and less than human. That language was used to justify land theft, forced assimilation, residential schools, and widespread abuse. It supported policies designed to erase Indigenous identity and culture. 

This word has been historically used to justify oppression, it carries far more weight than you could ever imagine as it can reopen historical wounds and reinforce damaging narratives.

This is hockey. You can be angry if you feel something unjust has happened. You can be hurt if your child gets injured on the ice.  You can be disappointed in the behaviour of teenagers but I think as adults we have a responsibility to model regulation of those emotions and understand that our words matter especially words that negativity impact the identity of an entire race of people. We have the power to counter centuries of dehumanization rather than continuing it.

Im not writing this to shame anyone. I’m not writing this to expose anyone and I’m not writing this to tell you that you can’t feel big feelings when it comes to a sport with body contact.  Im writing this to ask you to reconsider. Think about what you say as the incredible parent your child looks up to.   We’re not a bunch of assholes. We’re not animals.  We deserve the opportunity to play at the iconic Fort William Gardens. We’re not savages. We’re just a bunch of people trying to survive a really complex time in human history and we’re just trying to give our kids the opportunity to play a sport they love. 

The Bow Rider

To slip from the bow,

where the wind once kissed my cheeks

and laughter echoed off the spray,

is not to lose the thrill 

but to return

to something quieter.

I trade horsepower for heartbeat,

wake for whisper,

and speed for silence.

Paddle in hand,

I glide not to arrive,

but to remember.

The lake still knows my name,

but now, it speaks it softly 

like it did

when I was a child,

barefoot on the dock,

believing the water could hold everything.

And maybe it still does.

Ever since I was little, I’ve known my place on every watercraft I’ve ever been in. I’ve always needed to be up front. Wind in my face, hair tangled, clothes clinging to my body with lake spray. That’s always been my seat, where the world feels wide open and everything else fades into the roar of the motor and the rush of air.

My earliest memories, on my Dad’s 16 foot Crestliner, I would sit in the very front and lean far over the bow while we ripped across Partridge Lake- the 30 horse Yamaha pushing us quickly along. I would make a little nest with life jackets in the front when I was sick of fishing and nap in the sunshine as far to the front as I could. 

I remember being on my Papa’s Superior Princess, a 42 foot steel hull cruiser. I would make my way around and sit on the anchor house, as far forward as I could, with my arms hanging over the handrail. 

The bow isn’t just a spot on the boat, it’s a feeling I’ve been chasing my whole life.

I’ve always needed the freedom and the rush. The kind that wraps around your body when you’re stretched out in the front, sun on your face, hair wild, the whole lake ahead of you and nothing behind but the wake.

Since I was little, that’s where I had to be. Knees tucked, fingers gripped to the rails, heart pounding as we flew across the water. That spot taught me something early: freedom is a feeling you can chase… and catch.

But over time, that feeling deepened. I started craving closeness. I didn’t just want to ride the water, I wanted to feel it, hear it, move with it on my own terms.

That’s when I fell in love with kayaking. Then paddleboarding.  Suddenly I wasn’t just on the water, I was in it.  Skimming across glassy mornings in total silence, my paddle cutting clean lines into the surface like poetry. Sunrises that wrapped around me in pinks and golds, the world hushed except for the lap of water against the hull. Evenings where I’d just float let my legs dangle, head tilted back, stars blinking above and something ancient pulling at my soul.

It stopped being about freedom and started being about intimacy.  Me and the lake. Just us, no noise, no engine, no rush. Just rhythm. Just breath.  A quiet conversation between my heart and the water.

And I don’t think I’ll ever stop needing that but I’ll always be a bow rider, craving wind in my face and wet freedom ahead of me. 

Where the Trail Went Cold: A Tragic Mystery Buried at Isle Royale

Approaching Isle Royale 2018 from our ferry

As someone who is deeply connected to the outdoors and spends a lot of time in our most rugged and isolated places in the Northwest, my relationship with nature is a sacred and powerful one. The trees, creatures and cold deep water of Lake Superior have always provided me with solace, peace, excitement and positive energy. When tragedy strikes, it can have a profound guttural effect, leaving a tarnished dark cloud over sacred places that cause an uneasy emotional reaction that rattles my soul. 

Paige, Joanne and I on our first backpacking trip out to the island. This photo was taken by the ship’s captain before we set off

Early in June, a group of friends and I, were in discussions about a potential backpacking trip to Isle Royale. It was going to be my second trip to this remote and incredibly majestic National Park in the US.  Unfortunately, we weren’t able to secure ferry transportation in time and dreams of revisiting the island were pushed to 2026. In the days following our decision to postpone, I was grieving the cancelled adventure and doing some research when I came across a statement issued by the National Park service.  Two people were found deceased on the island. More concerning was the fact that the bodies were found at a campsite where we had stayed on my first backpacking trip there. 

This photo is of me at the South Desor Lake Campsite in 2018.

I was immediately transfixed and began searching for more information. I instantly assumed the deaths were result of an animal attack.  Perhaps the individuals were trampled by a moose, an animal abundant on the island and with whom we had some incredibly close encounters with, on our expedition there. A deep sadness came over me for the individuals who lost their lives and for their families. It made me reflect on some of the close calls I’ve experienced in the wilderness, and this was a solemn reminder of the risks that exist in our wild places. 

We had such incredible encounters with moose this trip. This was my favourite.

I kept a close eye on the news for updates regarding this case and found that new information was impossible to come by. Then, on July 2, almost a month after the bodies were reported, news releases began to pour out. Articles in People and the Detroit News uncovered darker details of the deaths and the names of the men were released. Authorities had reported that they assumed that the deaths were a murder suicide and the victims were father and son. Truly devastating news of a deeply distressing incident. 

In early August, my curiosity was once again peaked when I read an article on Facebook by MLive (Michigan News), that released details of a 911 call from a man in a backpacking group who was at the same campsite that terrible night.  According to MLive, the man reported hearing screaming for over an hour between the father and son and one of them yelled: “Go ahead and kill yourself, I’m going to kill myself. I’m going to murder us all.”  Reading this was extremely alarming.  I then searched and found the 911 recording and listening to the man recount his experience sent a shockwave through my entire system. 

It was reported that at least three other groups were at the South Lake Desor campsite, and the 911 caller indicated that they evacuated in the middle of the night. I couldn’t even imagine the terror the other people were facing after hearing petrifying screams and murderous threats in the isolated darkness.  They were over 11 miles (almost 19 km) from the Windigo ranger station and the only way to get any help is on foot.  This is my worst nightmare as a backpacker.   

This event rearranged something in my soul and triggered so many feelings.  Firstly, I’m a mental health professional by trade and I was consumed by the devastating complexity that must have been faced by the two men who died in such a tragic way.  Mental health has become the silent epidemic of our time and is a wildfire raging on both sides of the border. Lack of resources and services, stressful political climates, impact of the COVID-19 pandemic and overwhelming stigma associated with help seeking, especially for men, have created a societal climate where people are in crisis.  I can’t fathom the challenges faced by both individuals to have them end up in that mental state. Secondly, I feel deeply saddened by the impact on their friends and family. The grief, trauma and heartache faced by those who love them most must be overwhelming, my heart goes out to them. 

On the other hand, my mind goes directly to reliving that experience as an involuntary spectator.  I’ve been to this island. I’ve stayed at that exact site. I’ve experienced the rugged, breathtaking beauty that that place has to offer, and I can’t, for the life of me, imagine my experience of that wondrous place, tarnished by that level of terror. I have put myself in the position of those bystanders, and through every scenario, I’m left with sorrow, fear and regret. 

I’m also left with SO many questions. With no information released on how the men died, and no knowledge of who died first or why, the mystery has me enthralled.  I also have loads of opinions about the lack of information released by the National Park Service.  According to the NPS, in 2023 National Parks brought in 55.6 billion dollars in revenue. It’s a massive business with huge dollars attached and over 300 million visitors per year.  According to Backpacker Magazine, an average of 240 people die on land managed by parks annually. They also highlight some fascinating data that was released by the NPS reporting the main causes of death from 2007-2023: 20.9% drowning, 17.3% motor vehicle collisions, 12.4% suicide, and 14.4% undetermined. You can check out the article here: Data Reveal How People Die in National Parks – Backpacker

The statistics on suicide are severely disturbing and speak to the level of attention and resources needed for mental health in our countries. But what sparks my fascination is the undetermined numbers. Perhaps it’s my inner conspiracy theorist, or maybe it’s because I just finished “Untamed” on Netflix, (if you haven’t seen this show, it’s wildly entertaining. You must).  I’m curious to know how many resources are allocated to investigating deaths in national parks. I would also be curious to know that if almost 500 people took their own lives on park lands from 2007-2023, how much of that 55.6-billion-dollar revenue is going to prevention, mental health promotion or well-being in the USA? 

I’ve been on several backcountry adventures, both with friends and solo.  I have visited many national, state and provincial parks in both Canada and the United States.  We live on lands of immense wonder and beauty and have access to these places so we can retreat to them for comfort, or peace or a new challenge. How do we recover from such a tragedy? How do we feel safe and not let these events colour our experiences?  How do we understand the mystery connected to the dark side of the wild?

And so, even though there is much unanswered, Isle Royale remains as it always has, wild, rugged and unspeakably beautiful. A land where loons cry across silent bays and moose roam freely through the boreal dark. It is a place that demands respect, a place that gives back wonder to those who walk its trails but also asks much in return. The deaths that occurred here are not just tragedies; they are reminders that even in paradise, we are fragile, flawed, and often silently struggling.

We come to wild places like this seeking escape, redemption, clarity. Sometimes we find it. Sometimes we don’t. That delicate line is one we don’t talk about enough. Especially in a culture that values rugged independence but shames emotional vulnerability.

We owe it to each other to do better.

We owe it to these sacred places and the people who walk them to be fiercely relentless about mental health, not just physical survival because the wilderness can’t save us from ourselves. It can only meet us where we are at.

If you, or anyone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts or mental health, please reach out. There are professionals who have the tools and skills to help. You are worth being around for the next adventure. 

Until then, 

Deana 

Into the Pulse of the Earth: Canyoning the Soul of Alberta

It was transcendent looking up at the canyon walls.  Warm mountain air rushing down a long, narrow grotto, meeting cool damp walls that gently kiss far above you in a magical tunnel of wonder. A dark, deep place almost otherworldly, with a thin slit of sunshine and blue sky peeking out overhead. Embraced by stone, where the passage of time slows down and you become part of the transformation of the earth as water slowly carves its way through rock. It’s like being swallowed by the world and navigating your way through a deep and mysterious place where every turn uncovers a new tribulation. There is something pure, raw and mystifying exploring these mysterious, enclosed places. Let me tell you about it! 

Tanner from Banff Canyoning setting up rappel anchors in Peskett Canyon

The rugged heart of the Canadian Rockies is known for its soaring peaks, turquoise lakes and epic hiking. However, beneath its towering summits lies another world entirely. Tucked between monstrous mountains, massive cracks, caves and canyons secretly hide just begging to be explored. The absolute best way of diving into this wondrous world is canyoning.  Canyoning is a relatively new sport in Canada where you have the opportunity to plunge into narrow gorges sculpted by centuries of rushing water, descend thundering waterfalls, and scramble over ancient rock. 

Our canyoning adventure started with a desire to try something different and experience the mountains in a new way. Casey and I were in the depths of a Rocky Mountain adventure. We’d already hiked, camped, paddled, and even rocked a Via Ferrata. But something deeper was calling our adventurous hearts.  Descending through narrow, water-carved gorges and rappelling down falls in Peskett Canyon. That was a tempting and seductive journey neither of us could resist! 

We set out from David Thompson Resort where we spent the night previous sleeping in a prospector tent under a blanket of starlight.  Led by our amazing guide Tanner from Banff Canyoning, and accompanied by two other adventure companions, we suited up, learned the ropes (literally), and took the plunge, both figuratively and physically, into a wild, vertical world of rock and water. What followed was part obstacle course, part natural waterpark, and part trust fall with nature. And it was incredible. 

We had a quick drive down the highway and quickly set off hiking. The sun was hot and the terrain steep.  With our dry bags and gear on our backs, we ascended a well marked path with Tanner leading the charge. When we reached the canyon I was instantly struck with awe. My first feeling was being overwhelmed by the massive walls reaching into the sky.  We stopped at a popular rock climbing crag called Little Russia to get into our gear.  Already sweaty and panting, I wrestled myself into my wetsuit, stepped into my harness, strapped on my helmet and was ready to dive in.  

We eased into the canyon slowly at first, following our guide along narrow ledges where metal rungs were fixed into the rock. I remember gripping them tightly, my knuckles white despite my safety carabiner  connected to a guide line as I looked down into the swirling water below.  It truly felt like we were stepping into some ancient, hidden place carved by chaos.

Once we were in, the real fun began.

Using rope systems set up along the route, we climbed slick rock faces, our feet scrambling for traction while the water rushed past our ankles, threatening to sweep us sideways.  Despite being comfortable with climbing and hiking, I had a graceless technique that involved a lot of grunting, cursing and flailing. 

Tanner, our Banff Canyoning guide did an awesome job and capturing our epic journey.

Between the climbs, we scrambled over boulders, rappelled down little waterfalls, jumped from rock ledges into deep pools and waded through narrow chutes where the current tried to tug us off our feet.  Every step was a mix of adrenaline and awe, as we navigated nature’s obstacle course, built with no mercy but all the beauty in the universe.

I didn’t know how cold and powerful glacier-fed water could really be until it was surging down the back of my neck and soaking through my wetsuit as I dangled on a rope halfway down a rushing waterfall. It was invigorating every second on rappel with the exciting anticipation of being consumed by a hungry falls. When I felt my feet touch the rock of the canyon floor I pushed my way out of the water and looked up. Casey, grinning like this was the best day of her life, was above me, waiting her turn to rappel down. On her decent the falls swallowed her whole.  She laughed shouting something that got drowned out by the torrent that separated us. When her feet hit the ground I reached into the wall of water, grabbed her outreached hand and pulled her out with a squeal of delight. The look in her eyes was pure, ravenous joy. It was totally epic. This was canyoning and we were all in.

An epic photo of Casey and I being swallowed by one of the falls- thanks to Tanner for the awesome photo.

As with any incredible experience, it came to an end far too soon. We ended our adventure where we started. We peeled off our wetsuits back at Little Russia crag and hiked back to our cars parked at the highway. The way out didn’t disappoint with beautiful views of the vibrant, turquoise Abraham Lake.  We returned back to David Thompson Resort for an icy cold beer and delicious food. 

Exploring this more remote and technical terrain offered Casey and I a totally new, incredible challenge and a fresh rush of adrenaline.

If you’re craving a truly immersive adventure, part hiking, part climbing, part swimming, and all heart-pounding, then canyoning through Alberta’s wild backcountry is an experience you won’t forget. 

Until the next adventure, 

-Deana ❤️

Katawashishiw

You know, we don’t give you enough credit. It hurts my heart that we can’t acknowledge your common beauty. Your ability to face the world’s most adverse conditions and continue to bloom every year. We assign blame through unfounded assumptions that unfairly portray you as a nuisance. 

We have labeled you without cause- without consideration- yet you remain. You continue to thrive.

You truly are a glorious creature glowing in the sunlight, vibrant, overcoming and unapologetic. You carry the sent of summer- a buttery, soft,sweet, sensual aroma. Under rated/appreciated/explored. 

You’re more beautiful as you age. Supple golden petals gracefully transform into soft angelic whisps – and even in death- the wind carries you with reverence to another place for you to be reborn again. 

There is so much glorious wonder in your tenacity, your feverish passion for survival. In your quiet defiance, you remind us that resilience is beauty and survival itself is a kind of triumph. You endure not in spite of the world, but because of it, a living testament that even the most overlooked can possess an unshakable will to bloom. 

Unspoken Stories Captured in Stillness- The power behind a photograph.

For me, the statement “a picture is worth 1000 words” holds an incredibly deep, connected and emotional meaning. Capturing moments in the world around me often creates an opportunity to harness ultra powerful emotions and encapsulate big thoughts and ideas.  My photographs are a visual representation of a far more complex underlying current that exists in my heart and soul.  Often, my thoughts are running one million miles a minute and I feel things so deeply and with such power that my mind can’t keep up. Or those emotions and cognitions are so overwhelming that it’s difficult for me to organize them or put words to them.  So, in my attempt to capture those thoughts and feelings and create space where I can process them- I will take a photograph.  That picture represents all of the complex – or beautiful- or terrifying things that I’m facing. Sometimes it can slow down time enough where I can look back on images and reconstruct a narrative and other times the feelings fly away so quickly; I’m just left with a reminder of the intensity of that small moment in time. 

I was digging through some old photographs for another project that I have been dreaming about, and came across one that represents exactly this.  It was October 2, 2020. I’ve written about this experience in detail – five years ago, you can find it by scrolling back on my blog- but for some reason it spoke to me recently- maybe because I needed to be reminded of what it meant.  Let me tell you about it.

On September 26^th 2020. I was in Thunder Bay getting work done on my sleeve. It was such an amazing day- a great hangout with a friend, a hike and tattoo- the perfect day. On my way home that night, I hit a moose.  I don’t have any memories of what happened. I lost several hours of my life and remember coming back to reality in the Nipigon hospital.  It wasn’t until a few days later that I actually realized how serious the accident was. I remember taking a ride up to where my vehicle was towed and seeing it jarred me.  A good friend was with me at the time and he started to cry and threw his arms around me and told me how thankful he was that I was sitting next to him.

The days following the accident were hazy. I banged my head real good.  I couldn’t retain or process information, had a hard time with word recall and my mood was perpetually stuck in a very dark and twisted place.  I had a dangerous reoccurring thought that I wasn’t supposed to survive the accident- I know now, that was a symptom of the concussion- but holy moly. What a confusing and gross headspace to be in. What a challenging space to navigate. Head injuries are the worst.

So back to the photograph- one week had gone by since the moose tried to murder me. I was in a bad way and knew I needed to get out of the house and be in the bush. Initially, I wanted to go alone, but my family was super hesitant to let me.  So, I reached out to my best buddy Joanne and told her I wanted to hike Jack Pine. She was very resistant, and reluctantly agreed to take me.  It truly was what I needed.  I was able to calm down- center myself in nature, connect with my friend, and started to navigate my way through the head fog.

We hiked to Pride Rock lookout and I remember sitting there thinking that the path forward was a gift- and I was SO SO lucky to have that. I was also SO SO overwhelmed by that- I made a few commitments to myself in that moment.  Live with passion. Don’t put off the things you want to do. Stop doing things you hate. Eat the cookie. Get after the goal. Love fiercely.  Do things that scare you. Tell people how much they mean to you. Don’t be so hard on yourself.

In my broken brain, I was scared I was going to lose sight of all of it. So, I jumped up and got Joanne to take a picture of me.  It’s one that I continue to cherish because it was a moment of transformation and a reminder of the commitments I made to myself that day. 

I needed that this week. Looking at that photograph vividly brought back all of those deep feelings and powerful thoughts- it brought back a sense of urgency to focus on the things that matter most. I think that sometimes when we have time and space away from a powerful experience, when life continues and you hop back on the hamster wheel, we loose sight of how precious and delicate our existence is.

In the end, photographs are far more than frozen moments in time. They are vessels of memory, emotion, and meaning. When words crumble under the weight of what we feel, a single image can hold the silence, the chaos, the awe, and the love that language cannot touch. They preserve the moments when our hearts spoke louder than our minds, when our thoughts were too tangled to articulate. And within each photo lies an invitation: to revisit, to reflect, and to rewrite the stories we once lived. In capturing what is fleeting, photographs give us the power to create our own narratives, stories shaped not just by what happened, but by how it made us feel. That, in itself, is worth more than a thousand words.

Until the next adventure.

-Deana

Unveiling My Body- The Transformative Power of Burlesque

I have had a tumultuous relationship with my body that really started in my formative years growing up in the 90’s.  It was a time that was centered around constant toxic messaging of ridiculous expectations of what women’s bodies were supposed to look like.  Supermodel culture, ultra thin silhouettes, low rise jeans, aerobics, body shaming and skinny eyebrows.  It was the worst. It led to a shitty environment for me in school, being teased about my weight, and feeling like I belonged on the sidelines because if I wasn’t noticed, then people wouldn’t be constantly acknowledging my size.  Because if this, I had terrible self esteem and I lost out on a lot of experiences in my youth.  I was always angry with my body, desperately wanting it to be different, demanding it to be thinner, transforming it to be prettier and that led to a debilitating eating disorder starting in the summer of grade nine through most of high school.  I was able to recover through my 20’s but had a significant relapse after I gave birth to my son in 2012.  Over the years I have put a lot of effort into repairing this relationship and readjusting my self perception, which has helped immensely.  Now, in my 39^th year on the planet, with kinder eyes and a gentler outlook-when I really think back, I am truly grateful that my body has given me so much even though I have been so cruel to it. It has allowed me to go on countless adventures, hike through the Himalayas and summit African mountains.  It has allowed me to grow life and deliver an amazing human into the world and it really came through for me after a near fatal car accident in September 2020 when a moose decided to jump through my windshield on Highway 11/17.

I have had lots of experiences, growing through my 20’s and 30’s where I was truly proud of my body and started to focus on what it could do versus what it looked like.   Whether it was weightlifting, cross fit, hiking, back packing, ice climbing or paddling, I seemed to be able to fall into a state of radical acceptance about my appearance and focus on the amazing things I was fortunate enough to do.  The issue I’ve been stuck with though, is wanting to move myself beyond just acceptance and be able to see the beauty in my body.  Now, as I am very swiftly approaching my fourth decade, I have discovered the most incredible perspective adjusting form of art that has led me to a path of appreciating myself through music and movement, and I found that in burlesque.  Let me tell you about it.

WHOA, I know, right?!? Before you go getting all judgy, and message your friends to check out the blog post Deana wrote about stripping- just hold onto your breath and your assumptions for a hot second. ALSO a few notes. One: I want to highlight that burlesque by reputation (and practice) is a sexually charged art form and in acknowledging that (because I have a few amazing youths who read my content), want to communicate clearly:  You need to have awareness of appropriate activities for your age, cognitive ability, experiences and development to engage in activities connected to your sexuality. My experience with burlesque might not reflect yours- there are other forms of art, dance, performance and expression that might be more appropriate.  Note number two: I truly believe in the respect and understanding of sex workers who deserve autonomy, dignity and compassion in all areas of their lives.  Burlesque and other forms of adult performance are powerful expressions of choice.  These performances are not to be reduced to mere objectification, but rather seen as affirmation of personal agency. Consent lies at the heart of these endeavours, for people to set their own boundaries and make decisions about their bodies. Embracing the complexities of sex work means acknowledging the diversity of people’s experiences and learning to have respect for individuals who decide to participate.  Alright- breathe out, this isn’t a raunchy article about me taking my clothes off, it could’ve been, but you can hold off on telling Betty on Facebook about it for now- and don’t worry Mom, I won’t embarrass you too much this time 😊. 

Burlesque has a fascinating history and by definition; is a dramatic art form that aims to caricaturize the nature of serious works of literature or art to make people laugh.  It dates as far back as the 16^th century and even literary giants like Shakespeare were considered to fall into this genre.   I think that this is a foundational reason why this category of art can be so transformative.  It forces you to not take yourself too seriously. Its centered around seeing the humour, joy and ludicrously in life.

When I think over my favourite theatre, movies and music, burlesque has been a common thread in the things I enjoy most.  The theatrics of bands like Kiss, Ozzy Osborne, Rob Zombie and Iron Maiden.  Plays like Rocky Horror Picture Show, Moulin Rouge, Chicago, or performances like Zumanity by Cirque de Soleil. My love of dress up, Halloween and cosplay and even my enjoyment of Saturday Night Live skits or watching old clips of The Cher show from the 70’s.  I also have a deep love of drag and queer performance culture. Its all an avenue of seeing the world from a different perspective draped in campy, alternative, flamboyant vibes.  I have found that when you open up, use humour, use artful expression and don’t take yourself too seriously you can create a space that feels much safer, and far more inclusive.   

I signed up for my first Burlesque class with a group of colleagues in May 2024 with Roxy Horror Burlesque.  We all wanted a new experience that was going to be fun and exciting, but we really had no idea what to expect.  I vividly remember walking into my first class, filled with anxiety and feeling exposed.  All my insecurities were amplified in the massive wall length mirrors at the front of the room.  When my eyes met my reflection, I could hear deep seeded monstrous voices start to criticize my belly fat, the size of my arms in a tank top, my messy hair and flat chest. I remember actively adjusting my gaze downward avoiding eye contact with those mirrors that seemed to stare critically back at me.  But then something magical happened. Roxy, our teacher, completely transformed the space. With her warm energy, vulnerable sharing of her own challenges with her body, encouraging presence and use of humour she quickly turned what felt like an overwhelming, intimidating environment into a safe haven for everyone. Her approach was playful yet empowering and everyone felt accepted no matter their age, shape, ability or experience.  Very quickly she was able to quiet the monsters in the mirrors and I was able to sink into the experience letting go of my anxiety and negativity.  

The excitement and nurturing energy of Roxy’s class was something I began to crave.  Every time I walked in, I felt welcomed and supported and I couldn’t wait to return. The atmosphere she created was not only fun and full of energy, it also deeply encouraging, allowing me to shed any remaining self doubt and embrace dance with confidence.  It was through Roxy’s guidance and the positive space she fostered that I began to connect more deeply with myself, learning to honour my body as an instrument of joy, expression and power. I learned to appreciate the reflection in those huge mirrors because they no longer felt like judgemental eyes, but became tools for self celebration, and I could finally relax and stop avoiding the person staring back at me.

I pushed myself further by wearing less. My baggy t-shirts and leggings were replaced with short shorts and crop tops. Rather than panicking when I bent over and a roll of belly slipped over the waistline of my pants, I was able to see my body moving in interesting and alluring ways- It was incredibly sexy and empowering.  I also challenged myself to participate in solo performances in front of our group, taping it so I could learn more about how I can improve and to watch the video to appreciate how far I have come.  I would have NEVER done either of those things in the past.  That first class quickly turned into a passion and aside from learning to love myself in a different way, my favourite thing was to observe other people doing the exact same thing. You could feel the power, sensuality and pleasure radiate in the room.

For me, burlesque is much more than performance art, it’s a transformative journey that encouraged me to embrace my body, regardless of its shape or size. By celebrating sensuality, confidence and expression in a playful and whimsical way, burlesque has provided me with a platform to connect deeply with my sense of self. It invites me to shed my insecurities, laugh at life’s seriousness and celebrate the joy of being unapologetically me. It reminds me to live with power, creativity, confidence and a lighter heart.

Thank you, Roxy. I am forever grateful for the magical space you have created, for introducing me to this magnificent experience and for giving me yet another tool to fight those monsters in the mirror. 

Until the next adventure,

-Deana