The wind

I live in Calgary, Alberta. The unique climate here means we get a phenomenon called a Chinook. Warm, humid air blows from the Pacific ocean into the west coast of North America, travelling up the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains. As it progresses eastward, it gains elevation and loses much of its water content through the mountains. As it crosses the Continental divide and begins to descend along the eastern slopes of the Rockies, it warms the surrounding air and the pressure change causes wind.

In some cases, a LOT of wind.

It can be extremely forceful and disruptive, reaching speeds upwards of 100km. Typically, it’s much less dramatic. The effects of a Chinook, however, are palpable. For most folks, the warmth a Chinook brings in the depths of winter are sweet relief from the deep freeze of the prairie cold. Temperatures in Calgary can jump 20 degrees Celsius in the span of a day. For folks sensitive to barometric changes, however, Chinooks are a constant threat. Many in my family suffer from migraines resulting from Chinooks. Why they continue to live in a place where the weather tries to destroy their minds, I do not understand.

The wind is a nearly constant presence here. It can become tiresome to have your hair blown into disarray after careful styling, or to have your eyes and skin feel raw and stinging after walking a block in winter. I haven’t ever fought against it too much, because it’s an unstoppable force and I need to live at least a part of my life outdoors.

I went for a walk a few weeks ago in the strong wind. Being the deepest depths of winter at the time, darkness fell early and while I walked at 7 pm or so, the sun had retired hours past. Despite the dark, it was warm. The Chinook was working its magic, making the air bearable against skin. I went out along a familiar route through my neighbourhood, located on a bluff overlooking the Bow River and its wide river valley. I followed the sidewalks and paths through the community, which is fairly established with mature trees and older homes. I was consumed on this walk at the sound of the air through the trees.

The deciduous trees, having shed their delicate leaves months before, rattled and whistled in the onslaught. Their boughs clattered against one another, the scant remaining leaves that withstood the winter’s effects and still clung to their stems quaked and shivered.

The coniferous trees were much more affected by the wind. They swayed back and forth as though shaking off flies, their needles combing the wind and producing an absolute symphony of resistance. They roared and tossed as if enchanted. Trunks creaked and groaned as if tortured.

Beneath these titans, the grasses and undergrowth rattled gently. A quieter resistance, but a resistance nonetheless, made robust by sheer numbers. Millions of grass stems vibrated along the slopes of the bluff. Not as pliable as they are in spring in summer, when they sway and dance in the wind, their skeletal remains glowed silver in the moonlight.

The wind that night felt as though it entered my body and swept me clean of encumbrance. Every nook and cranny left long undusted was blasted spotless by the richness of the sound and sensation of the wind. I returned home beaming, my hair tied in a thousand knots but my smile indelible.

I had the good fortune to travel to Newfoundland with my partner last May. We planned the trip so we would be able to visit the Elliston puffin colony at peak puffin visiting time. Newfoundland is not a hospitable place, well noted for its harsh landscape and unforgiving surroundings. The north Atlantic could not be called warm by anyone with nerves, and we planned accordingly. Equipped with warm layers, rain jackets, gloves, toques, and waterproof bags, we drove the long, wet, winding road from Bonavista to Elliston, stopping a couple of times along the way to poke our heads in root cellars and ditches. When we finally arrived at the colony, the sky and the sea were both grey. The rain was mercifully very light. We parked our rental car and hiked across the field to the edge of the cliff where the puffins nest.

The wind off the ocean was like nothing I had ever felt. It was bitingly cold and salty. It threatened to knock you off your feet and a health respect for the edge of the cliff was very swiftly discovered. We stood for over an hour in the freezing wind on that clifftop admiring puffins. We struggled to take photos with a tripod, let alone free shooting without support. Wat hing those tiny little bottle-shaped birds rocket around through that wind was unbelievable, and I felt as though I had been scoured by the sea despite never even coming near it.  I left feeling more alive than I thought imaginable.

I travelled to Egypt when I was 19 with my mum, sister, and grandmother. A once in a lifetime trip, we took planes, trains, and automobiles across the entire length and width of the country.  My favourite leg of the trip was in the south. We took a sleeper train from Cairo to Aswan. Aswan is a gem in the desert, a beautiful oasis along the Nile. We stayed a night or two in Aswan before boarding a ship that would take us downstream to Luxor. One afternoon, several of the ladies on the tour took up residence on the top deck of the ship. We sat on lounge chairs and watched as the sights along the shoreline slowly drifted past. A gentle breeze kept the worst of the heat at bay, and I felt as though I had been transported back in time.  Slash and burn clearing of palms, feluccas gliding gracefully past, and donkeys braying in the distance. An impossibly perfect afternoon. I will never forget how it felt.