Khan directs music videos for Britney Spears.

I decided not to hold that against him, though. After all, David Fincher, who started out directing Madonna for the MTV crowd, has proven his big-screen directorial talent with such flicks as Alien 3, Fight Club and Zodiac. I felt it would be only fair to reference Khan’s filmography before lamenting his handling of Neuromancer.

Khan has one film credit to his name: Torque. Released in 2004, it’s been described as a motorcycle version of The Fast and the Furious. A quick visit to RottenTomatoes.com, where the majority of critics wrote off Torque as utter crap, confirmed my suspicions about that dubious comparison. The San Francisco Chronicle, for example, declared Torque to be “A strong candidate for the most thunderingly stupid movie of the year.”

Now, indie producer Peter Hoffman is handing to the maker of said “thunderingly stupid movie” my favorite novel.

I don’t want to sound mean. Khan may achieve directorial greatness one day, but that day has not yet come. My frustration, therefore, stems from the realization that a sci-fi masterpiece is being entrusted to a novice. As one reviewer writes, Khan, like many music video directors, has “no clue how to tell stories (longer than 4 minutes).” Gibson’s novel engages readers for 271 pages, and has done so for more than 20 years. Any would-be director of Neuromancer should possess commensurate expertise with the motion picture medium.

If David Fincher was busy, I’m sure fans of the novel would have waited. I know I could have.

I remember reading Black Like Me, the memoirs of a white man who chemically tanned his skin dark enough to experience, first-hand, what it was like to be black in the American south. He observed that the southern blacks had been forced down by a white-biased system and, worse, blamed by that system for being down. The effects of such persecution on the psyche of the southern downtrodden was clearly segregative.

Today, a comparable situation exists for certain Western-based minorities who are, more and more, demonized by popular opinion and media sensationalism. Those whose skin is a little too dark or whose names are a little too Arabic tend to experience more than their share of persecution, these days. Some of the persecuted, naturally, seek refuge among those who profess to be like-minded. Sometimes, though, they wander into the company of those who prey upon their despair and channel it into acts of evil.

We are each responsible for our own actions, of course. I cannot blame another person or group for the actions I, myself, choose to take, no matter how much prodding towards those actions I endure. The decision is, ultimately, mine. At the same time, do we not have a responsibility towards one another to ease the prodding? Perhaps a smile in place of a frown might replace a bomb with a book. Naive? Fanciful? Maybe. But maybe not.

In the words of Kahlil Gibran, “Like a procession you walk together towards your god-self. You are the way and the wayfarers. And when one of you falls down he falls for those behind him, a caution against the stumbling stone. Ay, and he falls for those ahead of him, who, though faster and surer of foot, yet removed not the stumbling stone.” As human beings living on one planet, tribal differences notwithstanding, we’re in this together.

We’re all home-grown. Each of us is the product of cultivation, and each of us become cultivators. The sweet flavour and ripe colour of the crops we raise are a reflection of the love we put into them, just as fields of disease and rot are signs of our neglect. Beyond ethnicity and countries of origin, beyond second languages and sacred customs, we’re each the product of the communities we create together. We’re all home-grown, regardless of what we call home. The only question is: What are we growing?

The first is wrapped in the cool-factor anonymity of modern war-making technology. It’s an impressive façade of Kevlar, tinted goggles, and desert camouflage. This is the face that inspires sanitized, Hollywood-style pop culture distractions. It is not so much a face, but a mask obscuring the horrifying truth of war’s consequences, a mask that speaks on behalf of those who insist, from the safety of climate-controlled conference rooms, that their states — recognized and not — have the right to pre-emptive “self defence.”

But strip away the mask of obscurity and censorship and beneath the layers of euphemism you find an altogether different face. The face beneath is that of a young child, perhaps 10 or 11 years old, whose facial flesh has been cut in half by the edges of a jagged metal shard. The purple, blood-encrusted seams of her flesh have been sewn back together with erratic black stitches. This is the face that bears the scars of other men’s furor, the face that must be hidden from other men’s followers lest the true cost of “righteous” ends render the means abhorrent.

There are two faces of war. Which one can see you?

I procrastinated until mid-May of this year before buying a pair of running shoes and getting down to the business of training to run 10 km without killing myself. You know how they say men refuse to read instructions, such as for a new appliance? Well, that’s also true of instructions for the human body. Without bothering to consult any medical or fitness expert, I started doing 4 km circuits around my neighborhood at a pace of 10 minutes running and 2 minutes walking. Rather pleased with myself, everything was going fine until about the middle of my second week when a sudden, searing pain in my shins reduced my proud canter to a crippled hobble. Assuming that this pain was part of the fitness gain, however, I simply fought through it. There are times when having a high pain tolerance is disadvantageous.

I took a few days off before trying again, but not more than a few minutes into each subsequent run, the pain returned. In fact, I couldn’t even walk very far without that now familiar ache creeping up through my lower legs. I was finally forced to admit that something was wrong. Leave it to me to wait until I hurt myself before reading about how I should have undertaken this new activity in the first place. A quick Google search led me to Runner’s World Magazine where I was able to research the symptoms of my pain and come up with the scary self-diagnosis “tibial stress fracture.” According to RW, this injury results when the impact of each footfall overwhelms the muscles and, consequently, transfers to the bone; if the bone cannot handle the stress, tiny cracks form. Recovery could be as long as six weeks, most of the rest of summer.

After a brief exam, the doctor at the local clinic agreed that I may, in fact, have caused such an injury. He ordered a set of x-rays to confirm the diagnosis, which were taken the following morning. The x-ray technician would not reveal anything, but assured me that if the results were “positive,” I’d get a phone call shortly; if there was nothing to report, I’d hear from them in four days. Ultimately, I never heard back from the clinic at all, so after seven days of abstaining from running or excessive walking, I once more ventured into the neighborhood with my running shoes. This time I followed the advice of RW for beginning runners, alternating between 2 minutes of running and 1 minute of walking. After 35 minutes, I was a slightly winded, but pain free.

July 1, 2006 - the day of the big race - came only two days after my post-injury test run, which did nothing to inspire confidence that I could place anywhere other than dead last. The staging area, an open grassy field next to the Mew Lake campground in Algonquin Park, was filled with sporty looking runners leaps and bounds more fit than I was. But, I had resolved to do my best. The past few weeks had been a lesson in humility that I would not ignore, so at the blast of the air horn, I started down the trail with 350 other runners, maintaining an easy 2-minutes-running-1-minute-walking pace the entire way until reaching the 9km marker, from which point I ran the remaining distance to the finish line. Passing beneath the rectangular red archway, I was elated to have fared better than expected. I placed 290 and finished with a time of 1:09:55.

I’ve learned a few things since I began running. First, I absolutely love it, especially cross-country; jogging beneath the forest canopy in Algonquin, surrounded by the silent trees, I was lulled into a peaceful state of mind. Second, the adage “no pain, no gain” is a dangerous one for runners, since pain is your body’s way of indicating a serious problem. By ignoring the pain, I put myself in a world of hurt that could have taken much longer than a week to escape from had I not checked myself. Rather, it was from the pain of humility that I gained the sensibility to continue running safely all year round. I’m already planning to halve my race time on Canada Day, 2007.

You can view my race day pictures here.

Getting inside the park grounds is now like going through U.S. Customs. Each entry lane takes you through a metal detector and into the hands of uniformed personnel dressed alarmingly like U.S. Homeland Security. I watched in dismay as a pair of highschool kids ahead of me were searched thoroughly, each forced to empty pockets and dump out knapsacks. A pocket knife was confiscated from one of them. No one was asked to remove their shoes or submit to a body search, but I was waiting for it.

It was a strange experience, one that reminded me of traveling to and from Colorado a couple of years ago. When I finally cleared Canada’s Wonderland Customs, I half-expected to see a sign inside the gate annoucing “You are now entering the United States.” Not that I was worried, of course. I had my “passport to summer fun.”

I love the smell of my camping gear. Not that virginal smell of synthetics just purchased from MEC, but the scent of a tent, tarp, and pack after years of being buffeted by wind, soaked with rain, and baked dry in the sun. It’s the smell of strain and rest, worry and calm, hunger and satiation, cold and warmth, risk and reward. The endless cycles of trial and triumph that define the wilderness experience polarize, and therefore maximize, these sensations. The smell of my camping gear is the smell of being alive.

Walking among the gold-flecked hills and vales of Hockley Valley Provincial Nature Reserve and, more recently, hiking through the fiery highlands of Algonquin Provincial Park, I am slowly beginning to recognize a connection between the cycle of the seasons and the patterns of suffering and reward I unconsciously seek in the backcountry. For me, to embrace the renewal of change is the difference between merely existing and truly experiencing life.

Lake Superior, Part 2

August 27, 2005

Our trip started with pouring rain which lasted nearly as long as the approximately 3 hours of hiking we did this first day. We camped at Baldhead River where there are 5 sites to choose from. Ours, closest to the river, was probably the nicest. The treacherous rock shelves, radical inland topography, and fatiguing cobble beaches were all very familiar.

Staying true to the promise we’d made to ourselves, our second trip started at Coldwater River, the place [from whence] Vicki had shuttled us up to Gargantua Bay 3 years ago. The first day’s hike took us up and over Bald Head, a tiring but rewarding endeavour, as its lookouts afford you an expansive view of the Superior coast north and south. The sun had come out by the time we’d made camp, so we dried out our wet clothes and gear.

August 28, 2005

The rain fell again overnight but cleared by morning. So far, today’s hike has been sunny. The stretch from Baldhead River to Beaty Cove is not as rugged as the stretch from Coldwater to Baldhead. There is more inland trail, particularly from the midpoint campsite onwards.

The campsite halfway [to Beaty Cove] is a mini paradise in this rugged landscape. It is situated on a triangle of beach, the point of which reaches a small rocky islet. I would make a point of camping there next time.

Beaty Cove is also beautiful. There are 5 sites situated along the curve of beach in the cove. We’re at the second one [northwards]. I took a quick swim in the shallows between the beach and a small rocky islet. The water was cool but refreshing. We’ve had sun all day so far, though dark patches roll through once in a while.

Just before reaching this site, Donny fell on his knee; it doesn’t seem too serious, despite the cursing that followed. He can walk and put pressure on it, but may be on ibuprophen for the remaining hikes.

Whenever I begin these long, challenging trips, it is always with a sense of anxiety. I know it’s because, once the shuttle driver leaves us at our entry point, we’re on our own, committed to finishing the trip. This coastline, too, is quite risky, so suffering an injury could be quite a serious occurance.

But there is someting else I always feel; it is like homesickness, but for what I don’t know. The feeling diminishes the closer we get to the finish, but it does detract from my [complete] enjoyment of the whole trip. I feel like Willard from Apocalypse Now. ["When I was here I wanted to be there. When I was there, all I could think of was getting back into the jungle."] It’s the same with me. At home, I long for the majesty and serenity of the backcountry and all the challenge and reward that experience offers. Always. I can’t stop thinking or talking about it; but once I’m out here, that homesickness plagues me anew.

A couple of sea kayakers have just landed 2 sites north of us. While at Baldhead River, we met briefly a couple from Michigan; they plan to stay at Beaty Cove, too, but I haven’t seen them yet. On our way here we met another couple hiking south. I didn’t expect to see this many people. It would not have surprised me if we’d seen no one, actually.

We are at, roughly, the halfway point now. Two more days of hiking would bring us within arm’s reach of Garganuta bay and the peace of mind of reaching the car. I have to learn to live in this moment rather than anticipate the next ones. I’ve been able to moreso, lately, such as with that swim or as I write this now.

August 29, 2005

The 8 km stretch from Beaty Cove to Ryolite Cove is the most challenging, tiring, and harrowing hiking I’ve ever done. The rock shelves posed the greatest risk to energy and health, requiring you to traverse steep inclines or hop from outcrop to outcrop. Beaty to Ryolite is the toughest stretch of [this] coastal trail so far, no question.

The lookouts are a real treat. From the highest one, we could see all the way down the coastline to Bald Head, where we started 2 days ago, but even beyond that to the inlets we traversed dozens more km and 3 years ago.

Being here again, it doesn’t feel like three years have passed, perhaps because this place looks exactly like it did 3, 30, or even 300 years ago. The memories of our 2002 trip were restored to “just happened” status in my mind, adding to the time warping sensation.

The last 1.5 km of today’s hike were the most gruelling. I was already fatigued, but Donny was moving at a snail’s pace. I found myself waiting for him to catch up every five minutes [so that he could] cover the same ground in 15. He’d hurt his ankle, but it turned out that the slowdown was due to Donny not having eaten breakfast. I told him that I’d force feed him breakfast tomorrow morning. We had both known that today’s hike would be the toughest yet. Why he thought he could make it with only a granola bar baffles the mind. But, that’s Donny for you. Despite my annoyance, if not for his companionship and gusto, I’d not doing this trip now. This is not a trail I would dare hike solo.

Ryolite Cove is not quite as picturesque as Beaty, but it is still a welcome sight after a long hike. the stone beaches are open and inviting. I decided to pitch our tent on the beach. (Yes, my tunnel tent can be setup on open beach provided there are enough heavy boulders to anchor each end [with].)

We met a couple hiking with two large dogs (Saint Bernards?) at a river crossing. They were headed south. We exchanged info about the trail conditions in our respective directions, learning from the woman that we were in for some serious rock shelf climbing, which was true. By the time we reached Ryolite, another couple was just leaving. The guy mentioned that he’d had to pick up dog shit at that site, so I presumed it must have been occupied by the dog people. This couple were from Michigan - and on their “third date” [during] which the woman was “testing” the man. They were just leaving, heading back to Gargantua Bay, so I’m sure he passed.

The volcanic-looking beaches just before Ryolite are a stark contrast to the cobble beaches everywhere else. It looks like a Martian landscape except with trees and water on either side.

August 30, 2005

Today’s hike from Ryolite to Gargantua was nearly as tough as yesterday’s hike. The coastal rock shelf “walking” was definitely the most challenging and most dangerous, though. There were points along the coastal rock that seemed too steep or radical to actually be the trail, but rock cairns positioned strategically along the way confirmed what Donny has been ranting about from the start: “The people who blazed these trails were on crack.”

These sections of trail, in particular from Ryolite to the first lookouts towards Gargantua, must be taken slowly and very carefully. The risk of injury - and worse - high.

This trail is, by far, the most challenging, fatiguing, and dangerous one I’ve ever hiked, but damn well worth the sweat and strain. The coastline is beautiful in a way that something only viewable after a lot of effort can be.

Once you’ve passed the main lookout, the trail goes mostly inland, taking you up onto bald rockface for some awesome views of Superior in all her natural superiority. The weather today, after a night of rain, is clear and sunny, making the great lake [look] deep and blue. The last stretch of inland trail descends to sea level [or lake level, actually] down some very steep switchbacks until you come to a ruined cottage.

The trip from Ryolite to Gargantua (~ 4-5 km) took us nearly 4 hrs, due mostly to the extreme caution with which Donny crossed the boulder beaches. Still, we got out in one piece with no injuries.

This is a beautiful place, especially the remote sections between Coldwater and Gargantua. I think I’ll try it with a kayak next.

Lake Superior Provincial Park, Set 1
Lake Superior Provincial Park, Set 2