At the beginning of September, when it hadn't rained in awhile, I returned to Renfrew Ravine Park, and, after pausing to take a blurry photo of it, entered this drain:

I'd been here before (in sandals!), and had got as far as the junction room. Today I was wearing rubber boots, and meant to go farther. I hoped, in fact, to get at least to the "1950mm-diameter brick-floor pipe," which, according to the beautiful hand-drawn map that I'd found and photographed (as mentioned in the aforelinked post), lay somewhere beyond a "slide" in the "Collingwood Trunk".

I am not going to post that map here (I somehow feel that it's not mine to share), but here are a couple of others of Still Creek and its underground sections. The first I found online (left is north):

The second I found in the neighborhood that same day, after emerging from the drain:

Beside this map is the following text:

Vancouver's Still Creek Watershed Streams of Dreams Murals
"Still a Creek Under the Street" 

Today, Still Creek is channeled through a pipe underground for two kilometers beginning at its headwaters near Central Park in Burnaby and finally making its first appearance near the 29th Avenue Skytrain station beside Renfrew ravine. It then passes through a culvert under 22nd Avenue and emerges again beside Renfrew Park Community Centre where it is contained by stonework retaining walls. Still Creek continues eastward, partially hidden in culverts, to Burnaby. There it flows above ground until it empties into Burnaby Lake. The lake drains into the Brunette River, which feeds into the Fraser River which flows out into the Georgia Straight. Still Creek drains about 2,400 acres of East Vancouver and much of the western portion of Burnaby between Kingsway and Hastings Street. 

Nearly 2000 Dreamfish on four Still Creek Stream of Dreams Murals remind us that rain falling into the Still Creek watershed flows to the greatest salmon river in the world—the Fraser River. Children from Norquay, Nootka, Renfrew, and Thunderbird Elementary Schools painted the Dreamfish for Still Creek and share a vision of hope for this partially lost waterway.

Inside, it was slow going. The drain is indeed a pipe, and the rounded bottom was slippery with scum (I occasionally saw a tatter of toilet paper float by). I could shuffle carefully forward with my feet in the stream, which sometimes splashed up onto my legs; or else, straddling the stream and its scum, I could waddle awkwardly forward in short, knock-kneed strides—either way, I had to run my hands along the walls, to catch myself if I slipped, as I often did. I was also hunched over, to keep from hitting my head on the top of the tube (though I was wearing my bicycle helmet), and very soon my neck and shoulders were sore, and I was sprinkled with slimy creekwater and dripping with sweat.

I paused at the junction room, then continued down the left fork.

Occasionally I would pass a little chimney-like alcove with stepirons leading up to a manhole cover. In one of these, my flashlight lit up a petrified spider, floating, it seemed, in mid-air, as white as chalk, and bulbous at its joints, as if the mineral dampness were somehow turning it to coral.

Once, I turned off my flashlight and in perfect darkness listened to the many-voiced water rumble.

As I proceeded, the rumble got louder, till I rounded a curve and came to the slide.

It was two or three meters long, and rose at a grade of about twenty percent. Set into the left wall was a handrail, though it was so rusty that sections of it had completely corroded away. As I stood there considering my approach, my boots sent water splashing in every direction. At last, I looped my flashlight onto my belt and stowed my phone in my backpack; then, with both hands on the rail, and planting my feet as high up either side of the pipe as I could reach, I started heaving myself up sideways. I slipped once, but didn't fall. I made it to the top, if barely.

The rest of the story is anticlimax. I found the brick-floor pipe, and shuffle-trudged along it for awhile, happy to be able to stand upright, but aware that each step forward was another I'd have to take back. I went round a curve, to see if anything lay beyond it, then one more, and when nothing did, I started back.

Crouched, arms out for balance, I slid on my heels down the slide.

I sang a few notes, revelling in the reverberations.

As I neared the outfall, I turned off my flashlight and proceeded for awhile by feel. Eventually, I saw glimmers of reflected light. 

When I reemerged into daylight and fresh air, I was exhausted, grimy, and wet with sweat, but exhilarated. I had been underground for an hour and five minutes.

At about 7:30 p.m. on a Monday in August, I found my way into a deserted multiplex under construction.

I could have just strolled in through those tarps, but I took the skulking route around back, where I was required to climb some scaffolding stairs to get inside.

Looking down at where the seats will go in future Theatre (let's say) 7:

Future theatres 3, 4, and 5:

The pictures don't do justice to how big and airy -- and dim, at dusk -- this shell of a building was.

There was a ladder leading up to the roof, but I only made it about four-fifths up before deciding that I was not going to have the nerve to transition off the ladder onto the roof, and turning back. It was a tall ladder.

On a Tuesday in August, I revisited Th Chrlsn, a condo under development that I'd been eyeing for a while. (On Halloween I'd climbed its sister building and watched amateur fireworks pop and fizzle all around me, small and mute with distance.) That day the fencing was down, and there was a sign on the lobby doors, apparently for tradespersons, saying that the lobby would be closed for tile laying from 6:00 p.m. on that day's date to sometime on tomorrow's. I looked at my watch. It was 5:45.

The lobby was locked but the gate to the underground parking was up. As I was descending the ramp, some guy crossed my path on his way to his vehicle. I was forced to follow him for a while to get to the elevators -- one of which, hung with movers' drapes, proved operable. I rode it to some floor, I cannot now recall which one, but most likely a couple from the top, from where I climbed a stairwell the rest of the way.

Down at street level it had been dusk; up here it was full day.

Why, there's my old friend, Vncvr Hs!

On what my camera, to my surprise, tells me was a Friday in July, I waltzed in to the construction site of the stylish, top-heavy Vncvr Hs. There were perimeter cameras aplenty, but no one apparently around and the gate wide open. Well, wide unlocked. So in I went.

 And up I climbed.

It was a calm, bright, colorful day.

On a Friday in July, I took a public tour of the Greenpeace boat docked at Lonsdale Quay.

On the tour, I learned that the boat had been a something or other before it had been a Greenpeace boat.

After the tour, I strolled along the boardwalk till passing a condominium under construction. I looked hard, but casually, at an obvious point of entry; and finally, after a couple of passes, when there were not many people around, and those who were around were probably not looking at me, I casually hopped over some formwork and into the site. It felt a little brave.

I climbed to the top, fourteen storeys or so, if I remember, and looked out at the water.

Why, there's the Arctic Sunrise!

Then down and back out the way I had come. I had learned nothing.

On a Tuesday in May, I skulked around a condominium "village" in North Vancouver. To get from the finished area to the under-construction area, i.e., past the security fencing, I had only to hop over a belly-high fountain wall. Though there was no one around, this felt a little brave.

I climbed straight to the top, fifteen or twenty storeys, if I remember.

It looks, in fact, from the building next door, that I must have been up about twenty-three storeys.

Back on the ground and on my way out, I encountered a security guard idly strolling, ten meters away. Though he hadn't yet spotted me, he certainly would, so I called out a greeting, and, without breaking stride, hopped back over the wall. From the other side of the fence, he called out to me, "Is there anyone ...?"

"No," I said, putting on my bicycle helmet, "they've all gone home for the day."

Recently, after months away, I revisited Central Surrey. I was depressed by the sight of tent villages and by the recurrent sound of voices raised in anger, but charmed by the play that I went to, sated by the grocery-store salad that I had for dinner, and smitten by an addition to the cityscape: a tower, taller than any around it, its name at its top in neon: Civic Hotel. And with few lights lit, it appeared to be as yet untenanted. I had a happy feeling, cycling towards it, that I would get onto its roof.

The hotel appeared to be open for business. Entering, I climbed the stairs to the convention floor, rubbernecking at the decor like a tourist. (Which I was.) I passed some closed ballroom doors and paused before a door that boldly declared itself an emergency exit and warned me of the consequences of its use. I used it; nothing happened.

I was in a stairwell. I climbed.

A handwritten sign warned me that Stairwell A was closed between the fourth and seventh floors, and advised me to use Stairwell B. I seemed to be in Stairwell C, and so was unconcerned.

I climbed twenty-two flights, perhaps excluding a thirteenth (floors ending in fours were present and accounted for), and came to a solid door with a sign on it. The sign informed me that no public access to the rooftop patio was permitted. Nevertheless I pulled at that door. It was locked.

I went down a floor and, through an unremarkable hotel corridor, crossed over to Stairwell D. It too went no higher than the twenty-second floor, where it ended in an elevator lobby with three elevators, one locked glass door to the rooftop patio, and one locked bathroom door. (The women's. The symbol for woman was a circle atop a tall upright triangle -- something like an upside-down exclamation mark. I gazed at it blankly. Was it supposed to represent a keyhole? A vagina? (The circle the clitoris?) Then I understood: It was supposed to be a head atop a long dress.)

I seemed to be stuck, and seemed not to be in the tallest tower at all. I needed to find that Stairwell B!

I went back down a floor, against crossed over, and again climbed Stairwell C, seeing no other alternatives. I tried the door again, and took a look at its latch. The deadlatch was touching the plate, but there was a sizeable gap between the door and the frame, so perhaps it wasn't engaged. I looked in my wallet for a piece of plastic with which to try shimming the latch open. Finding nothing readymade, I folded an old phone card diagonally till it snapped in half. It seemed a highly unpromising tool for the task. But it worked.

I found myself outdoors on a patio, but not a rooftop: there was more tower overhead. Nonetheless I enjoyed the view, and some wine.

Looking south at Central City and SFU.

I found the men's room (I had been wondering where that was), which was not locked, and refilled my water bottle. (The symbol for man was a circle atop the same tall triangle, but upturned: presumably his head on his burly shoulders, dwindling to tiny feet.)

I crossed the patio and found myself outside the glass door to the elevator lobby, which I could pass through from this side. I went in, gently leaving the door unlatched behind me, just in case, and called an elevator -- which refused to deliver me to any floor higher than 3. So instead I reentered the stairwell and began the descent, crossing over to alternate stairwells every other floor at first, then less and less frequently, then again every floor below 8, in search of some other stairwell to take me back up.

I had no luck till 4, but there I suddenly found myself in a construction site that spanned a much wider space than the tower I had just been crossing back and forth through.

I entered new, not-quite-finished washrooms and locker rooms.

I went out on a balcony, where there was a small, filled swimming pool with dirt on its bottom, and a small unfilled jacuzzi, with none.

From here I could again see exactly where I wanted to go:

Through one window I looked across at the Skytrain station, which also appeared to be under construction. As I looked, I noticed someone was squeezing past a wooden barrier at the end of the platform, as if preparing to walk down the rails. The station seemed closed -- so I assumed I was looking at a fellow explorer! He saw me, and made some gesture. I waved. He gave me the finger. I gave him the thumbs up. He gave me the rock-and-roller's sign of the horns. I waved goodbye. I believe we parted friends.

I found myself in Stairwell A. I started climbing it.

Half a floor up, my way was completely blocked by some scaffolding. Oh yeah. I went in search of Stairwell B.

I found Stairwell B. I climbed it.

At every floor, a sign listed the dozen or so crossover floors, but also announced each and every floor to be a Crossover Floor. And, indeed, all the doors were open, every floor a crossover floor. The stairwell was dusty and cluttered with tools: obviously, this taller tower was still under construction. There could be little doubt that I was going to make it onto the roof.

I climbed fifty flights. I was dripping with sweat.

Aw, damn it.

The roof hatch to the very top was in fact locked, but, one flight down, I enjoyed fresh air and unobstructed views in several directions from the mechanical penthouse. In fact, I so enjoyed it that I forgot to take any pictures. So here's that one from the twenty-second floor again.

When at last I was ready to leave (my wine nearly finished), I went down a few floors to call an elevator. But the elevators would not be called.

So I got back in Stairwell B and climbed all the way back down.

On my way out, I passed through one of those conference rooms I'd passed when I had first arrived.

Waiting for my train at the station, I peeked around a wooden barrier at the end of the platform, and saw the empty, unfinished room I had waved from, an hour before.

One evening after a concert, before heading home, I scoped out a nearby condo under construction. To my surprised delight, the security fencing had a big welcoming gap in it, and the building had a big welcoming opening in one wall. I entered, found the stairwell, and climbed up twenty flights, the concert program still clutched in my hand.

Even a twenty-storey building feels pretty tall when it is the tallest thing around. Looking north towards downtown, with the junction of Main, Broadway, and Kingsway at my feet:
 

There were a dozen trees planted on the roof, obstructing the various views. Nevertheless it was a balmy night, and I drank it in.

"I am not a brave man at all, but a cautious, even timid soul who makes himself pull off one stunt after another for his own good. And I entered the lonely darkness thinking: Public space should not be like this; all the world ought to be mine. But how can I make it so?" (61)

"Every time I surrender, even necessarily, to authority which disregardingly or contemptuously violates me, so I violate myself. Every time I break an unnecessary law, doing so for my own joy and to the detriment of no other human being, so I regain myself, and become strong in the parts of me that the security man can never see." (97-8)

-- From William T. Vollmann's train-hopping memoir, Riding to Everywhere.

On a recent long weekend, I lackadaisically bicycled past some "Authorized Access Only" signs into this huge construction area.

There were a number of vehicles parked about, and a train shunting nearby, and some machinery humming away, so I expected at any minute to be called out to and sent packing. At lollygagging pace I circled the perimeter, getting gradually closer, before finally dropping my kickstand and wandering inside.

The place was deserted.

There was something magical about this location. First, it was huge. Second, it was vacant and unfinished, which made it feel like a brand-new ruin. The concrete floors were covered in the thinnest layer of rainwater. Wind ripped through the wooden walkways a dozen storeys above, causing tatters of plastic to flutter and flap.

Third, these silos were so smooth and simple -- big concrete cylinders -- that they felt more like alien or druidic monuments than serviceable structures. They were somehow at once reminiscent of cathedrals and of a streamlined video-game world.

I wondered vaguely about the differing orders in which they were being constructed -- some had columns in place for the funnel, but no roof, others had a roof but no columns -- but I didn't speculate for long. If I had had a tour guide, I would have listened attentively, but my enjoyment of these spaces had almost nothing to do with intellectual curiosity. The fun, as always for me, I suppose, was in trespassing, and in being inside a big strange thing I'd never seen before up close.

After the cylindrical ones, I ducked inside the tall cuboid one, half looking for a stairwell. (I was not about to climb sixteen flights of external scaffolding stairs in a high wind.) But these structures are not built to be climbed. In fact, the tall one didn't look like it was built to be entered by humans at all. In any case, its flooded gravel floor, littered with detritus from the construction going on sixteen storeys overhead, revealed that it had not been entered for some time.

I guess I speculated a little; but I learned nothing.

I got back on my bike and, grateful, gleeful, returned the way I'd come.