Kyle and I went climbing over rocks and under fences yesterday evening to finally get at the infamous devastation of Stanley Park. Those dissenters who have been claiming that the destruction is mild and that our city has been stalling out of some mis-matched version of civic pride are incredibly wrong. On our way to the first fence, we saw a few empty gaps in the forest, but nothing lamentable, true. (Minus one especially kind tree that had always been perfect for branch sitting, feet drifting in the water, a book in hand). However, past the second gate, the path was crumpled, so cracked and pried up like flaking nail polish the bent cement looked pliable. There were huge trees thrown in our way and strange waterfalls spraying from broken pipes at the top of the cliffs. In the gathering dark, muttering and whispering as it was, we had to be careful. The Seawall was so changed as to feel like we were exploring another city, one wrecked and left for dead. The ground was crooked, stones dented or missing, randomly flooded. In the end, we had to run from guards before we reached the end. I want to go back, but closer to the day. Next time, I want to try from the other end, camera in hand. I’ve never seen anything like it.