Rose's Cantina

Every spring, the rivers run, the soil shifts, and the landscape changes. For most Canadians, it's just evidence of climate change. But for murder investigators in the Okanagan, for the drone pilots and ATV drivers, and particularly for the relatives of Ashley Simpson, it makes it harder to look for her last human remains. Three years ago, my cousin was a vibrant, 32-year-old nicknamed Gypsy for her meandering ways. She was up for any challenge: the catching of the biggest fish, snowboarding in a bikini on a dare. The dark haired beauty was fearless in all manner of things, especially in her love of her big family. Today, she remains just a memory, a snapshot in the eyes of the public who see her posters, and hole in the hearts of her mother and father who try desperately to hold out hope that she will be found. Her mother Cindy says the grandkids are always asking: have they found Aunt Ashley in the woods yet? What is she supposed to say to them? What is she supposed to

PHOTO BY JEAN-MARC CARISSE In the fall of 1980, I got a job writing briefing notes for the National Liberal Caucus. I heard about the gig from an old Ottawa Journal buddy who bought me a beer at the Press Club.  That's how you got jobs in the 80s, sitting in the games room, smoking and playing snooker. Not like today when you need a Master's degree and a French diploma to go to the bathroom in Ottawa.  I wasn't particularly political. You might say I leaned left, more NDPish, but I was looking for a new opportunity. After the Journal folded, I'd worked freelance for the Ottawa Citizen chasing musicians around the city and writing a column about them.  My year of Carrie Bradshaw, without the nice shoes. A year of that was enough.  Both my liver and my ears needed a rest. I hadn't realized that, drinking-wise, I was pretty much jumping from the pan into the flames. In those days, booze flowed freely on Parliament Hill. You could get a drink an