Ever since I moved to Hay River, I felt there was nothing quite like a call home. It was never an issue of homesickness, missing a certain someone, or needing to hear a voice, but it was the only time I ever felt like anyone was interested in what I had to say. Nobody I was in constant contact with in New Brunswick had been here, so to them, even my boring days could come across as exciting.
Up again to an empty room on a rather gloomy day, I started off by calling my parents. I had even courted the idea of a conference call, but with divorcees, no matter how reconciled and friendly these days, you can never take that chance. I called mom and dad, rattling off my adventures, stirring whimsy and held gasps as I recounted the climbs and drives, and amounts of alcohol consumed thus far.
I looked at the threatening sky upon hanging up and then sought caffeine. Figuring I was to spend a chunk of this day alone, I headed to Tim Hortons and thought about poking around the shops and stores in Canmore, finally taking a day to see the town rather than pass through it on my way elsewhere, as had become my trend since arriving. Just as I neared the drive-through, there sat Noel on a concrete divider, two coffees at his side, talking on his phone.
As he climbed in we decided that my rummage about town could wait for a few hours. The sky was graying over the Bow Valley, but behind it was a friendlier cloud cover which would suit me on errands and ambles come afternoon. The morning, most of lunch, and a parcel of the afternoon would be spent again in Kananaskis Country, but I was to see much, much more of it.
Heading East on the TransCanada, we hooked South and Southwest on the Kananaskis Trail. We had driven out of the mountains within the time it took to smoke a cigarette, and circled right back in just moments after curling around the foothills. Just shy of a half hour drive, I hauled the truck into a space at the Delta Lodge in Kananaskis. As someone who works in the hospitality industry, I was keen on seeing quite a few spots on my journey, but this had eluded my radar.
Among the many pleasant views, verandahs, and veils of rain, I noticed how much like a small town this property felt. The main buildings were designed in the vein of large chateaus (like everything else within 100 miles) with secondary buildings following suit, and the spaces between echoed resemblances of parks or rest stops, signs pointing to trails, a general store, restaurants, and so on. Even in the heavy mist and intermittent rain, I got the sense of what this spot could be like on a beautiful day in any season: it would be glorious.
After meeting with an old friend from our high school years whom Noel had only seen once or twice in two years since living here, we continued into the back country. We made our way to Peter Lougheed Provincial Park to check out the Upper and Lower Kananaskis Lakes. With the weather, the conditions were not ideal for, say, a lunch on the beach, extended periods without a jacket, or even peeing in the woods. Given this, we snapped our photos and looked around in less than 10 minutes at each lake, got back in the truck, and headed back to Canmore.
Within that 150km circuit I had driven out of (then back into) the Rockies, seen yet another old friend, gone through four Provincial Parks, seen a 1km long ice shelf, heard the thunderous roar of distant avalanches, rebounded my echo some 10 seconds or more, shit in the most wonderful outhouse in the world, and tested the rally limits on my truck. I considered this to be a worthwhile day, and by the time we got back to Canmore, just over half of it had been passed.
Noel decided to relax that afternoon and putter about some chores at the hotel, so I would finally get my chance to immerse myself in the culture of Canmore the same way I did it in any other place: laundry. As a lover of the act of people-watching, I simply relish my times in foreign laundromats: the ill-kempt mother with 10 hockey bags of just underwear, the grizzled patch worker passing through, hippies familiarizing themselves with the simple act of cleaning clothes, and the average Joe smoking a pack between loading a wash and unloading the dryer. I myself tend to sit back with a book just in front of eyes, always peering over the pages at new patrons, and I will only turn when the correct angle is required to eavesdrop.
Aside from a lengthy conversation from two women on which hiking clips they liked, nothing much was happening as my wash finished, so I loaded up two dryers and spent half of my vacation’s savings on an hour of drying time. Again, caffeine was in dire demand from all of my remaining brain cells, but alas, my whole body would be disappointed. I procured a five dollar (that’s $5.00) coffee from a wholesome, cute little café and understood how they managed such an attractive establishment. My guess would be that they only brewed fresh coffee every other day, and then ran the previous day’s grinds through a mop the days in between. I stood outside, lit a cigarette, threw out a full coffee, and limbered about the streets.
Canmore is such a quaint little spot. Nestled in the Bow Valley, its backdrop would be hard to contest given what I have seen on this planet, and the streets are lined with impossibly attractive stores, homes, and public buildings. I honestly had a difficult time telling some houses from shops, and public buildings from restaurants, while only the gas stations were identifiable by the pumps. However deceiving some fronts may have been, I could have wandered for hours just drinking this place in. After passing the historic Canmore Hotel (the Ho’), I found myself in front of a great mural. I had forgotten the camera in the truck, so a mental picture would have to suffice, which it did not. All I recall about it now was the depiction of pigs with wings flying over a grand wall.
After another 30 minutes in the bustling metropolis of downtown Canmore, I returned to the Laundromat and packed up, loaded into the truck, and cranked some Pink Floyd. “Welcome to the Machine” hardly makes for a driving song at any speed, so I switched over to “Have a Cigar”. Back at the hotel, I did just that while relaxing in the sun waiting for Noel to finish. We would have a quick meal before he settled into an overnight watchman shift, and I would then be off to my first open mic night of vacation with Elaine, our other partner in the previous day’s hike of Lady MacDonald.
We got to a local pizza joint just as things were starting up. Having not had a drink yet that day (I was stunned to find it was almost 7pm!), I was antsy to belly up to a bar. I ordered two double ryes, one for swilling and one for sipping, and a glass of red for the missus. Enjoying the first two acts was like enjoying a proctology exam, only with more squirming. I could not understand for the life of me how someone could consider hitting a cat with a saw was music, but I also can not confirm those were the instruments as I had averted my eyes as well as my ears. I was trying to engage in conversation with Elaine, but we both just kept squinting at each other and making “ugh...” faces.
Then things livened up with a few more acts that clearly had their ducks in one or many rows. After I played a few songs about death, girls, and both, a powerful bluegrass quintet got up and just blew everyone away. To see these guys walking the streets would make me wonder if they had misplaced skateboards or jackhammers somewhere a few blocks back, but with a very country “and uh-1, uh-2”, they lit into some fantastic musicianship, earning them plenty of applause and a pitcher of draft on my tab.
At one point, it became apparent the Elaine had had a few too many glasses from the box behind the bar. I was very near a third drink which would end my driving for the evening, so I offered to give her a lift back before I continued on. She accepted with a sigh that said “I was too embarrassed to ask, so thank you for bringing it up”, and within minutes of leaving the bar and dropping her off, I was back to my third, fourth, and ultimately ninth drinks of the night.
What I had not expected upon return was to find yet another friend waiting at the bar. Jaclyn and I knew each other in high school, but had not seen one another since about 1999 or 2000. Through Noel, we had planned to meet up for coffee at some point, but to my recollection, this instance was pure fate. A grand exchange of hugs and “holy shit!” followed by drinks, and then it was near time for the establishment to close. We looked at each other, knowing we could not possibly end such rejuvenation of a friendship in this manner, so we headed to her place.
Now, at this point for you, and that point for me, we were both thinking the same thing. However, it was not in the cards, nor seriously on the table or mind at any point. I had known Jaclyn only sparingly in high school, and this meeting was a long part shy of nostalgic; there was nothing in our past, and truly, we hardly knew each other.
Arriving at her place we mixed several drinks, talked long into the wee hours, and laughed as though we were 16 again with not a care in the world. At one point, she hastened to her room to call her boyfriend back home before he went to work. I had a cigarette, reclined on the couch, and she never came out of that room. That was fine by me as I had a few hours of examining my eyelids to tend too.
Darkness played off the Eastern Ridge of the Bow Valley, and I drifted off to sleep only 3 hours shy of the time I had woken up.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Friday, June 11, 2010
Trip - Day 4 – Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Considering the strain I had put on myself the day before, I felt revitalized to a point that I was certain I had recently starred in a shampoo commercial. Noel opened the door just as I swung my feet off the couch and presented me with a coffee and breakfast sandwich from Tim Hortons. We watched hockey highlights while digesting what would surely haunt us halfway up the mountain we sought this beautiful morning.
A new employee where Noel worked was to join us on our trek, so we met up with Elaine and headed across the highway to park at the base of Mount Lady MacDonald. The 8,550 foot (4,550 not considering sea level) peak was named in 1886 after Susan Agnes Macdonald, wife of Sir John A. Macdonald, the first Prime Minister of Canada. John A., most likely seeking an apologetic gesture for a night of hard drinking, chose the mountain in the Fairholme Range as they travelled on the then brand new Canadian National Railway while they headed to Vancouver, British Columbia.
Again, we all took a quick stretch and stopped at a bench for our customary beer, then hit the wooded trail to begin our climb. Elaine was a stark contrast to Noel and I, aside from her long hair, breasts, and eyes clear of bloodshot. While we wore shorts and a shirt, she was decked out in a smart pair of pants, layered shirts, a hat, and that go-getter, British accent. We asked whether she had climbed before to any extent, and she brushed it off with little mention of a few hills here and there. I was concerned she may suffer some heat exhaustion being so over-dressed, and secretly hoped she would remedy this as any single, sexually deprived 26 year old could imagine she would. To our surprise, she never broke a sweat the whole hike, and was much better for the climb than anyone would have given her credit for. Turns out she was modest, and had been part of treks in France and New Zealand, to name a few places.
The initial portion of the climb was similar to the first section of Ha Ling the day before, with a steep incline, a cover of woods, and several beautiful vistas at which to catch your breath. Traffic was a little heavier on this side of the valley, with hikers passing in all directions every so often for the first hour or so, all of them well spaced and letting off loud shouts to ward off any cougars, bears, or serial killers. Like Noel, the more experienced of the crowd bounded past us with the agility of mature sheep, some of these morning-trippers well into their 60’s.
After a few breaks, where Elaine and I exchanged “fuck its hot, how does Noel keep going” glances, we neared the edge of the tree line and found ourselves in a rock field that required some attentive footfalls. A few times we would edge between boulders that had to weigh more than several trucks. Noel stopped us at one point to show us where, barely a year before, he and another of our high school crew had spotted a cougar. This, obviously, instilled no more confidence in my safety, and I kept a keen eye on the bear spray hanging off of Noel’s belt, as well as any rocks I felt I could use as weapons or suicide clinchers. If I could off myself in that brief moment between a cougar’s pounce and the impact, I would gladly do so.
Eventually, the trees thinned and diminished, we took a brief rest on a ledge overlooking Canmore from the East, then plodded up a ridge toward the Teahouse and lookout platform. To our left, the mountain slipped leisurely into the Bow Valley, while on our right a grazing meadow for Rocky Mountain sheep sat silent in the windless midday.
Not 15 minutes after catching our breath, we stepped onto the first plateau of Lady MacDonald, as far as we would go that day. The view, as with the day before from Ha Ling, was spectacular. We were about another 1,000 – 1,500 feet from the proper summit, but time and energy were already running thin, and the platforms would serve us well for an hour rest before descending.
The Teahouse was at one point likely a great idea. The now dilapidated structure was intended to be a sort or mountain-side restaurant with beverages, sandwiches, photo opportunities, and overpriced trinkets to mark the climb. Originally, a gondola was planned to attract more tourists to the platforms, while still allowing hikers to enjoy the trail from an alternate route. Favorably, the local government and population decided against the eyesore burdening the entire hillside, stating that if visitors wanted a gondola ride, Banff was a half hour up the road.
While it is still a fantastic view, one can hardly avoid the assumption that the original concept would have been somewhat quaint, even if only enjoyed by hikers and not throngs of bluehairs with fanny packs and matching sweaters. Of the two platforms, the octagonal structure boasted a wonderful deck on top, with what would have housed the business end underneath, windows offering gorgeous views in most directions. Now, however, the makeup had fallen rather dreary, and was littered with beer cans, condom wrappers, and other rubbish. Just 100 feet away, a platform about 20 X 60 sat unfinished, was devoid of any mentionable characteristics, but offered a great place to stretch out and could serve as the most unwatchable stage in concert history.
We sat and had a few beers, talking amongst ourselves about nothing too much, and watched another couple of hikers make their descent from the proper summit. As we relaxed we would take stock of their progress toward us, and eventually they boarded the platform and sat along side us. Throughout the eventual “hikers” conversation, we learned that their route had begun where ours had, but they had bypassed Lady MacDonald in favor of another ridge to our West, an inches wide trek with mirrored 1,000 foot drops that likely took about an hour or more to conquer. They had started almost five hours earlier, had logged quite considerable distance and elevation, and looked fairly well for their wear. I felt quite out of shape, sweating even after our rest, and was put directly to shame upon finding out the wife of the couple was also pregnant. I felt labored with only a shit in my stomach, let alone a being contriving its life.
What goes up must come down, and instead of replaying our climb in reverse we opted for a steeper shortcut down the hill, rattling off the altitude in about half the time it took to accumulate it. Elaine and I both had the burn in our legs and back, and when we hit flat ground to make for the truck, we shared a deep breath and hive five. Noel, as usual, was skipping and turning cartwheels, seemingly unaffected by anything that had occurred over the 3 hours or so since breakfast.
As per his work schedule, Noel punched in, leaving Elaine and I free to explore parts of Canmore. She was fairly new to the area, and I offered to show her some of the back country from the comfort of a moving vehicle.
Before we headed into the mountains, we opted to look for supper first. We tried a few places, but she ate no meat or dairy so we had a hard time finding a suitable menu. At one spot, she asked politely if there was anything that would suit her dining options.
“I’m sorry, but most of our selections do contain meat or dairy,” offered Darren. (Well, he looked like a Darren, anyway. Darrens have a look, don’t they?)
“Perhaps they could just make me a salad?” she offered.
“I will ask, and for you sir?”
“I only eat meat and dairy, so is it possible you could just walk a live calf up to the table? I’ll be happy to take care of things from there.”
While Elaine blushed, the waiter retreated to the kitchen. He returned some minutes later to apologize, stating that only items off the menu can be ordered. Elaine, being as well-mannered as anyone could possibly be at such brutal customer service, ordered water and we promptly left.
After a while cruising the back roads and making small chat we headed back to the hotel and parted ways. Later that night, Noel and I enjoyed a final soak in the hot tub then called it a night. As I drifted off to sleep I mulled over the fact that I had climbed two mountains in two days. Granted, I was a long shot from being suspended by twine over a plunge to my death, but as a person whose most notable conquests have been on flat land or messy beds, it felt good. It also felt good to see the weather report for the following few days, and know that all activities would be held at lower altitudes, in a sitting position, scotch in hand.
Ahhh… vacation.
A new employee where Noel worked was to join us on our trek, so we met up with Elaine and headed across the highway to park at the base of Mount Lady MacDonald. The 8,550 foot (4,550 not considering sea level) peak was named in 1886 after Susan Agnes Macdonald, wife of Sir John A. Macdonald, the first Prime Minister of Canada. John A., most likely seeking an apologetic gesture for a night of hard drinking, chose the mountain in the Fairholme Range as they travelled on the then brand new Canadian National Railway while they headed to Vancouver, British Columbia.
Again, we all took a quick stretch and stopped at a bench for our customary beer, then hit the wooded trail to begin our climb. Elaine was a stark contrast to Noel and I, aside from her long hair, breasts, and eyes clear of bloodshot. While we wore shorts and a shirt, she was decked out in a smart pair of pants, layered shirts, a hat, and that go-getter, British accent. We asked whether she had climbed before to any extent, and she brushed it off with little mention of a few hills here and there. I was concerned she may suffer some heat exhaustion being so over-dressed, and secretly hoped she would remedy this as any single, sexually deprived 26 year old could imagine she would. To our surprise, she never broke a sweat the whole hike, and was much better for the climb than anyone would have given her credit for. Turns out she was modest, and had been part of treks in France and New Zealand, to name a few places.
The initial portion of the climb was similar to the first section of Ha Ling the day before, with a steep incline, a cover of woods, and several beautiful vistas at which to catch your breath. Traffic was a little heavier on this side of the valley, with hikers passing in all directions every so often for the first hour or so, all of them well spaced and letting off loud shouts to ward off any cougars, bears, or serial killers. Like Noel, the more experienced of the crowd bounded past us with the agility of mature sheep, some of these morning-trippers well into their 60’s.
After a few breaks, where Elaine and I exchanged “fuck its hot, how does Noel keep going” glances, we neared the edge of the tree line and found ourselves in a rock field that required some attentive footfalls. A few times we would edge between boulders that had to weigh more than several trucks. Noel stopped us at one point to show us where, barely a year before, he and another of our high school crew had spotted a cougar. This, obviously, instilled no more confidence in my safety, and I kept a keen eye on the bear spray hanging off of Noel’s belt, as well as any rocks I felt I could use as weapons or suicide clinchers. If I could off myself in that brief moment between a cougar’s pounce and the impact, I would gladly do so.
Eventually, the trees thinned and diminished, we took a brief rest on a ledge overlooking Canmore from the East, then plodded up a ridge toward the Teahouse and lookout platform. To our left, the mountain slipped leisurely into the Bow Valley, while on our right a grazing meadow for Rocky Mountain sheep sat silent in the windless midday.
Not 15 minutes after catching our breath, we stepped onto the first plateau of Lady MacDonald, as far as we would go that day. The view, as with the day before from Ha Ling, was spectacular. We were about another 1,000 – 1,500 feet from the proper summit, but time and energy were already running thin, and the platforms would serve us well for an hour rest before descending.
The Teahouse was at one point likely a great idea. The now dilapidated structure was intended to be a sort or mountain-side restaurant with beverages, sandwiches, photo opportunities, and overpriced trinkets to mark the climb. Originally, a gondola was planned to attract more tourists to the platforms, while still allowing hikers to enjoy the trail from an alternate route. Favorably, the local government and population decided against the eyesore burdening the entire hillside, stating that if visitors wanted a gondola ride, Banff was a half hour up the road.
While it is still a fantastic view, one can hardly avoid the assumption that the original concept would have been somewhat quaint, even if only enjoyed by hikers and not throngs of bluehairs with fanny packs and matching sweaters. Of the two platforms, the octagonal structure boasted a wonderful deck on top, with what would have housed the business end underneath, windows offering gorgeous views in most directions. Now, however, the makeup had fallen rather dreary, and was littered with beer cans, condom wrappers, and other rubbish. Just 100 feet away, a platform about 20 X 60 sat unfinished, was devoid of any mentionable characteristics, but offered a great place to stretch out and could serve as the most unwatchable stage in concert history.
We sat and had a few beers, talking amongst ourselves about nothing too much, and watched another couple of hikers make their descent from the proper summit. As we relaxed we would take stock of their progress toward us, and eventually they boarded the platform and sat along side us. Throughout the eventual “hikers” conversation, we learned that their route had begun where ours had, but they had bypassed Lady MacDonald in favor of another ridge to our West, an inches wide trek with mirrored 1,000 foot drops that likely took about an hour or more to conquer. They had started almost five hours earlier, had logged quite considerable distance and elevation, and looked fairly well for their wear. I felt quite out of shape, sweating even after our rest, and was put directly to shame upon finding out the wife of the couple was also pregnant. I felt labored with only a shit in my stomach, let alone a being contriving its life.
What goes up must come down, and instead of replaying our climb in reverse we opted for a steeper shortcut down the hill, rattling off the altitude in about half the time it took to accumulate it. Elaine and I both had the burn in our legs and back, and when we hit flat ground to make for the truck, we shared a deep breath and hive five. Noel, as usual, was skipping and turning cartwheels, seemingly unaffected by anything that had occurred over the 3 hours or so since breakfast.
As per his work schedule, Noel punched in, leaving Elaine and I free to explore parts of Canmore. She was fairly new to the area, and I offered to show her some of the back country from the comfort of a moving vehicle.
Before we headed into the mountains, we opted to look for supper first. We tried a few places, but she ate no meat or dairy so we had a hard time finding a suitable menu. At one spot, she asked politely if there was anything that would suit her dining options.
“I’m sorry, but most of our selections do contain meat or dairy,” offered Darren. (Well, he looked like a Darren, anyway. Darrens have a look, don’t they?)
“Perhaps they could just make me a salad?” she offered.
“I will ask, and for you sir?”
“I only eat meat and dairy, so is it possible you could just walk a live calf up to the table? I’ll be happy to take care of things from there.”
While Elaine blushed, the waiter retreated to the kitchen. He returned some minutes later to apologize, stating that only items off the menu can be ordered. Elaine, being as well-mannered as anyone could possibly be at such brutal customer service, ordered water and we promptly left.
After a while cruising the back roads and making small chat we headed back to the hotel and parted ways. Later that night, Noel and I enjoyed a final soak in the hot tub then called it a night. As I drifted off to sleep I mulled over the fact that I had climbed two mountains in two days. Granted, I was a long shot from being suspended by twine over a plunge to my death, but as a person whose most notable conquests have been on flat land or messy beds, it felt good. It also felt good to see the weather report for the following few days, and know that all activities would be held at lower altitudes, in a sitting position, scotch in hand.
Ahhh… vacation.
Trip - Day 3 – Tuesday, April 20, 2010
My head ached. My body ached. My aches ached.
For the better part of two days I had sat in one position, and for the rest I had drank in one position. Getting up this Tuesday morning, I was hoping for a leisurely stroll through Canmore, sampling coffee and snacks, checking out a book store or two, and then retiring for a supper and drinks to carry into the evening.
Noel woke me up with bags already packed, beer already chilled, and five minutes notice that we were headed for a hearty breakfast and then making our way to a mountain we had passed under cover of dark last night. This peak had peered at us throughout the fading hours of light the evening before, but only now was I looking at it through the eyes of someone about to climb it.
Previously, my sole significant climb was up Mount Carleton in New Brunswick, a healthy 2,700 feet. I had gone there solo in my summer of dismay, an early up, late back trip where I had boarded Carter for the day. That drive was fueled by anger, desperation, and the ever-growing weariness of a soul gone awry. That afternoon, sitting atop the highest peak in the Maritimes, I easily forgot my troubles and was, for a few hours, better than I had been in the 6 months before. Back at home that night, feeling somewhat proud of my accomplishments, I cracked a bottle and continued a private suffering.
Now in the parking lot below the back side of Ha-Ling, I was beyond excited at the prospect of conquering a Rocky mountain. Something in the phrase “I’ve climbed a mountain in the Rockies” makes me feel proud of myself, but also carries a bite of bragging or bravado. I guess a mountain is a mountain is a mountain, but who’s to say? I was more intimidated regarding Ha-Ling than I had ever been by any piece of terra firma.
Ha-Ling rises just shy of 7,900 feet, but you have to remember than Canmore is also about 4,000 feet above sea level, making the climb as well just shy of 4,000 feet. Originally, this tip at the northwestern end of Mount Lawrence Grassi was declared “Chinaman’s Peak” in the late 1890’s. Ha Ling, a Chinese cook either for the Canadian Pacific Railway or a hotel in Canmore, was bet $50 (a more than considerable sum in those days) that he could not complete a round trip climb to plant a flag at the top in less than 10 hours. Leaving around 7am on a Saturday morning, he had returned for lunch with his workmates who, of course, did not believe him until he returned with witnesses to see his makeshift flag, and to plant a bigger, more visible flag.
Although referred to as Chinaman’s Peak for over 80 years, it had not become the officially recognized name until 1980. The name was kept until 1997 when the term “Chinaman” was deemed offensive, and the name was changed to honor the man himself, Ha Ling.
Noel and I elected to park the truck on the back side of the mountain to bypass about 1,000 of pushing either up a dirt road to our selected trailhead, or through a forested trail that would have us take a different route. We stretched our legs and back, mine aching from days of sitting stiff, Noel’s at least aware of what was to come as he was regularly in the back country for some sort of activity. We stopped just short of the trees and entrance to our trail, enjoyed our last sip of coffee and a cigarette, and then following the rear end of a rather fit blond, took to the ascent.
It was surprising, but it was not too long before I found my breathing heavy, yet not labored. I took small snaps from my water bottle so as not to succumb to cramps, and we would hike for 5 minutes and rest for one. The system worked, and while I was certainly not bounding up the mountain, it did make for a fairly smooth climb. Periodically we would come to turns in the trail or breaks in the trees, and I would catch glimpses of the range around us: peak upon peak of gargantuan beauty, amazement capable of frying brain cells, and sheer awe in the mass of my surroundings. Here and there, Noel would offer an encouraging “only 15 minutes to the treeline”, and would repeat himself 15 minutes later.
Once we were out of the woods, we took a quick ten minute rest to enjoy a beer before our final push over loose rocks, and the haphazardly beaten paths among them, to the bowl between Ha-Ling and Miner’s Col just to our right. Noel is likely to be 1/3 mountain goat given his ability to make my clambering look like folly in the wake of his easy stroll, but he would never allow himself to be tested to prove such. He waited about eight minutes ahead of me on a rock, shouting obscenities and demeaning remarks as I labored my way to the bowl. I kept my eyes down the whole way, not wanting to spoil my first engagement with a view such as I was seeking.
I got to the edge, took a seat opposite Noel, took off my pack, opened a beer, lit a cigarette, and only then did I turn my head some 20 degrees and regard one of the finest sights I had seen outside a bedroom. Canmore lay some 3,500 feet below us, looking much like a presentation at your local model train show. I could identify the place where I was staying and a few landmark buildings or clusters, but I just kept looking down. I had never experienced such a feeling: I was up here, I had done this. I felt as though this achievement would suit me, but I then looked up to see the remaining 500 feet or so to Ha Ling beckoning. We debated mounting Miner’s Col, but some areas of snow made the trek appear a bit unsafe. Collecting our debris, we set off, upward still.
Not too long later, I was passing a “please do not throw rocks: climbers below” sign, and wondered in earnest if a younger Noel had visited the older Noel up here one day. We had raised some Hell on occasion, and I could see that Noel firing rocks of the peak with reckless abandon, the older Noel shaking his head and taking pictures. At the summit, we again cracked a beer and took in the surrounding vista.
I was once more in awe, my camera in my outstretched arms over a drop over about 2,000 feet. This sheer drop featured some challenging climbing routes for the mentally insane, and was a rather imposing figure from any angle around or on it. We spent a good 20 minutes or so taking pictures, shooting the breeze, and reveling in a beautiful day, just the two of us, 4,000 feet from anyone.
Honestly, I do not recall much of the descent, and fail to remember passing anyone moving in either direction. My carefully selected footholds and baby steps on the loose rock occupied almost my entire brain, and left little room for memories to be made. At one point I looked up to see Noel in full sprint down the side of the hill, bounding carelessly with 10 foot strides and leaving plumes of dust behind him. He would stop, watched me sympathetically, and then continue on again. Into the woods, we were welcomed with shade and shed layers with no fear of the blistering sun. While walking the trail, we hit one patch of available light that was so warm, so inviting, and so breathtaking in its view that we opted to stop and rest our legs. Honestly, making my way down was much harder on my body, while making my way up had been more taxing mentally.
We broke from the trail and got back to the truck, and while I had gained something to add to my obituary I had lost a newly purchased shirt and my hunting knife. I looked back at the hill and said “you can have ‘em”, climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed back to town.
Noel had a few hours of work to tend to, so I enjoyed a scotch and a shower, and before going any further with my intake went to the grocery store to fetch lasagna for supper. Also procuring beer, I felt I was making myself somewhat useful as a guest, rather than trailing behind my guide during the day and whining about my aches at night. Between that evening’s hockey game on TV, supper in the oven, and a perfect view of Ha-Ling from the deck window, I could not think of a better way to finish off the day.
Noel, however, had thought about this plenty. After devouring our supper, and quite a few beers, we retreated to a hot tub and soaked the stiffness out of our muscles. I slept amazingly that night, but just before I went to bed I sat and had a cigarette on the back stoop. I wanted to look back and remember everything about that climb, the scenery, the views, and the physical demands, but I was staring straight at my next day’s hurdle.
For once I would have something with John A. MacDonald, aside from alcoholism and razor-sharp wit: after tomorrow, we would both have mounted Lady MacDonald.
For the better part of two days I had sat in one position, and for the rest I had drank in one position. Getting up this Tuesday morning, I was hoping for a leisurely stroll through Canmore, sampling coffee and snacks, checking out a book store or two, and then retiring for a supper and drinks to carry into the evening.
Noel woke me up with bags already packed, beer already chilled, and five minutes notice that we were headed for a hearty breakfast and then making our way to a mountain we had passed under cover of dark last night. This peak had peered at us throughout the fading hours of light the evening before, but only now was I looking at it through the eyes of someone about to climb it.
Previously, my sole significant climb was up Mount Carleton in New Brunswick, a healthy 2,700 feet. I had gone there solo in my summer of dismay, an early up, late back trip where I had boarded Carter for the day. That drive was fueled by anger, desperation, and the ever-growing weariness of a soul gone awry. That afternoon, sitting atop the highest peak in the Maritimes, I easily forgot my troubles and was, for a few hours, better than I had been in the 6 months before. Back at home that night, feeling somewhat proud of my accomplishments, I cracked a bottle and continued a private suffering.
Now in the parking lot below the back side of Ha-Ling, I was beyond excited at the prospect of conquering a Rocky mountain. Something in the phrase “I’ve climbed a mountain in the Rockies” makes me feel proud of myself, but also carries a bite of bragging or bravado. I guess a mountain is a mountain is a mountain, but who’s to say? I was more intimidated regarding Ha-Ling than I had ever been by any piece of terra firma.
Ha-Ling rises just shy of 7,900 feet, but you have to remember than Canmore is also about 4,000 feet above sea level, making the climb as well just shy of 4,000 feet. Originally, this tip at the northwestern end of Mount Lawrence Grassi was declared “Chinaman’s Peak” in the late 1890’s. Ha Ling, a Chinese cook either for the Canadian Pacific Railway or a hotel in Canmore, was bet $50 (a more than considerable sum in those days) that he could not complete a round trip climb to plant a flag at the top in less than 10 hours. Leaving around 7am on a Saturday morning, he had returned for lunch with his workmates who, of course, did not believe him until he returned with witnesses to see his makeshift flag, and to plant a bigger, more visible flag.
Although referred to as Chinaman’s Peak for over 80 years, it had not become the officially recognized name until 1980. The name was kept until 1997 when the term “Chinaman” was deemed offensive, and the name was changed to honor the man himself, Ha Ling.
Noel and I elected to park the truck on the back side of the mountain to bypass about 1,000 of pushing either up a dirt road to our selected trailhead, or through a forested trail that would have us take a different route. We stretched our legs and back, mine aching from days of sitting stiff, Noel’s at least aware of what was to come as he was regularly in the back country for some sort of activity. We stopped just short of the trees and entrance to our trail, enjoyed our last sip of coffee and a cigarette, and then following the rear end of a rather fit blond, took to the ascent.
It was surprising, but it was not too long before I found my breathing heavy, yet not labored. I took small snaps from my water bottle so as not to succumb to cramps, and we would hike for 5 minutes and rest for one. The system worked, and while I was certainly not bounding up the mountain, it did make for a fairly smooth climb. Periodically we would come to turns in the trail or breaks in the trees, and I would catch glimpses of the range around us: peak upon peak of gargantuan beauty, amazement capable of frying brain cells, and sheer awe in the mass of my surroundings. Here and there, Noel would offer an encouraging “only 15 minutes to the treeline”, and would repeat himself 15 minutes later.
Once we were out of the woods, we took a quick ten minute rest to enjoy a beer before our final push over loose rocks, and the haphazardly beaten paths among them, to the bowl between Ha-Ling and Miner’s Col just to our right. Noel is likely to be 1/3 mountain goat given his ability to make my clambering look like folly in the wake of his easy stroll, but he would never allow himself to be tested to prove such. He waited about eight minutes ahead of me on a rock, shouting obscenities and demeaning remarks as I labored my way to the bowl. I kept my eyes down the whole way, not wanting to spoil my first engagement with a view such as I was seeking.
I got to the edge, took a seat opposite Noel, took off my pack, opened a beer, lit a cigarette, and only then did I turn my head some 20 degrees and regard one of the finest sights I had seen outside a bedroom. Canmore lay some 3,500 feet below us, looking much like a presentation at your local model train show. I could identify the place where I was staying and a few landmark buildings or clusters, but I just kept looking down. I had never experienced such a feeling: I was up here, I had done this. I felt as though this achievement would suit me, but I then looked up to see the remaining 500 feet or so to Ha Ling beckoning. We debated mounting Miner’s Col, but some areas of snow made the trek appear a bit unsafe. Collecting our debris, we set off, upward still.
Not too long later, I was passing a “please do not throw rocks: climbers below” sign, and wondered in earnest if a younger Noel had visited the older Noel up here one day. We had raised some Hell on occasion, and I could see that Noel firing rocks of the peak with reckless abandon, the older Noel shaking his head and taking pictures. At the summit, we again cracked a beer and took in the surrounding vista.
I was once more in awe, my camera in my outstretched arms over a drop over about 2,000 feet. This sheer drop featured some challenging climbing routes for the mentally insane, and was a rather imposing figure from any angle around or on it. We spent a good 20 minutes or so taking pictures, shooting the breeze, and reveling in a beautiful day, just the two of us, 4,000 feet from anyone.
Honestly, I do not recall much of the descent, and fail to remember passing anyone moving in either direction. My carefully selected footholds and baby steps on the loose rock occupied almost my entire brain, and left little room for memories to be made. At one point I looked up to see Noel in full sprint down the side of the hill, bounding carelessly with 10 foot strides and leaving plumes of dust behind him. He would stop, watched me sympathetically, and then continue on again. Into the woods, we were welcomed with shade and shed layers with no fear of the blistering sun. While walking the trail, we hit one patch of available light that was so warm, so inviting, and so breathtaking in its view that we opted to stop and rest our legs. Honestly, making my way down was much harder on my body, while making my way up had been more taxing mentally.
We broke from the trail and got back to the truck, and while I had gained something to add to my obituary I had lost a newly purchased shirt and my hunting knife. I looked back at the hill and said “you can have ‘em”, climbed into the driver’s seat, and headed back to town.
Noel had a few hours of work to tend to, so I enjoyed a scotch and a shower, and before going any further with my intake went to the grocery store to fetch lasagna for supper. Also procuring beer, I felt I was making myself somewhat useful as a guest, rather than trailing behind my guide during the day and whining about my aches at night. Between that evening’s hockey game on TV, supper in the oven, and a perfect view of Ha-Ling from the deck window, I could not think of a better way to finish off the day.
Noel, however, had thought about this plenty. After devouring our supper, and quite a few beers, we retreated to a hot tub and soaked the stiffness out of our muscles. I slept amazingly that night, but just before I went to bed I sat and had a cigarette on the back stoop. I wanted to look back and remember everything about that climb, the scenery, the views, and the physical demands, but I was staring straight at my next day’s hurdle.
For once I would have something with John A. MacDonald, aside from alcoholism and razor-sharp wit: after tomorrow, we would both have mounted Lady MacDonald.
Trip - Day 2 – Monday, April 19, 2010
Waking up, I realized that while I had enjoyed my surprise Grady show I had not done myself any favors by imbibing so much rye. Two things were apparent: the trend of drinking had most definitely begun, and I was going to have a long, long drive to Canmore.
I gathered my belongings, carted them to the truck and was off on the second leg of my drive. Through the strip of Grande Prairie, I hit every red light as I aimed for Route 40 which would lead me to Hinton, Alberta, about 10 kilometers from my entrance to Jasper National Park and the Rocky Mountains.
I tried one Tim Hortons, and it was far too busy. The other Tim Hortons that rested just at the foot of my next highway was just as crowded, but the bustle seemed to carrying folks through faster. I had a muffin and a coffee, topped the truck up at the gas station across the intersection, and then put the pedal down.
With a headache powerful enough to peel paint, I opted to drive mostly in silence. I rolled the window up, put on some air conditioning, and settled into a great drive. I was unsure when my first view of the looming Rockies would come into play, and about 40 minutes outside of Grande Prairie I saw, a long way off in the distance, the first snowy peaks. Instantly, the hangover was gone and replaced with an adrenaline fused excitement in knowing I would be in the midst of their heft… in another 2 hours.
The route wound through some small towns, and I elected to take a breather in Grande Cache. I stopped to top the truck up again, give it a wash, and while hungry, I knew Hinton would make a better stop for an actual lunch. I bought a chocolate bar, filled my water bottle, and got back to the lolling road ahead.
My cell reception was insanely intermittent, sometimes going from amazing to nothing within seconds. I tried to listen to podcasts and radio from back home in the Maritimes, but had no luck. Again, back in silence, I peeled off the miles.
The silence was welcome, but made me all too aware that I was very much alone. It was difficult to look to the empty seat beside me because this was trip was a major event for me, and I felt someone should have been there. Someone should have been making remarks on my passing, advising me that my signal light was on, and getting on my last nerve over completely inane things. Someone should have been opening their bottle for a drink but offering it to me first, or lighting my cigarettes when the road produced turn after turn. Alas, this would not be the case.
All those points on my mind, I found my tires hitting the rumble strip beside the white line. I was just 10 minutes from Hinton, and I figured I had taken enough liberties “thinking and driving” so I cranked some music, sang along, and looked forward to lunch.
Hinton struck me initially as a quaint little spot. A nice, contained, manicured little pass-through on the edge of one of the World’s most beautiful plots of land, it offered convenience in a well stocked main drag and beautiful snippets of the Rocky peaks just above the trees.
Finding no identifiable mom and pop style diners, I chose a Smitty’s for lunch and had eggs benedict accompanied by the oddest hollandaise sauce in history. I could not place it then, nor can I now, but the texture was off and the flavor was missing something. Adding salt and pepper helped, but thinking about the taste made it tough to enjoy it, for me anyway. I paid, tipped well and was back into the sunny afternoon that was that April day.
Another Tim’s and a bathroom break, and I was on Highway 16 into the park. The mountains did not appear to have foothills of note from where I was, and were all of a sudden just there. Meters from the gate, I nearly rear-ended someone while looking up instead of ahead, and vowed to keep my gaze on the pavement from here on it.
After paying a modest ten dollars to enter the park, it was all of thirty seconds before the wildlife show began (and ended, as it were). The Rocky Mountain Sheep were in full force, grazing on the roadside completely oblivious to the vehicles around them. At first I thought this to be quite something, but remembered that this was an all day, every day thing for these and many other creatures living in the park. As happy as I was to be driving this highway, something I had longed my whole life to do, I had a pang of guilt that today my machine was among thousands that would rumble through here.
My first stop in the Park was at Athabasca Falls, where after a short walk I was winded and greeted by the return of my hangover. Immediately, I turned back toward the truck, passing it in favor of an outhouse. Though lush, well equipped, and likely the nicest outhouse I would ever see, it offered no comfort from the heaving and retching I was taking to while evacuating all I had consumed since the night before. Never in my life had a hangover been cured only to return in force. While this occurred to me, I began an opus of bodily functions from all orifices capable of making sounds or matter. I was in rough shape, and at this point would have to turn up the view of Athabasca and make my way further on up the road.
I navigated several avalanche zones where signs warned that stopping could make your day go from awesome to awful in mere seconds. In one point at a higher elevation the signs were not visible under a recent slide, the drifts cut into sharp 5 foot walls by a ballsy plow operator. I was descending into a bowl, white-knuckled where the white line was covered by the snow, and wave upon wave of truck and bus flooded the hill. As the traffic passed I was brought into a place I would describe as “my ideal place to die”. The road took a massive turn around the circular floor of the valley, and from the apex of the turn it almost looked as though I were on a closed loop in the middle of about 10 peaks. As I came out of the turn and left the valley, I was almost sad. What a beautiful place…
Through the ice fields, my neck sore from swiveling, I found myself at “The Crossing”. Just a stones throw from Route 11 to Rocky Mountain House and Red Deer, the amenities at the Saskatchewan River Crossing featured a gas station, pub, cafeteria, and hotel. Completely surrounded my mountains, it was the first accommodation I had seen since entering the park, and made me think that it could not possibly be a tough go to work anywhere along this stretch of road. I got a sandwich and refilled my water, sat on the tailgate and took in the air. Lying back, I felt I could easily drift off and felt it necessary to get yet another coffee, go to the bathroom yet again, and log the final miles to Canmore.
After passing Lake Louise, the Radium Hot Springs, and Banff, I was only a half hour or so from Canmore. I was looking forward to a scotch, to seeing my friend Noel, and being done with drives over 50 kilometers for about five days. In those last straight-aways and turns, I thought back on the drive as well. The road had been tight in spots, and did not offer the high elevations and switchbacks I had envisioned, but obviously offered a gorgeous vista at every glance. The motorists were courteous, slowing and waving people by as they lost their trains of thought while looking at the intense beauty around them.
Mainly, as I prepared myself mentally for finally seeing someone I knew for the first time in 4 months, the mountains called and echoed. For every new mountain I saw, the ones I had left behind me were still creating new ridges in my mind. The sheer magnitude of these mountains was staggering, which is an apparent enough statement, but the scale overwhelmed me. I had never been in the presence of an actual wonder, save for most mornings in front of the mirror, and pulling into Canmore I was amazed I did not get in an accident. I had just driven a significant stretch of highway through the Rockies, and I could barely recall looking at the road.
I got to Noel’s place, texted him, and two minutes later was shaking hands with a person I had known since junior high, but had not actually become friends with until his going away party almost 15 years later. We caught up quick over a scotch, had some supper and took a drive to procure all the evening’s necessities, some not of the ilk to mention in a public space.
We made a few stops, the last one in town being at another high school friend’s place. Justin had been out this way a while, he and Noel meeting up by chance one day at the grocery store, but his back had taken a beating at work. He had just succumbed to surgery, was in serious pain and on medication, but nonetheless was in amazing spirits for a person in his position. I admired his persistence, thinking I would just as soon have swallowed a bottle of those same meds and slept it off. Forever.
Leaving Justin’s, we made for my first rip through Kananaskis Country. The dirt road took us to Spray Lakes where, even under the cover of night, the forces of the land were not lost on me. I was seeing the mountains again, lit by the stars this time, and still the feeling in my stomach made me ache with excitement and awe. Noel had brought a “bear banger” with him and fired it into the great silence, only to explode and reverberate across several ranges, waking the wildlife in a chorus of chirps and tweets.
We took a quick rip to a helipad about 15km further on into the mountains, enjoyed a smash of scotch, a fantastic Caol Ila, and made our way back to Noel’s place. I made up the couch and stretched out, falling quickly asleep after the drive and all else the day had held. Planning on relaxing and strolling about town the next day, I was woken up by Noel around 9am, and he had different plans.
Ha-Ling watched over the town, and awaited our arrival and ascent.
I gathered my belongings, carted them to the truck and was off on the second leg of my drive. Through the strip of Grande Prairie, I hit every red light as I aimed for Route 40 which would lead me to Hinton, Alberta, about 10 kilometers from my entrance to Jasper National Park and the Rocky Mountains.
I tried one Tim Hortons, and it was far too busy. The other Tim Hortons that rested just at the foot of my next highway was just as crowded, but the bustle seemed to carrying folks through faster. I had a muffin and a coffee, topped the truck up at the gas station across the intersection, and then put the pedal down.
With a headache powerful enough to peel paint, I opted to drive mostly in silence. I rolled the window up, put on some air conditioning, and settled into a great drive. I was unsure when my first view of the looming Rockies would come into play, and about 40 minutes outside of Grande Prairie I saw, a long way off in the distance, the first snowy peaks. Instantly, the hangover was gone and replaced with an adrenaline fused excitement in knowing I would be in the midst of their heft… in another 2 hours.
The route wound through some small towns, and I elected to take a breather in Grande Cache. I stopped to top the truck up again, give it a wash, and while hungry, I knew Hinton would make a better stop for an actual lunch. I bought a chocolate bar, filled my water bottle, and got back to the lolling road ahead.
My cell reception was insanely intermittent, sometimes going from amazing to nothing within seconds. I tried to listen to podcasts and radio from back home in the Maritimes, but had no luck. Again, back in silence, I peeled off the miles.
The silence was welcome, but made me all too aware that I was very much alone. It was difficult to look to the empty seat beside me because this was trip was a major event for me, and I felt someone should have been there. Someone should have been making remarks on my passing, advising me that my signal light was on, and getting on my last nerve over completely inane things. Someone should have been opening their bottle for a drink but offering it to me first, or lighting my cigarettes when the road produced turn after turn. Alas, this would not be the case.
All those points on my mind, I found my tires hitting the rumble strip beside the white line. I was just 10 minutes from Hinton, and I figured I had taken enough liberties “thinking and driving” so I cranked some music, sang along, and looked forward to lunch.
Hinton struck me initially as a quaint little spot. A nice, contained, manicured little pass-through on the edge of one of the World’s most beautiful plots of land, it offered convenience in a well stocked main drag and beautiful snippets of the Rocky peaks just above the trees.
Finding no identifiable mom and pop style diners, I chose a Smitty’s for lunch and had eggs benedict accompanied by the oddest hollandaise sauce in history. I could not place it then, nor can I now, but the texture was off and the flavor was missing something. Adding salt and pepper helped, but thinking about the taste made it tough to enjoy it, for me anyway. I paid, tipped well and was back into the sunny afternoon that was that April day.
Another Tim’s and a bathroom break, and I was on Highway 16 into the park. The mountains did not appear to have foothills of note from where I was, and were all of a sudden just there. Meters from the gate, I nearly rear-ended someone while looking up instead of ahead, and vowed to keep my gaze on the pavement from here on it.
After paying a modest ten dollars to enter the park, it was all of thirty seconds before the wildlife show began (and ended, as it were). The Rocky Mountain Sheep were in full force, grazing on the roadside completely oblivious to the vehicles around them. At first I thought this to be quite something, but remembered that this was an all day, every day thing for these and many other creatures living in the park. As happy as I was to be driving this highway, something I had longed my whole life to do, I had a pang of guilt that today my machine was among thousands that would rumble through here.
My first stop in the Park was at Athabasca Falls, where after a short walk I was winded and greeted by the return of my hangover. Immediately, I turned back toward the truck, passing it in favor of an outhouse. Though lush, well equipped, and likely the nicest outhouse I would ever see, it offered no comfort from the heaving and retching I was taking to while evacuating all I had consumed since the night before. Never in my life had a hangover been cured only to return in force. While this occurred to me, I began an opus of bodily functions from all orifices capable of making sounds or matter. I was in rough shape, and at this point would have to turn up the view of Athabasca and make my way further on up the road.
I navigated several avalanche zones where signs warned that stopping could make your day go from awesome to awful in mere seconds. In one point at a higher elevation the signs were not visible under a recent slide, the drifts cut into sharp 5 foot walls by a ballsy plow operator. I was descending into a bowl, white-knuckled where the white line was covered by the snow, and wave upon wave of truck and bus flooded the hill. As the traffic passed I was brought into a place I would describe as “my ideal place to die”. The road took a massive turn around the circular floor of the valley, and from the apex of the turn it almost looked as though I were on a closed loop in the middle of about 10 peaks. As I came out of the turn and left the valley, I was almost sad. What a beautiful place…
Through the ice fields, my neck sore from swiveling, I found myself at “The Crossing”. Just a stones throw from Route 11 to Rocky Mountain House and Red Deer, the amenities at the Saskatchewan River Crossing featured a gas station, pub, cafeteria, and hotel. Completely surrounded my mountains, it was the first accommodation I had seen since entering the park, and made me think that it could not possibly be a tough go to work anywhere along this stretch of road. I got a sandwich and refilled my water, sat on the tailgate and took in the air. Lying back, I felt I could easily drift off and felt it necessary to get yet another coffee, go to the bathroom yet again, and log the final miles to Canmore.
After passing Lake Louise, the Radium Hot Springs, and Banff, I was only a half hour or so from Canmore. I was looking forward to a scotch, to seeing my friend Noel, and being done with drives over 50 kilometers for about five days. In those last straight-aways and turns, I thought back on the drive as well. The road had been tight in spots, and did not offer the high elevations and switchbacks I had envisioned, but obviously offered a gorgeous vista at every glance. The motorists were courteous, slowing and waving people by as they lost their trains of thought while looking at the intense beauty around them.
Mainly, as I prepared myself mentally for finally seeing someone I knew for the first time in 4 months, the mountains called and echoed. For every new mountain I saw, the ones I had left behind me were still creating new ridges in my mind. The sheer magnitude of these mountains was staggering, which is an apparent enough statement, but the scale overwhelmed me. I had never been in the presence of an actual wonder, save for most mornings in front of the mirror, and pulling into Canmore I was amazed I did not get in an accident. I had just driven a significant stretch of highway through the Rockies, and I could barely recall looking at the road.
I got to Noel’s place, texted him, and two minutes later was shaking hands with a person I had known since junior high, but had not actually become friends with until his going away party almost 15 years later. We caught up quick over a scotch, had some supper and took a drive to procure all the evening’s necessities, some not of the ilk to mention in a public space.
We made a few stops, the last one in town being at another high school friend’s place. Justin had been out this way a while, he and Noel meeting up by chance one day at the grocery store, but his back had taken a beating at work. He had just succumbed to surgery, was in serious pain and on medication, but nonetheless was in amazing spirits for a person in his position. I admired his persistence, thinking I would just as soon have swallowed a bottle of those same meds and slept it off. Forever.
Leaving Justin’s, we made for my first rip through Kananaskis Country. The dirt road took us to Spray Lakes where, even under the cover of night, the forces of the land were not lost on me. I was seeing the mountains again, lit by the stars this time, and still the feeling in my stomach made me ache with excitement and awe. Noel had brought a “bear banger” with him and fired it into the great silence, only to explode and reverberate across several ranges, waking the wildlife in a chorus of chirps and tweets.
We took a quick rip to a helipad about 15km further on into the mountains, enjoyed a smash of scotch, a fantastic Caol Ila, and made our way back to Noel’s place. I made up the couch and stretched out, falling quickly asleep after the drive and all else the day had held. Planning on relaxing and strolling about town the next day, I was woken up by Noel around 9am, and he had different plans.
Ha-Ling watched over the town, and awaited our arrival and ascent.
Trip - Day 1 – Sunday, April 18, 2010
I awoke nearly an hour behind schedule and, for the first time in my history of doing so, did not care in the least. My plan this day was to drop Carter in Manning then continue on to Grande Prairie, leaving the remainder of my drive to Canmore through the Rockies for daylight on Monday.
Toting two guitars and one piece of luggage down to my truck, it hit me that this was the first substantial vacation I had ever really taken. Two weeks, alone, paid, to places I had never been and had scarcely even viewed in photographs. Going back up to the apartment to fetch Carter, it also hit me that I was to log many miles without any company, which initially seemed intriguing but now gave me a pang of sorrow. There was someone else that should enjoy this with me, but I had done my best not to pack that baggage for this trip.
Loaded up, I filled my coffee mug and hit the highway. Having not driven to Hay River from New Brunswick when I moved, it took a mere 40 minutes before I broke the barrier and started a full vacation on roads I had never traveled through scenery I had never seen.
Intending to travel no more than 7 hours per day gave me the opportunity to take my time, to really see these towns and vistas. I figured Manning would be my first stop, barring Carter needing a bathroom break, but he curled up and took to sleeping just past the Alexandra and Victoria Falls some 30 kilometers from home. Oddly enough, it would be me, one hour into the drive, who would be answering nature’s call in one of the Northwest Territories famous “roadside turnouts”.
These are a peculiar piece of the landscape in the North. You have to remember, a five hour drive to Yellowknife has you pass through only about three actual places, and not all have gas stations at the ready. The turnouts are designed to give you a good place for a break, rather than suffer through stretch after stretch of emptiness with an overly persistent bladder.
Back on the road, we entered Alberta a half hour later, and I beamed at the thought of “I’m finally doing this”. I had been in Alberta once, overnight near the airport on my way here, and had seen absolutely nothing. This whole trip was going to be a treat, and the destinations only made it that much sweeter.
There were many towns, large and small, on the way to Manning: Indian Cabins, Meander River, Hawk Hills, and High Level to name a few. Passing through the hamlets and towns was extremely rewarding, each a token of another phase gained in my journey. I would arrive in Manning around 1pm to drop Carter at his hotel and day spa, noting after that it was one of the most attractive communities of the entire two weeks on the road.
Situated just on the city limits, the clinic and kennel was a former farm suited to handle the medical and leisure needs of up to 100 dogs. The patrons were given private kennels the size of small bedrooms at night, then roamed free in pens the size of hockey rinks with other dogs during the day. Carter was anxious upon being dropped off, but I took solace in the fact that he would be up to date with all of his needles and check ups, and that about 20 minutes later he would be joining a slew of other mutts for an orgasmic two weeks of sniffing asses and making friends.
At the other end of Manning, I felt what parents must feel when the send their kids off to camp, only I would actually miss my dog. I felt the welling of sadness in my eyes and stomach, and fought it off be finally allowing myself the company of music. RUSH’s “Tom Sawyer” seemed an all too perfect fit to start this journey aurally.
I was another 3 hours from my first night’s stay in Grande Prairie, so I stopped at a gas station in the vaguely familiar Deadwood, which I recalled after my trip as a show on CBC. Filling the truck with gas, myself with a terrible sandwich, and my mug with what was apparently paint remover, I continued on through more lovely holes in the wall. Warrensville, Grimshaw, Waterhole, Dunvegan, and Sexsmith filled my mind’s rearview, only to await my passing through again some 13 days later.
I had booked a night at a fairly new Motel 6 in Grande Prairie, and nearly passed it upon arriving in the city itself. It was the first building of any mention, situated after an overpass and just far enough off the road to be missed. With no traffic to note, I slowed all too quickly and exited at the last second. I gathered my belongings and checked in, took a quick shower, relaxed for a few minutes with the trip’s first scotch, and then headed out for supper.
On the main drag downtown, the regular fast food joints that were now completely banished from my isolated life did beckon, but I vowed to avoid those places on this trip in favor of better, edible meals. I chose a fine establishment called “Earls”, which at this point I had no idea was a chain of sorts, and was treated to a fantastic dinner.
I chose this restaurant based on the patio alone; for the first time in months I could be outside with minimal clothing, so I took full advantage. I took a table, ordered a beer and my meal then settled in to my book. Both arrived in record time, and the sandwich nearly caused me a not-so-private ecstasy; grilled chicken breast, spinach, caramelized apple, and blue cheese on the freshest foccacia in history. I nearly ordered a second serving to go, but instead filled myself with the remainder of my beer. I sat in the sun, reading my book, feeling very much on vacation.
After paying I took a brief, self-guided tour of Grande Prairie, and was shocked by its size. Surely, it was no Toronto, and barely a Saint John, but I had pictured something of an overgrown backwater seeing its heyday. The money made in Alberta’s oil patches was surely driving the economy here, two weeks at a time.
Back at the hotel, I stretched out on the bed and watched a bit of television, figuring on a quiet Sunday night. A laughable plea on my Facebook status asked for suggestions on what to do here, at this time of week, at this time of night. Expecting nothing in the way of actual advice I almost failed to check for answers, but a friend alerted me that Grady (Gordie Johnson’s latest outfit) would be playing a spot called “Better Than Fred’s”.
Needless to say, a few more drinks were consumed that evening, and what was supposed to be a quiet night was much, much louder than I would ever have anticipated. After the show, my ears ringing like so much feedback, elation crept fast upon me. This was a perfect surprise to begin my trip, and could only serve as a sign of better things to come.
I capped off the night watching the Late Show with David Letterman, another scotch in hand, and looked forward to Monday’s drive through the Rocky Mountains on the Jasper Highway.
Toting two guitars and one piece of luggage down to my truck, it hit me that this was the first substantial vacation I had ever really taken. Two weeks, alone, paid, to places I had never been and had scarcely even viewed in photographs. Going back up to the apartment to fetch Carter, it also hit me that I was to log many miles without any company, which initially seemed intriguing but now gave me a pang of sorrow. There was someone else that should enjoy this with me, but I had done my best not to pack that baggage for this trip.
Loaded up, I filled my coffee mug and hit the highway. Having not driven to Hay River from New Brunswick when I moved, it took a mere 40 minutes before I broke the barrier and started a full vacation on roads I had never traveled through scenery I had never seen.
Intending to travel no more than 7 hours per day gave me the opportunity to take my time, to really see these towns and vistas. I figured Manning would be my first stop, barring Carter needing a bathroom break, but he curled up and took to sleeping just past the Alexandra and Victoria Falls some 30 kilometers from home. Oddly enough, it would be me, one hour into the drive, who would be answering nature’s call in one of the Northwest Territories famous “roadside turnouts”.
These are a peculiar piece of the landscape in the North. You have to remember, a five hour drive to Yellowknife has you pass through only about three actual places, and not all have gas stations at the ready. The turnouts are designed to give you a good place for a break, rather than suffer through stretch after stretch of emptiness with an overly persistent bladder.
Back on the road, we entered Alberta a half hour later, and I beamed at the thought of “I’m finally doing this”. I had been in Alberta once, overnight near the airport on my way here, and had seen absolutely nothing. This whole trip was going to be a treat, and the destinations only made it that much sweeter.
There were many towns, large and small, on the way to Manning: Indian Cabins, Meander River, Hawk Hills, and High Level to name a few. Passing through the hamlets and towns was extremely rewarding, each a token of another phase gained in my journey. I would arrive in Manning around 1pm to drop Carter at his hotel and day spa, noting after that it was one of the most attractive communities of the entire two weeks on the road.
Situated just on the city limits, the clinic and kennel was a former farm suited to handle the medical and leisure needs of up to 100 dogs. The patrons were given private kennels the size of small bedrooms at night, then roamed free in pens the size of hockey rinks with other dogs during the day. Carter was anxious upon being dropped off, but I took solace in the fact that he would be up to date with all of his needles and check ups, and that about 20 minutes later he would be joining a slew of other mutts for an orgasmic two weeks of sniffing asses and making friends.
At the other end of Manning, I felt what parents must feel when the send their kids off to camp, only I would actually miss my dog. I felt the welling of sadness in my eyes and stomach, and fought it off be finally allowing myself the company of music. RUSH’s “Tom Sawyer” seemed an all too perfect fit to start this journey aurally.
I was another 3 hours from my first night’s stay in Grande Prairie, so I stopped at a gas station in the vaguely familiar Deadwood, which I recalled after my trip as a show on CBC. Filling the truck with gas, myself with a terrible sandwich, and my mug with what was apparently paint remover, I continued on through more lovely holes in the wall. Warrensville, Grimshaw, Waterhole, Dunvegan, and Sexsmith filled my mind’s rearview, only to await my passing through again some 13 days later.
I had booked a night at a fairly new Motel 6 in Grande Prairie, and nearly passed it upon arriving in the city itself. It was the first building of any mention, situated after an overpass and just far enough off the road to be missed. With no traffic to note, I slowed all too quickly and exited at the last second. I gathered my belongings and checked in, took a quick shower, relaxed for a few minutes with the trip’s first scotch, and then headed out for supper.
On the main drag downtown, the regular fast food joints that were now completely banished from my isolated life did beckon, but I vowed to avoid those places on this trip in favor of better, edible meals. I chose a fine establishment called “Earls”, which at this point I had no idea was a chain of sorts, and was treated to a fantastic dinner.
I chose this restaurant based on the patio alone; for the first time in months I could be outside with minimal clothing, so I took full advantage. I took a table, ordered a beer and my meal then settled in to my book. Both arrived in record time, and the sandwich nearly caused me a not-so-private ecstasy; grilled chicken breast, spinach, caramelized apple, and blue cheese on the freshest foccacia in history. I nearly ordered a second serving to go, but instead filled myself with the remainder of my beer. I sat in the sun, reading my book, feeling very much on vacation.
After paying I took a brief, self-guided tour of Grande Prairie, and was shocked by its size. Surely, it was no Toronto, and barely a Saint John, but I had pictured something of an overgrown backwater seeing its heyday. The money made in Alberta’s oil patches was surely driving the economy here, two weeks at a time.
Back at the hotel, I stretched out on the bed and watched a bit of television, figuring on a quiet Sunday night. A laughable plea on my Facebook status asked for suggestions on what to do here, at this time of week, at this time of night. Expecting nothing in the way of actual advice I almost failed to check for answers, but a friend alerted me that Grady (Gordie Johnson’s latest outfit) would be playing a spot called “Better Than Fred’s”.
Needless to say, a few more drinks were consumed that evening, and what was supposed to be a quiet night was much, much louder than I would ever have anticipated. After the show, my ears ringing like so much feedback, elation crept fast upon me. This was a perfect surprise to begin my trip, and could only serve as a sign of better things to come.
I capped off the night watching the Late Show with David Letterman, another scotch in hand, and looked forward to Monday’s drive through the Rocky Mountains on the Jasper Highway.
Trip – Prelude
Around the end of January, I had started thinking seriously about a vacation in late April to kind of break up my time in the North. I had family coming to visit tentatively in July and September, so this sort of felt like a natural way to break my year in Hay River into uneven thirds.
Originally, it was simple: get in the truck and drive south for one week, then turn around and come back. Now, this was based on a, “hmmm… Grand Canyon?” kind of whim, but figuring the price of gas, I would have had to sleep in the truck and eat the seats. More ideas followed, only to be trumped by obvious, unbeatable financial hurdles: a drive to Vancouver with stops along the way (gas prices, hotels); Manitoba to see family (gas prices and hotels again), Los Angeles to surprise my favorite cousin (gas, hotels, and prostitutes); and last but not least, flying home (booze upon landing).
Other options like a trip to Mexico or Amsterdam were marred only by the fact that my passport would not be back to me in time, so I picked something a little more local. I traced a great drive from Hay River to Canmore, then through a piece of Southern Alberta to bypass Calgary and hit up Edmonton. I chose as many back roads as I could in my tireless efforts to avoid highways, and was ready by February for a two week jaunt through the lovely province of Alberta.
March droned on and on, the calendar turning its own pages back some days. The excitement that welled in me even two months before seemed unbearable. I had planned a week in Canmore with an old friend from home and a week in Edmonton with a former band mate, this notion of friends adding an almost painful tinge to my anxiety. The prospect of familiarity in the company of others was enough to make me leave any given day considering the lack of companionship I had endured so far in Hay River.
My travel would be done solo save for the first and last four hours on either end of the journey. Carter would join me until Manning, Alberta on the first day of travel, where I would then leave him in the care of a reputable boarding spot which also served him well in the veterinary department. He needed shots, he needed some extended outdoor time as well, and this place suited both of our demands accordingly.
It seemed we both looked forward to this trip, though I am sure I was merely trying to appropriate some of my excitement on to Carter as a means of justifying just how loopy I had become in the time leading up to my day of departure.
The night before leaving was spent packing and sorting, cleaning the house so I could avoid doing so upon returning, and telling myself “no, don’t leave tonight, stick to your game plan”. I paced the apartment long enough, then headed to the pub to have a few drinks to eat up time. Becoming involved in conversations was torture to the other participants as all I could talk about was vacation.
I retired home before too much was imbibed, knowing full well that my liver would soon endure a beating of the likes which it had never imagined. Lying in bed, I drifted off to sleep trying to rehearse conversation topics so Carter would not feel ignored on our 500 kilometers together, and so he would have my voice well keyed in his ears before we parted ways for two weeks. This is the longest we would ever be apart, and on top of my excitement this realization now circled three times, then curled up.
Tomorrow, we both went on vacation.
Originally, it was simple: get in the truck and drive south for one week, then turn around and come back. Now, this was based on a, “hmmm… Grand Canyon?” kind of whim, but figuring the price of gas, I would have had to sleep in the truck and eat the seats. More ideas followed, only to be trumped by obvious, unbeatable financial hurdles: a drive to Vancouver with stops along the way (gas prices, hotels); Manitoba to see family (gas prices and hotels again), Los Angeles to surprise my favorite cousin (gas, hotels, and prostitutes); and last but not least, flying home (booze upon landing).
Other options like a trip to Mexico or Amsterdam were marred only by the fact that my passport would not be back to me in time, so I picked something a little more local. I traced a great drive from Hay River to Canmore, then through a piece of Southern Alberta to bypass Calgary and hit up Edmonton. I chose as many back roads as I could in my tireless efforts to avoid highways, and was ready by February for a two week jaunt through the lovely province of Alberta.
March droned on and on, the calendar turning its own pages back some days. The excitement that welled in me even two months before seemed unbearable. I had planned a week in Canmore with an old friend from home and a week in Edmonton with a former band mate, this notion of friends adding an almost painful tinge to my anxiety. The prospect of familiarity in the company of others was enough to make me leave any given day considering the lack of companionship I had endured so far in Hay River.
My travel would be done solo save for the first and last four hours on either end of the journey. Carter would join me until Manning, Alberta on the first day of travel, where I would then leave him in the care of a reputable boarding spot which also served him well in the veterinary department. He needed shots, he needed some extended outdoor time as well, and this place suited both of our demands accordingly.
It seemed we both looked forward to this trip, though I am sure I was merely trying to appropriate some of my excitement on to Carter as a means of justifying just how loopy I had become in the time leading up to my day of departure.
The night before leaving was spent packing and sorting, cleaning the house so I could avoid doing so upon returning, and telling myself “no, don’t leave tonight, stick to your game plan”. I paced the apartment long enough, then headed to the pub to have a few drinks to eat up time. Becoming involved in conversations was torture to the other participants as all I could talk about was vacation.
I retired home before too much was imbibed, knowing full well that my liver would soon endure a beating of the likes which it had never imagined. Lying in bed, I drifted off to sleep trying to rehearse conversation topics so Carter would not feel ignored on our 500 kilometers together, and so he would have my voice well keyed in his ears before we parted ways for two weeks. This is the longest we would ever be apart, and on top of my excitement this realization now circled three times, then curled up.
Tomorrow, we both went on vacation.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
"Yes, I'm going to marry a stop sign."
Since my last update, I have kept a fairly low-key schedule. I am up early for work, home at lunch to let Carter out, and back to the grind until sometime after 4, with an evening walk to cap most days. Outside of two evenings on separate weekends, I have even stayed out of the pubs for the most part.
Nights out here take energy, and a lot of it. I find the timelines are so stretched here: you start at 8pm at one apartment, go to one bar at 10pm, then to another apartment at 11pm, then the last bar at 1am, then another apartment by 2am, and then home by 4am if you are lucky. I am certainly no stranger to nights out, or to bouts of excessive drinking beginning shortly after breakfast with good friends. But here, perhaps it is the lack of good friends or familiar faces, but I find it all to be rather boring.
When I sat down to cajole this entry from myself, I found that I had little to say. Nothing of note happened outside hosting another open mic night, a few walks on nice days, drives about town, and two minor visits to the emergency room (one for a scratched eye, the other for stitches to my toe). I sat for a while and thought, “those things are boring, I’ve mentioned them before. There must be other days…”, and it hit me.
The idea of “days” or “nights” as benchmarks in my unexciting life was perhaps a bit of a reach. Rarely did full days or nights register as ones to remember, and in expecting so I failed to observe the impact of a moment. Not exactly a profound statement by any means, but in being here I was looking for the next big attraction every time, and going by me were snapshots of a person. I was missing the little moments that were making me.
I discovered that I had been having “moments”, all the while I just shrugged, smiled, or shook them off. Sometimes the moment paused with a déjà vu sense, but there was no connection to the past. Perhaps I had been waiting on that moment for a while, having sometime in the past noted or thought of how I wished I could feel this or that.
Upon arriving in Hay River, I had a few “well, I’m here now” moments. I would be out walking Carter or sitting in my room, a feeling of loneliness and helplessness washing over me, a panic attack in disguise, and I would just tell myself to get over it. Most times, I listened, knowing I could do nothing about it anyway.
A few more recent moments came within March and this first part of April. Over the last bit I had been out with Carter on the river, taking to our walks as per usual, and enjoying the sun and warm temperatures. In the evenings, I would take a drive into Old Town to try and see some action from the Northern lights, or alternatively, just go for an aimless drive on the back roads outside of town. I would light a cigarette, turn the music low, and just rattle along with the sound of the tires and the engine, my mind churning an endless wash of thoughts.
One evening just before dusk, I had just returned from a 5km jaunt on the river with Carter, and he settled into his bed to nap off the workout. Needing to pick up some necessities, I headed to the grocery store and took the long way home. I set into the road that leads behind town and towards Great Slave, took the ice crossing in to Old Town, then headed back toward New Town. Passing the industrial park, port, and rail yard, I was on the last stretch before the bridge between town sections, and the clouded sky was completely red.
I pulled the truck into the airport, sat on the roof and finished my coffee. A low cloud wall sat just above the tree line, the sun tucking in just behind it with its radiance bright on all horizons. A cool breeze came off the runway from the lake end, carrying the muffled drone of an approaching plane. I smiled one of those “this ain’t so bad” smiles, and before I left I watched a Buffalo Airways DC-3 land on the tarmac.
A few days later, I was on the same back road with more on my mind than in it. I had been having problems sleeping (more so than usual), and one night old thoughts and feelings had been warping my already tired brain. Things that I had not given thought in months, even years in some cases, all of a sudden beckoned to me for some reason. Sticking to my tried and trusted methods, I took a drive to sort things out.
While I was turning from one dirt road to the other, I discovered I “liked” this road. Now, something like this may not identify with those of you who don’t like driving, or motion in general. For me, whether in a vehicle, on my bike, or walking, I will find pieces of land I like. This road had found itself on my list, mainly due to its remote location, but also because I felt I wanted my driveway to be like this. The road felt like home, somewhere I could go everyday and never tire of.
I think back to that now, and I am glad that I take such joy in things others may consider foolish. (“You like a road? Are you going to marry a stop sign?”) To Hell with them, I only need to have gas in the truck to find some solace. I think that’s pretty spectacular.
Sitting on my deck a few nights back, I was enjoying a cigarette and a tea. I looked out over the forest across the river, down on to the street below, and to the sky in every direction trying to pick out constellations to identify later. Gazing to the stars, I took a deep drag and sat back, closed my eyes and exhaled. I sat in blind silence, thinking of nothing particular, and found that this was extremely relaxing. Keeping my eyes shut, I had another puff and could feel the “moment” tinge coming on. I was about to ruin it, as I do with most things, because I had to snuff out my cigarette, which required my sight.
In the split second it takes to open your eyes, I cursed myself for ruining that relaxed state. The next second I was congratulating myself on my impeccable timing as the Northern Lights had taken to putting on quite a show just overhead. It is rare to see the lights so clear and active in town due to light pollution, but on this evening they were extremely strong in town.
The display had been a moment several times over. Initially, I was completely rapt in the excitement and awe of the lights, feeling joy and wonder. Then again, as mentioned in the previous post, it was such a numbing reminder that there was nobody to share it with. Finally, it was shaken off as just another night in the North, nothing to write home about.
These moments were amidst many more which were no more or less important, but they make fine examples of moments I would share. Looking back, the four months I have been in the North have contained moments of excitement, regret, happiness, desolation, isolation, helplessness, progress, motion, and anxiety. As with any experience, you take the bad with the good, and you are pretty much fucked if you start dwelling on things.
In a week, I leave for a two-week trip though parts of Alberta. I will be winding my way to Grande Prairie, then a savory route through the Rockies to Canmore for a visit with a friend. After a back-roads-only drive swooping under Calgary, it will be up to Edmonton for 6 days with another friend from back home.
Having seen the power of relocation and motion at work, I am anxious to see what awaits a fairly open schedule, 3000kms of road, and a mind seeking excitement.
More moments, all lying in wait.
Nights out here take energy, and a lot of it. I find the timelines are so stretched here: you start at 8pm at one apartment, go to one bar at 10pm, then to another apartment at 11pm, then the last bar at 1am, then another apartment by 2am, and then home by 4am if you are lucky. I am certainly no stranger to nights out, or to bouts of excessive drinking beginning shortly after breakfast with good friends. But here, perhaps it is the lack of good friends or familiar faces, but I find it all to be rather boring.
When I sat down to cajole this entry from myself, I found that I had little to say. Nothing of note happened outside hosting another open mic night, a few walks on nice days, drives about town, and two minor visits to the emergency room (one for a scratched eye, the other for stitches to my toe). I sat for a while and thought, “those things are boring, I’ve mentioned them before. There must be other days…”, and it hit me.
The idea of “days” or “nights” as benchmarks in my unexciting life was perhaps a bit of a reach. Rarely did full days or nights register as ones to remember, and in expecting so I failed to observe the impact of a moment. Not exactly a profound statement by any means, but in being here I was looking for the next big attraction every time, and going by me were snapshots of a person. I was missing the little moments that were making me.
I discovered that I had been having “moments”, all the while I just shrugged, smiled, or shook them off. Sometimes the moment paused with a déjà vu sense, but there was no connection to the past. Perhaps I had been waiting on that moment for a while, having sometime in the past noted or thought of how I wished I could feel this or that.
Upon arriving in Hay River, I had a few “well, I’m here now” moments. I would be out walking Carter or sitting in my room, a feeling of loneliness and helplessness washing over me, a panic attack in disguise, and I would just tell myself to get over it. Most times, I listened, knowing I could do nothing about it anyway.
A few more recent moments came within March and this first part of April. Over the last bit I had been out with Carter on the river, taking to our walks as per usual, and enjoying the sun and warm temperatures. In the evenings, I would take a drive into Old Town to try and see some action from the Northern lights, or alternatively, just go for an aimless drive on the back roads outside of town. I would light a cigarette, turn the music low, and just rattle along with the sound of the tires and the engine, my mind churning an endless wash of thoughts.
One evening just before dusk, I had just returned from a 5km jaunt on the river with Carter, and he settled into his bed to nap off the workout. Needing to pick up some necessities, I headed to the grocery store and took the long way home. I set into the road that leads behind town and towards Great Slave, took the ice crossing in to Old Town, then headed back toward New Town. Passing the industrial park, port, and rail yard, I was on the last stretch before the bridge between town sections, and the clouded sky was completely red.
I pulled the truck into the airport, sat on the roof and finished my coffee. A low cloud wall sat just above the tree line, the sun tucking in just behind it with its radiance bright on all horizons. A cool breeze came off the runway from the lake end, carrying the muffled drone of an approaching plane. I smiled one of those “this ain’t so bad” smiles, and before I left I watched a Buffalo Airways DC-3 land on the tarmac.
A few days later, I was on the same back road with more on my mind than in it. I had been having problems sleeping (more so than usual), and one night old thoughts and feelings had been warping my already tired brain. Things that I had not given thought in months, even years in some cases, all of a sudden beckoned to me for some reason. Sticking to my tried and trusted methods, I took a drive to sort things out.
While I was turning from one dirt road to the other, I discovered I “liked” this road. Now, something like this may not identify with those of you who don’t like driving, or motion in general. For me, whether in a vehicle, on my bike, or walking, I will find pieces of land I like. This road had found itself on my list, mainly due to its remote location, but also because I felt I wanted my driveway to be like this. The road felt like home, somewhere I could go everyday and never tire of.
I think back to that now, and I am glad that I take such joy in things others may consider foolish. (“You like a road? Are you going to marry a stop sign?”) To Hell with them, I only need to have gas in the truck to find some solace. I think that’s pretty spectacular.
Sitting on my deck a few nights back, I was enjoying a cigarette and a tea. I looked out over the forest across the river, down on to the street below, and to the sky in every direction trying to pick out constellations to identify later. Gazing to the stars, I took a deep drag and sat back, closed my eyes and exhaled. I sat in blind silence, thinking of nothing particular, and found that this was extremely relaxing. Keeping my eyes shut, I had another puff and could feel the “moment” tinge coming on. I was about to ruin it, as I do with most things, because I had to snuff out my cigarette, which required my sight.
In the split second it takes to open your eyes, I cursed myself for ruining that relaxed state. The next second I was congratulating myself on my impeccable timing as the Northern Lights had taken to putting on quite a show just overhead. It is rare to see the lights so clear and active in town due to light pollution, but on this evening they were extremely strong in town.
The display had been a moment several times over. Initially, I was completely rapt in the excitement and awe of the lights, feeling joy and wonder. Then again, as mentioned in the previous post, it was such a numbing reminder that there was nobody to share it with. Finally, it was shaken off as just another night in the North, nothing to write home about.
These moments were amidst many more which were no more or less important, but they make fine examples of moments I would share. Looking back, the four months I have been in the North have contained moments of excitement, regret, happiness, desolation, isolation, helplessness, progress, motion, and anxiety. As with any experience, you take the bad with the good, and you are pretty much fucked if you start dwelling on things.
In a week, I leave for a two-week trip though parts of Alberta. I will be winding my way to Grande Prairie, then a savory route through the Rockies to Canmore for a visit with a friend. After a back-roads-only drive swooping under Calgary, it will be up to Edmonton for 6 days with another friend from back home.
Having seen the power of relocation and motion at work, I am anxious to see what awaits a fairly open schedule, 3000kms of road, and a mind seeking excitement.
More moments, all lying in wait.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Under Northern Lights and a Canopy of Stars
In the three months or so that I’ve been in Hay River many things have eluded me: good friends, women, fitness, and style to name a few. However, one thing that made me ache with frustration was the fact that I had not seen the Northern Lights in full blaze.
Day after day I would hear a few people around work say, “wow, the lights were awesome last night”. Night after night, I would either fall asleep early or forget about them while staying up late. The best I had seen at any point was a haze or fog, resting just across the river from my 11th floor deck. I would sit there, cigarette in hand, and wonder why the effects were not in full bloom.
One evening it hit me: light pollution. Here in town there are not a great many lights, but it does not take much to diminish the intensity of this natural phenomenon. In order to see the aurora, I would have to head just out of town to a darker area to enjoy my own private viewing.
Having the following day off, I pegged a Wednesday night as my time for shine. That day was almost like Christmas: I was excited by the prospect of finally seeing all the action, the forecast suggested a moderate-strong showing, and hours passed as though the clock battery was dying. I made it through the work day, and still had about 5 hours to kill before I could head to my decided location. I paced the apartment, walked Carter, played guitar, watched a movie, played some video games, and did anything else I could think of to kill time.
At 10:30pm, I got my necessities together and headed to a small patch on the ice road connecting the Old Town to a back road in the New Town. The ice road itself spans around 1km, and consists of ice, then land, then ice, then land, then ice, then land, as it crosses a channel with a couple of small islands in its midst. I picked the last plot of dirt and high grass, parked the truck and hopped out.
I jumped into the box of the truck and sat on the roof, almost lying back to see the Northern Lights in action. To say I was overwhelmed would be an over statement this early in the narrative, but it was rather spectacular. I was hoping for more of the acid-like effect chasing and flaring that I had heard so much about, but the broad waves of light were too far above me. They stretched to either horizon, looking like someone had painted a canvas of the darkest blue, speckled it with flicks of white from a stiff brush, and then ran several strokes of a green/blue/white mix across the whole thing. It was a beautiful sight, something I would have killed to share with someone else. A few people in particular sprang to mind as I sat in the deafening silence, a tea and cigarette my only company.
After about a half hour of taking in the sights, I decided to head back to home. My initial directive was to continue on through the last portion of the ice road, a small span of less than 50 meters that would land me on the back road into New Town. As my front tires crested the breech from land to the freeze, an audible groan seeped out below me. I patted my stomach and assured that Doritos would be consumed all in good time, but upon looking closer, it was the ice. The last patch of ice was gone, leaving behind it a gaping square the size of a backyard rink, chunky with ice and the visible danger of water. The temperatures had been enjoyable as of late, but I hastened to think they were of such beauty that the road would begin to melt off after only 3 or 5 days.
I now had fear in the back of my head. Knowing I had just traversed the first portion of the ice crossing without incident, I should have had no qualms about having to go back through it again. My front tires were on the fringe of the portion I could not cross, and it was the first time I was happy my truck was rear-wheel driven. Had I spun or caused any added stresses to the ice, I may have ended up with a rather embarrassing loss as opposed to the recent gain of the used truck. I launched back quickly and cut the wheel to heave the back end into the high grass and dirt patch. Half on the road, rear end in the brush, I again punched it and spun around to the direction from which I came and eased the 10 year old Ford back the safety of land in Old Town. As I heaved over the final push, I breathed an embellished sigh of relief.
Figuring the night was through, I was headed back to the apartment to celebrate with three fingers of whiskey over three ice cubes, my newly adored ratio. However, I was to be surprised just two minutes later driving the main drag in Old Town.
Away from most of the city lights, Old Town is dominated by the industrial side of town, and contains scattered neighborhoods. Noticeably darker, this section of Hay River lends itself nicely to viewing the lights, and as I made my way the effects grew stronger. I pulled down a side road to a section of beach, parked, and again perched upon the roof of the truck to see the sights.
With the quiet again steeping me, I felt a desire to liven up my surroundings. I took a minute to jump back into the cab and sort through the songs on my mp3 player, settling on what I deemed the perfect score for all that was unfolding above me. Side 1 of RUSH’s “2112” came alive through my speakers, the bass bins behind the seats punctuating the jagged, yet linear, bursts that announce the beginning of the suite following a spacey intro. (I could not figure out how to loop the intro, for if you know it and could see what I was seeing, you would agree it was near perfect as a soundtrack.)
With Geddy’s high pitched screams, Alex chugging along, and Neil assaulting the toms, the lights seemed to loft just above me, almost close enough to touch. Streaks of green peppered with hues of blue swirled overhead while tracts and tracers of purple and pink raced through the defined mists. I sat in awe, finally playing witness to another attraction in my move North, all the while listening to the pounding of “The Temples of Syrinx”.
Back at my apartment, I poured my celebratory drink and retreated back to my deck to enjoy a sip and a smoke in the crisp evening air. I looked out over the portion of the city that is visible from my deck and felt a momentary mix of emotions. Happiness and comfort warmed me in my accomplishing one more notch in the totem of my time here. Soon to follow were a sadness and loneliness which came from the notion of having nobody to share all of this with. Some days it does feel a terrible waste to experience any achievements here very much alone.
The bed I have made must be slept in, but to retire one night with the Aurora Borealis now engrained forever in my mind soothes all laments... at least for a while.
Day after day I would hear a few people around work say, “wow, the lights were awesome last night”. Night after night, I would either fall asleep early or forget about them while staying up late. The best I had seen at any point was a haze or fog, resting just across the river from my 11th floor deck. I would sit there, cigarette in hand, and wonder why the effects were not in full bloom.
One evening it hit me: light pollution. Here in town there are not a great many lights, but it does not take much to diminish the intensity of this natural phenomenon. In order to see the aurora, I would have to head just out of town to a darker area to enjoy my own private viewing.
Having the following day off, I pegged a Wednesday night as my time for shine. That day was almost like Christmas: I was excited by the prospect of finally seeing all the action, the forecast suggested a moderate-strong showing, and hours passed as though the clock battery was dying. I made it through the work day, and still had about 5 hours to kill before I could head to my decided location. I paced the apartment, walked Carter, played guitar, watched a movie, played some video games, and did anything else I could think of to kill time.
At 10:30pm, I got my necessities together and headed to a small patch on the ice road connecting the Old Town to a back road in the New Town. The ice road itself spans around 1km, and consists of ice, then land, then ice, then land, then ice, then land, as it crosses a channel with a couple of small islands in its midst. I picked the last plot of dirt and high grass, parked the truck and hopped out.
I jumped into the box of the truck and sat on the roof, almost lying back to see the Northern Lights in action. To say I was overwhelmed would be an over statement this early in the narrative, but it was rather spectacular. I was hoping for more of the acid-like effect chasing and flaring that I had heard so much about, but the broad waves of light were too far above me. They stretched to either horizon, looking like someone had painted a canvas of the darkest blue, speckled it with flicks of white from a stiff brush, and then ran several strokes of a green/blue/white mix across the whole thing. It was a beautiful sight, something I would have killed to share with someone else. A few people in particular sprang to mind as I sat in the deafening silence, a tea and cigarette my only company.
After about a half hour of taking in the sights, I decided to head back to home. My initial directive was to continue on through the last portion of the ice road, a small span of less than 50 meters that would land me on the back road into New Town. As my front tires crested the breech from land to the freeze, an audible groan seeped out below me. I patted my stomach and assured that Doritos would be consumed all in good time, but upon looking closer, it was the ice. The last patch of ice was gone, leaving behind it a gaping square the size of a backyard rink, chunky with ice and the visible danger of water. The temperatures had been enjoyable as of late, but I hastened to think they were of such beauty that the road would begin to melt off after only 3 or 5 days.
I now had fear in the back of my head. Knowing I had just traversed the first portion of the ice crossing without incident, I should have had no qualms about having to go back through it again. My front tires were on the fringe of the portion I could not cross, and it was the first time I was happy my truck was rear-wheel driven. Had I spun or caused any added stresses to the ice, I may have ended up with a rather embarrassing loss as opposed to the recent gain of the used truck. I launched back quickly and cut the wheel to heave the back end into the high grass and dirt patch. Half on the road, rear end in the brush, I again punched it and spun around to the direction from which I came and eased the 10 year old Ford back the safety of land in Old Town. As I heaved over the final push, I breathed an embellished sigh of relief.
Figuring the night was through, I was headed back to the apartment to celebrate with three fingers of whiskey over three ice cubes, my newly adored ratio. However, I was to be surprised just two minutes later driving the main drag in Old Town.
Away from most of the city lights, Old Town is dominated by the industrial side of town, and contains scattered neighborhoods. Noticeably darker, this section of Hay River lends itself nicely to viewing the lights, and as I made my way the effects grew stronger. I pulled down a side road to a section of beach, parked, and again perched upon the roof of the truck to see the sights.
With the quiet again steeping me, I felt a desire to liven up my surroundings. I took a minute to jump back into the cab and sort through the songs on my mp3 player, settling on what I deemed the perfect score for all that was unfolding above me. Side 1 of RUSH’s “2112” came alive through my speakers, the bass bins behind the seats punctuating the jagged, yet linear, bursts that announce the beginning of the suite following a spacey intro. (I could not figure out how to loop the intro, for if you know it and could see what I was seeing, you would agree it was near perfect as a soundtrack.)
With Geddy’s high pitched screams, Alex chugging along, and Neil assaulting the toms, the lights seemed to loft just above me, almost close enough to touch. Streaks of green peppered with hues of blue swirled overhead while tracts and tracers of purple and pink raced through the defined mists. I sat in awe, finally playing witness to another attraction in my move North, all the while listening to the pounding of “The Temples of Syrinx”.
Back at my apartment, I poured my celebratory drink and retreated back to my deck to enjoy a sip and a smoke in the crisp evening air. I looked out over the portion of the city that is visible from my deck and felt a momentary mix of emotions. Happiness and comfort warmed me in my accomplishing one more notch in the totem of my time here. Soon to follow were a sadness and loneliness which came from the notion of having nobody to share all of this with. Some days it does feel a terrible waste to experience any achievements here very much alone.
The bed I have made must be slept in, but to retire one night with the Aurora Borealis now engrained forever in my mind soothes all laments... at least for a while.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Yellowknife = Red Eyes
I had decided to take a trip to Yellowknife, the capital of the Northwest Territories. Located on the other side of Great Slave Lake, it was about 500km away on simple two-lane highways, over an ice-road, and through beautiful winterscapes dotted with low hills and endless expanses of woodland, all blanketed thick with fresh snowfall.
At 4:30am on the last Friday of February, my alarm stirred me from a deep sleep. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and headed to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee. Carter didn’t budge from the edge of the bed, still deeply sleeping off Thursday night’s game of fetch on the river. We were out there for about 2 hours in the amazingly beautiful weather, above 0C up until about 8pm. I knew I would need to give him a good run before the five hour drive ahead.
By 5:30 I was topping the truck up with gas, checking the oil, and filling my travel mug at the local gas station. We left Hay River under the cover of dark, and started into the drive through the dark tunnel of trees. The road crews do well to give a 40 foot leeway between the treeline and the road, and because of this a drive toward dawn is not as threatening or potentially as dangerous. They say the buffalo are just as likely to stick to the road as they are the woods, and they can barely be seen until you are right on top of them. Their thick coats hold the snow as insulation, and when seen at night on the road they just resemble a patch of white, their legs invisible against the pavement. Many people have accidents involving buffalo each year, and amazingly, very few become statistics.
Carter began to get a little stir crazy halfway into the drive, and I knew that Fort Providence would provide the perfect midpoint for a break. After crossing the 1km ice road that replaces the ferry in winter, we were at the service station and restaurant in “Prov”. I got out and went in for some provisions (more coffee, some buffalo jerky, water), then I let Carter out for a couple minutes of stretching. A trailer attracted his attention, and soon I found out why. About 10 holes were cut into the trailer, and as Carter sniffed around, 10 heads popped out to see what his fuss was about. These heads were those of sled-dogs, all husky mixes and adorable, but not keen on the “outsider” being near their confines. Before I could get him away, Carter retreated to me, heeding the warnings of their piercing howls.
Back on the road, I was in awe of a few things that made up the rest of the ride. The landscape was simply breathtaking, with miles and miles of frosted woodland, hills which would serve as beginner slopes at any ski resort, and endless photo opportunities. The road itself caused a different sort of awe, something of the “not to be desired” ilk. Straightaway after straightaway, some that went for 10km, sections of potholes that could make shrapnel of most sedans, and “bumps” which were more or less launching ramps. Another awe that found me was in a “lack thereof” sense, where the buffalo I had been so warned about seemed to know I was coming and decided to remain in the woods.
Around 10:30am, I arrived in Yellowknife. I stole away to my temporary hideout near the airport, a liquor warehouse with an apartment on the mezzanine level. The owner of the hotel where I work has many irons in the fire, one of which being a major role in the liquor corporation here in the Northwest Territories. The apartment at this warehouse serves as a stopover for many employees, and for these two nights it would be my hotel room.
I let Carter out to survey the grounds of the lot, and when he was sufficiently emptied of all vital fluids I let him into the apartment, and headed to an appointment I had made at the local clinic. I needed to get a physical done in order to retain my class 4 when transferring my license up here. A few pokes and prods later, a terrifying realization of gained girth that came while on the scale, and a quick pee into a cup saw the end of my scheduled duties in Yellowknife. An hour after arriving, I had no plans for the next 48.
Lunch was on my mind, so taking the recommendation of a few people I decided on Sam’s Monkey Tree Pub. Upon arriving, I was pretty pleased with the interior, finished in the style of a lodge crossed with a pub, crossed with a club, crossed with a buffet. It looked inviting and cozy, and I thought of places like Jungle Jim’s back home if they were to up their motif a bit.
I took a table, left my coat, and headed to the buffet station. I was a static shock away from lifting the first of five lids when the waitress near shouted, “There’s nothing in there!” as though she had already told me several times. I shrugged in the manner of someone who doesn’t understand such a response and went back to my table. The place was empty save for myself and three other patrons, but she still managed to take almost 20 minutes to come to my table.
“What are you having?” she asked me, almost irritated.
“Well, nothing at the moment. I would like a Moosehead and a Sheppard’s Pie.”
“I thought you wanted the buffet, but fine”, such a tone would usually merit my leaving, but I was hungry.
“Well, I thought I should leave the buffet alone. You made it quite clear that it wasn’t for my taking.”
“Well there’s food in there now, but you said Sheppard’s Pie, so that’s what you’re getting.”
“Did you say ‘no tip’? That’s what you’re getting. Cheer up...”
I have to say, even with the excruciatingly bad service, the food was amazing. The entrée was beyond splendid, bursting with flavor and piping hot, doused in gravy and accompanied by the creamiest whipped potatoes in history. Fresh veggies and garlic bread were great additions, and a side plate of Greek salad topped it off nicely, if not a little bit out of palate for the platter. Washing it down with my favorite brew from home took the experience to an unexpected height. All service aside, I would recommend eating here but avoid the staff.
The rest of the day was spent in three stages. Stage one was a trip to Tim Hortons for my first dose in 3 months, and a trip around the city taking in the sights and sounds of a bustling core in the North. I sat in various coffee shops just watching people go about their day, reading my book and taking some notes. I headed to the Pilot’s Monument which overlooks a good portion of Yellowknife, where I conveniently got my truck stuck in the parking lot, walking 10 minutes to buy sand and carrying it back to fill the divots to create traction. After launching out of the spot, I took a last drive around the town before hitting stage two.
This second portion of my day will be referred to as “relaxing like never before”. I had become so tired from the early awakening, the drive, and some of the plodding along through the day that I could almost go for a nap. Naps are rare for me, surprisingly enough considering I hover between 4-6 hours of sleep per evening. I lay back on the bed with Carter at my feet and took in some mindless television. I drifted in and out of slumber, and knowing I would be headed out for drinks that night, I took Carter across to Fred Henne Park for a run. This did not interrupt my relaxation, as I merely sat on a bench while he played with another dog. This dog’s owner looked like I felt, and we sat with coffee and cigarettes, letting the dogs tire out. I then returned to the apartment, dropped a tired dog on the floor, and headed into stage three around 7pm.
To begin the last leg of the evening, I took in the Canada/Slovakia Olympic hockey contest at the MacKenzie Lounge in the Yellowknife Inn. A nice bar indeed, but not a sports pub, which was perfect. I enjoy quiet bars when I am alone, where I can sit by myself and not have to strain to hear myself think. The bar had divided itself in two, or rather, everyone else and me. I watched the game at one end while some obviously affluent groups watched a jazz trio and ordered bottle upon bottle of expensive wine.
With the game over, I went outside for a cigarette and three women from one table came out shortly after. I had had a few ryes and felt two smokes would likely be in order, and just as I lit my second, they lit into conversation in French. While I am not the most adept at speaking our nation’s other official language, I am fairly good at picking up on it and understanding portions of conversation. They had commented on my checkered jacket and how shabby it looked, and the fact that if I shaved and had fashion-sense I would be somewhat desirable. Another comment on my being “in the wrong bar” was about as much bashing as I cared to take, so I stubbed my cigarette and made to order another rye. On my way in, I turned to them and offered the following parting statement:
“Je m’excuse, mais je comprend Francais... merci, jerks.”
They came back inside, red-faced on a rather warm night, and passed my table. One looked apologetic, while the others wore the face of drunken embarrassment which would subside with one more drink. I could have cared less, but I sometimes get a rise out of making some people feel as uncomfortable as they should.
Having had my final rye, I asked the waitress what bars would be good places to check out. She offered about 5 spots, even going so far as to draw me a little map which was more than appreciated. I decided to check them all out having nothing better to do. Her first two suggestions were busts, so I was on to see some local color at a few other bars.
The Golden Range scared the shit out of me. I was the only white guy in what was clearly a bar geared towards Aboriginals. The staff, the clients, and the band were all of Native lineage. I thought that turning tail at the realization I was in the wrong place would be more damning than enjoying a drink first. I ordered a double rye, took a seat near the band, and starting plotting my escape.
My fear was mainly based in the fact that these places have a reputation for being rough, and I vow that no racism was involved. I was rather surprised to find quite the opposite of all these warnings was true. A rather attractive woman asked me to dance (I declined), a few guys saw me sitting alone and brought some shots over (I obliged), and when I got up to leave they bought me another drink (again, I obliged).
With that establishment researched, I went on to the Raven and promptly left. It was a dance club, the sort of place I would avoid anywhere in the world. Outside, hordes of men and women were in varied states of intoxication, fighting with each other and airing a lot of dirty laundry. I decided that this really was not the spot for me and continued on.
The third spot was a place called the Black Knight, which, in fact, enjoyed for about 15 minutes at the end of my night. On my way there I noticed another pub called “Harley’s” that was left off my hand-drawn map, tucked into a basement on the main drag. I walked down the stairs and entered the bar, ordered a double rye and sat alone at a table. For the second time in one night I was asked if I cared for a dance (a record), and being consistent I said a genuine “no thanks”, stating I was not much of a dancer. At the time, I was unaware that my participation in the dance was unnecessary; things came to light rather quickly.
As the rather attractive and scantily clad girl made her way across the bar, I had visions of several more whiskies, the abandonment of my cares, the courage to dance, and an evening of bliss. At this point, these fantasies suggested I may have already had enough to drink, but my gaze followed her as she walked away. As she sidled up to another table I had the notion she was just trawling for drinks and dismissed any idea as to how I wished the rest of the evening would have gone.
I looked around, and upon finding the girl’s form again I noticed I could see more of it... A LOT more. She had gone from a sultry seductress to a naked, sprawling mass on a neighboring table. I almost dropped my drink, tapping the guy next to me and said, “Are you fucking seeing this?” He pointed to several things that had eluded my notice upon entering Harley’s: a pole on the stage, a private area near the back, several neon signs suggesting nude figures, and five giant men watching everything and everyone. I was in a strip club.
Now, I am far from a prude, and I have on several occasions gone to strip clubs. However, I never go to them alone, and it is usually out of affectation (“Hey, we’re in Montreal, let’s go see some strippers!!”). Even in those situations I tire of it fairly quickly, and in the situation I presently found myself, I drained my rye and left for the Black Knight.
I got to the Black Knight in time for last call, and after a quick shot got a cab back to the warehouse. I called Carter down to the door and spent some time outside with him before calling it a night. I was anxious to see what Saturday would bring.
***
Much earlier than was necessary, Saturday began. At around 9am the warehouse below came to life with the hum of forklifts and the clatter of pallets and machinery. I decided breakfast was in order and headed out for the day after giving Carter a brief run once more in the park across the street.
I chose a spot I had seen the day before called “Latitudes”, found in Yellowknife Center, a little mall downtown. The restaurant was beautiful, well decorated and lighted, with the service and food both spectacular. I opened my book, ordered coffee, an omelet, and as much water as the place held. The extra friendly waitress was amazingly quick and efficient in the ¾ full dining room, and the food came quickly, deliciously, and presented beautifully. I would eat there everyday if I could, if only for the service which I acknowledged with a generous tip.
After the gargantuan omelet settled, I went to another coffee shop to do some reading and have a strong cup of coffee infused with an espresso shot. When the pages of the book began to shake and rustle, I knew I needed to move on, and I set about a small shopping spree. I perused the local music store and found a backpack guitar which I knew would come in handy on hiking trips down the road. After that I found some clothes in a local shop, some odds and ends in Staples, and a few items in Wal-Mart. I tried a local, extremely disorganized pawn shop with no luck. When the owner asked if he could help me find anything I replied, “could you find it?” and was certain that I had worn out my welcome.
Back at the warehouse with a coffee, Carter and I again went to the Fred Henne to let him stretch out. I reserved some energy for the evening by not heading out until about 10pm, off again to the Black Knight. A Newfoundland native transplanted here some years ago entertained the crowd with traditional Maritime and Celtic music, allowing anyone to fill set breaks in the “kitchen party” atmosphere that took over the pub. I played nearly an hour between a set break and the night’s end, and was bought many drinks for my efforts. At 2am I was in a cab on my way back to the apartment, wondering why I was doing so. I longed for an after party, some more drinks, more people, and had not succeeded in reaching a point of sufficient drunkenness. It was probably just as well, given the five hour drive back to Hay River later that morning.
At about 10am, I was packed and ready to go. I hit up McDonalds for some breakfast and coffee, got on the road and was now seeing the landscape that had still been somewhat unnoticed on my way up. The last 100km on my way had been in daylight, but focused on the drive I had missed most of it. I kept my eyes peeled for buffalo, but still managed to take in the beautiful scenery all around me. Taking some side roads I saw what looked to be untouched land and spaces so quiet my breathing spurred echoes.
Aiming to be home mid-afternoon, I pegged Fort Providence as my stopping point for gas and a bathroom break for both Carter and myself. With the grease and coffee working magic in my stomach, I decided my choice of rest stop would not suffice. I pulled into the Edzo reserve in search of a bathroom.
The gas station’s bathroom was out of order, the restaurant next door was closed, and there was not an “open” sign to be seen. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in my desire to find a toilet, so when I saw an arrow with “RCMP” pointing me to a small detachment, I followed. I walked into the station where two female officers regarded me with a “are you in the right place?” kind of look.
“I need a bathroom, and there are none available. Do you know anywhere I could find a place that is open?”
One female officer consulted the other, both returning blank, yet apologetic, stares.
“Perhaps you could point me to a large bush behind which I could crouch?” I asked.
“Well”, one offered, “if you don’t mind screaming inmates, you can use our bathroom.”
I did, and was happy to pronounce them my saviors. When I was leaving they gave me advice which gave me a bit of a start:
“Have a safe drive, don’t stop until you hit Prov, and don’t talk to any locals.”
With a wave, I was gone and headed back to the main road some 10km through the same route I used to enter the reserve. On the way out, I noticed something in a clearing just 20 meters off the road: buffalo!
The creatures are of mythical bulk, or at least seem to be to someone like myself who has never seen one before, let alone so close up. Carter was antsy to inspect as I took some pictures, and as much as I knew a buffalo would never catch him, and for the fact that I have seen him keep his distance from any number of wild animal, I was not about to let him check out these huge beasts. They were as quiet and friendly looking as they were huge, and photogenic to a fault. I snapped off a few shots and continued on my way home.
One stop and 300km later, I was back in Hay River, ready to relax. The journey over, February almost gone and March looming just hours away, I felt I had capped off the month in style. I enjoyed the prospect of new places and people, new things and attractions, and now found myself already contemplating how to make March my own.
At 4:30am on the last Friday of February, my alarm stirred me from a deep sleep. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and headed to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee. Carter didn’t budge from the edge of the bed, still deeply sleeping off Thursday night’s game of fetch on the river. We were out there for about 2 hours in the amazingly beautiful weather, above 0C up until about 8pm. I knew I would need to give him a good run before the five hour drive ahead.
By 5:30 I was topping the truck up with gas, checking the oil, and filling my travel mug at the local gas station. We left Hay River under the cover of dark, and started into the drive through the dark tunnel of trees. The road crews do well to give a 40 foot leeway between the treeline and the road, and because of this a drive toward dawn is not as threatening or potentially as dangerous. They say the buffalo are just as likely to stick to the road as they are the woods, and they can barely be seen until you are right on top of them. Their thick coats hold the snow as insulation, and when seen at night on the road they just resemble a patch of white, their legs invisible against the pavement. Many people have accidents involving buffalo each year, and amazingly, very few become statistics.
Carter began to get a little stir crazy halfway into the drive, and I knew that Fort Providence would provide the perfect midpoint for a break. After crossing the 1km ice road that replaces the ferry in winter, we were at the service station and restaurant in “Prov”. I got out and went in for some provisions (more coffee, some buffalo jerky, water), then I let Carter out for a couple minutes of stretching. A trailer attracted his attention, and soon I found out why. About 10 holes were cut into the trailer, and as Carter sniffed around, 10 heads popped out to see what his fuss was about. These heads were those of sled-dogs, all husky mixes and adorable, but not keen on the “outsider” being near their confines. Before I could get him away, Carter retreated to me, heeding the warnings of their piercing howls.
Back on the road, I was in awe of a few things that made up the rest of the ride. The landscape was simply breathtaking, with miles and miles of frosted woodland, hills which would serve as beginner slopes at any ski resort, and endless photo opportunities. The road itself caused a different sort of awe, something of the “not to be desired” ilk. Straightaway after straightaway, some that went for 10km, sections of potholes that could make shrapnel of most sedans, and “bumps” which were more or less launching ramps. Another awe that found me was in a “lack thereof” sense, where the buffalo I had been so warned about seemed to know I was coming and decided to remain in the woods.
Around 10:30am, I arrived in Yellowknife. I stole away to my temporary hideout near the airport, a liquor warehouse with an apartment on the mezzanine level. The owner of the hotel where I work has many irons in the fire, one of which being a major role in the liquor corporation here in the Northwest Territories. The apartment at this warehouse serves as a stopover for many employees, and for these two nights it would be my hotel room.
I let Carter out to survey the grounds of the lot, and when he was sufficiently emptied of all vital fluids I let him into the apartment, and headed to an appointment I had made at the local clinic. I needed to get a physical done in order to retain my class 4 when transferring my license up here. A few pokes and prods later, a terrifying realization of gained girth that came while on the scale, and a quick pee into a cup saw the end of my scheduled duties in Yellowknife. An hour after arriving, I had no plans for the next 48.
Lunch was on my mind, so taking the recommendation of a few people I decided on Sam’s Monkey Tree Pub. Upon arriving, I was pretty pleased with the interior, finished in the style of a lodge crossed with a pub, crossed with a club, crossed with a buffet. It looked inviting and cozy, and I thought of places like Jungle Jim’s back home if they were to up their motif a bit.
I took a table, left my coat, and headed to the buffet station. I was a static shock away from lifting the first of five lids when the waitress near shouted, “There’s nothing in there!” as though she had already told me several times. I shrugged in the manner of someone who doesn’t understand such a response and went back to my table. The place was empty save for myself and three other patrons, but she still managed to take almost 20 minutes to come to my table.
“What are you having?” she asked me, almost irritated.
“Well, nothing at the moment. I would like a Moosehead and a Sheppard’s Pie.”
“I thought you wanted the buffet, but fine”, such a tone would usually merit my leaving, but I was hungry.
“Well, I thought I should leave the buffet alone. You made it quite clear that it wasn’t for my taking.”
“Well there’s food in there now, but you said Sheppard’s Pie, so that’s what you’re getting.”
“Did you say ‘no tip’? That’s what you’re getting. Cheer up...”
I have to say, even with the excruciatingly bad service, the food was amazing. The entrée was beyond splendid, bursting with flavor and piping hot, doused in gravy and accompanied by the creamiest whipped potatoes in history. Fresh veggies and garlic bread were great additions, and a side plate of Greek salad topped it off nicely, if not a little bit out of palate for the platter. Washing it down with my favorite brew from home took the experience to an unexpected height. All service aside, I would recommend eating here but avoid the staff.
The rest of the day was spent in three stages. Stage one was a trip to Tim Hortons for my first dose in 3 months, and a trip around the city taking in the sights and sounds of a bustling core in the North. I sat in various coffee shops just watching people go about their day, reading my book and taking some notes. I headed to the Pilot’s Monument which overlooks a good portion of Yellowknife, where I conveniently got my truck stuck in the parking lot, walking 10 minutes to buy sand and carrying it back to fill the divots to create traction. After launching out of the spot, I took a last drive around the town before hitting stage two.
This second portion of my day will be referred to as “relaxing like never before”. I had become so tired from the early awakening, the drive, and some of the plodding along through the day that I could almost go for a nap. Naps are rare for me, surprisingly enough considering I hover between 4-6 hours of sleep per evening. I lay back on the bed with Carter at my feet and took in some mindless television. I drifted in and out of slumber, and knowing I would be headed out for drinks that night, I took Carter across to Fred Henne Park for a run. This did not interrupt my relaxation, as I merely sat on a bench while he played with another dog. This dog’s owner looked like I felt, and we sat with coffee and cigarettes, letting the dogs tire out. I then returned to the apartment, dropped a tired dog on the floor, and headed into stage three around 7pm.
To begin the last leg of the evening, I took in the Canada/Slovakia Olympic hockey contest at the MacKenzie Lounge in the Yellowknife Inn. A nice bar indeed, but not a sports pub, which was perfect. I enjoy quiet bars when I am alone, where I can sit by myself and not have to strain to hear myself think. The bar had divided itself in two, or rather, everyone else and me. I watched the game at one end while some obviously affluent groups watched a jazz trio and ordered bottle upon bottle of expensive wine.
With the game over, I went outside for a cigarette and three women from one table came out shortly after. I had had a few ryes and felt two smokes would likely be in order, and just as I lit my second, they lit into conversation in French. While I am not the most adept at speaking our nation’s other official language, I am fairly good at picking up on it and understanding portions of conversation. They had commented on my checkered jacket and how shabby it looked, and the fact that if I shaved and had fashion-sense I would be somewhat desirable. Another comment on my being “in the wrong bar” was about as much bashing as I cared to take, so I stubbed my cigarette and made to order another rye. On my way in, I turned to them and offered the following parting statement:
“Je m’excuse, mais je comprend Francais... merci, jerks.”
They came back inside, red-faced on a rather warm night, and passed my table. One looked apologetic, while the others wore the face of drunken embarrassment which would subside with one more drink. I could have cared less, but I sometimes get a rise out of making some people feel as uncomfortable as they should.
Having had my final rye, I asked the waitress what bars would be good places to check out. She offered about 5 spots, even going so far as to draw me a little map which was more than appreciated. I decided to check them all out having nothing better to do. Her first two suggestions were busts, so I was on to see some local color at a few other bars.
The Golden Range scared the shit out of me. I was the only white guy in what was clearly a bar geared towards Aboriginals. The staff, the clients, and the band were all of Native lineage. I thought that turning tail at the realization I was in the wrong place would be more damning than enjoying a drink first. I ordered a double rye, took a seat near the band, and starting plotting my escape.
My fear was mainly based in the fact that these places have a reputation for being rough, and I vow that no racism was involved. I was rather surprised to find quite the opposite of all these warnings was true. A rather attractive woman asked me to dance (I declined), a few guys saw me sitting alone and brought some shots over (I obliged), and when I got up to leave they bought me another drink (again, I obliged).
With that establishment researched, I went on to the Raven and promptly left. It was a dance club, the sort of place I would avoid anywhere in the world. Outside, hordes of men and women were in varied states of intoxication, fighting with each other and airing a lot of dirty laundry. I decided that this really was not the spot for me and continued on.
The third spot was a place called the Black Knight, which, in fact, enjoyed for about 15 minutes at the end of my night. On my way there I noticed another pub called “Harley’s” that was left off my hand-drawn map, tucked into a basement on the main drag. I walked down the stairs and entered the bar, ordered a double rye and sat alone at a table. For the second time in one night I was asked if I cared for a dance (a record), and being consistent I said a genuine “no thanks”, stating I was not much of a dancer. At the time, I was unaware that my participation in the dance was unnecessary; things came to light rather quickly.
As the rather attractive and scantily clad girl made her way across the bar, I had visions of several more whiskies, the abandonment of my cares, the courage to dance, and an evening of bliss. At this point, these fantasies suggested I may have already had enough to drink, but my gaze followed her as she walked away. As she sidled up to another table I had the notion she was just trawling for drinks and dismissed any idea as to how I wished the rest of the evening would have gone.
I looked around, and upon finding the girl’s form again I noticed I could see more of it... A LOT more. She had gone from a sultry seductress to a naked, sprawling mass on a neighboring table. I almost dropped my drink, tapping the guy next to me and said, “Are you fucking seeing this?” He pointed to several things that had eluded my notice upon entering Harley’s: a pole on the stage, a private area near the back, several neon signs suggesting nude figures, and five giant men watching everything and everyone. I was in a strip club.
Now, I am far from a prude, and I have on several occasions gone to strip clubs. However, I never go to them alone, and it is usually out of affectation (“Hey, we’re in Montreal, let’s go see some strippers!!”). Even in those situations I tire of it fairly quickly, and in the situation I presently found myself, I drained my rye and left for the Black Knight.
I got to the Black Knight in time for last call, and after a quick shot got a cab back to the warehouse. I called Carter down to the door and spent some time outside with him before calling it a night. I was anxious to see what Saturday would bring.
***
Much earlier than was necessary, Saturday began. At around 9am the warehouse below came to life with the hum of forklifts and the clatter of pallets and machinery. I decided breakfast was in order and headed out for the day after giving Carter a brief run once more in the park across the street.
I chose a spot I had seen the day before called “Latitudes”, found in Yellowknife Center, a little mall downtown. The restaurant was beautiful, well decorated and lighted, with the service and food both spectacular. I opened my book, ordered coffee, an omelet, and as much water as the place held. The extra friendly waitress was amazingly quick and efficient in the ¾ full dining room, and the food came quickly, deliciously, and presented beautifully. I would eat there everyday if I could, if only for the service which I acknowledged with a generous tip.
After the gargantuan omelet settled, I went to another coffee shop to do some reading and have a strong cup of coffee infused with an espresso shot. When the pages of the book began to shake and rustle, I knew I needed to move on, and I set about a small shopping spree. I perused the local music store and found a backpack guitar which I knew would come in handy on hiking trips down the road. After that I found some clothes in a local shop, some odds and ends in Staples, and a few items in Wal-Mart. I tried a local, extremely disorganized pawn shop with no luck. When the owner asked if he could help me find anything I replied, “could you find it?” and was certain that I had worn out my welcome.
Back at the warehouse with a coffee, Carter and I again went to the Fred Henne to let him stretch out. I reserved some energy for the evening by not heading out until about 10pm, off again to the Black Knight. A Newfoundland native transplanted here some years ago entertained the crowd with traditional Maritime and Celtic music, allowing anyone to fill set breaks in the “kitchen party” atmosphere that took over the pub. I played nearly an hour between a set break and the night’s end, and was bought many drinks for my efforts. At 2am I was in a cab on my way back to the apartment, wondering why I was doing so. I longed for an after party, some more drinks, more people, and had not succeeded in reaching a point of sufficient drunkenness. It was probably just as well, given the five hour drive back to Hay River later that morning.
At about 10am, I was packed and ready to go. I hit up McDonalds for some breakfast and coffee, got on the road and was now seeing the landscape that had still been somewhat unnoticed on my way up. The last 100km on my way had been in daylight, but focused on the drive I had missed most of it. I kept my eyes peeled for buffalo, but still managed to take in the beautiful scenery all around me. Taking some side roads I saw what looked to be untouched land and spaces so quiet my breathing spurred echoes.
Aiming to be home mid-afternoon, I pegged Fort Providence as my stopping point for gas and a bathroom break for both Carter and myself. With the grease and coffee working magic in my stomach, I decided my choice of rest stop would not suffice. I pulled into the Edzo reserve in search of a bathroom.
The gas station’s bathroom was out of order, the restaurant next door was closed, and there was not an “open” sign to be seen. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in my desire to find a toilet, so when I saw an arrow with “RCMP” pointing me to a small detachment, I followed. I walked into the station where two female officers regarded me with a “are you in the right place?” kind of look.
“I need a bathroom, and there are none available. Do you know anywhere I could find a place that is open?”
One female officer consulted the other, both returning blank, yet apologetic, stares.
“Perhaps you could point me to a large bush behind which I could crouch?” I asked.
“Well”, one offered, “if you don’t mind screaming inmates, you can use our bathroom.”
I did, and was happy to pronounce them my saviors. When I was leaving they gave me advice which gave me a bit of a start:
“Have a safe drive, don’t stop until you hit Prov, and don’t talk to any locals.”
With a wave, I was gone and headed back to the main road some 10km through the same route I used to enter the reserve. On the way out, I noticed something in a clearing just 20 meters off the road: buffalo!
The creatures are of mythical bulk, or at least seem to be to someone like myself who has never seen one before, let alone so close up. Carter was antsy to inspect as I took some pictures, and as much as I knew a buffalo would never catch him, and for the fact that I have seen him keep his distance from any number of wild animal, I was not about to let him check out these huge beasts. They were as quiet and friendly looking as they were huge, and photogenic to a fault. I snapped off a few shots and continued on my way home.
One stop and 300km later, I was back in Hay River, ready to relax. The journey over, February almost gone and March looming just hours away, I felt I had capped off the month in style. I enjoyed the prospect of new places and people, new things and attractions, and now found myself already contemplating how to make March my own.
February: Dull with a chance of bright patches.
February came and went with very little affair. Work was work, the apartment remained a sort of escape and cell all at once, and the weather made being outside very attractive. My third month here would be full of days resting between -10C and 10C, which in the North is rather nice. On several occasions, conditions here were far greater than home... one aspect of being here had to be, right?
I spent more time on the river and in the woods with Carter throughout February, as well as squeezing in a day of snowmobiling. The great outdoors of the Great White North have called and called again, and most days I’ve answered.
With Carter, the simple pleasures of the outdoors are tended too. We hit the river and get into a game of fetch while we trek a few kilometers to a side trail, then I put the ball in my pocket and we hit the woods. It never fails that for the first 5 minutes he is right at my side, sometimes jumping almost my height in an impatient desire for me to throw the ball again. Eventually he settles down, takes to sniffing the trails out, and just scampers through the brush. If you do not own a pet, you do not know the simple joy of watching your dog just explode with excitement as he discovers a new piece of wilderness. I also revel in finding these little patches, but regard them with little more than a smile and a warming heart.
One day, however, discovery came fast; at times nearing 100km/h on the snow. I had borrowed a snowmobile from the owner of the hotel where I am working, and was extremely excited. I could not hide the growing grin as I suited up, and the twitches of thrill hit my spine here and there as I got ready to go. After a brief re-familiarization with a type of machine I had not commandeered for over 10 years, I set off.
At first, I stuck to the patch of trails around town, stopping for gas and picking up some snacks. Within minutes I was comfortable with the sled and aware of where my limitations of control stood, so I got a bit gutsy. I hit the open river and turned up under the Old Town Bridge, let the machine wide open, and cut along the river branch behind the airport. Not too long after, I was sitting on the expanse of Great Slave Lake, enjoying coffee from my thermos and the greatest cigarette I have ever had. Rarely have I felt such a sense of “being here”, and I could never say for sure I will again.
I then decided to head up river, back away from the lake and explore beyond my furthest point from an earlier excursion around Boxing Day. All along the river, houses and side trails awoke my fancy. I imagined living there, hiking there, and just tried to feel a sense of immersion vicariously through factors I would likely never be effected by. As everything from shacks to mansions flew by in my peripheral, I decided the houses were mere fantasy, but these trails could be tackled today, and so I chose a few.
The first trail was a fairly sheer uphill entrance into the bush. Heavy on the throttle up the initial incline, I let off at the trail’s apex and found myself on a little patch of heaven. What appeared to be woods was actually long, natural clearing which started about 10 meters beyond the trees along the shoreline. The clearing had a trail that ran on either side from the river to a road about 1km along, a generous depression in between, and a small stream bubbling unseen below two feet of snow and ice. I followed to the road, sat there for a few minutes, and then was alerted that possibly I ought to move on. I had actually found myself on the local reserve, and one passing truck slowed just enough for the driver to give me a “you took the wrong fucking trail, boy” look. I turned around, and quickly got back to the river.
Continuing up river, I passed under the Pine Point Bridge, and here came my folly. I wanted to take a few pictures of the bridge, a photogenic maze of metal, and darted the machine from side to side for different vantage points. I crested another steep incline and just as I came over the hump on to flat land, another snowmobile was coming toward me. Wanting to turn around, I saw that the same trail this rider was coming down would suit as a place I could get to an adjacent road to spin back. I pulled into some soft stuff, waved them past, and they continued on without performing the courteous act of assuring I was out of my spot.
With the rider gone, I was very much alone out there and wonderfully stuck. My machine had sunk through some powder onto ice, and also lodged itself on a root. I tried for over an hour to free the sled, wrenching it from side to side, digging around it with my hands, and any number of other tactics. I had decided that after another few tries, I would use what little network reception I had to call my boss to come give me a hand.
Adhering to the “you sweat, you die” mode, I sat on the machine and removed a few layers, taking in the beautiful weather. Honestly, I could not have picked a better day to get stuck. The sun was shining, wind was minimal, and I had a clear mind. I sipped on some juice and started in on a sandwich, taking in the surroundings. About five minutes shy of giving the situation another try, two very large dogs of a Rottweiler mix breed appeared 50 yards away, inspecting me. I love dogs, and having a Rottweiler of my own, do not normally fear unfamiliar canines. These two, however, looked mean. I forfeited my lunch to them, tossing my other sandwich and a full bag of beef jerky to them, and took out my knife to have it at the ready. I pulled out my phone and called for a hand, and throughout the wait for assistance kept a close eye on the dogs until they lost interest and left.
Curtis arrived swiftly 25 minutes after I called him, and he was able to help me free the machine. Back on the river, I shot back to town at a blazing speed, the throttle to the pin almost the whole way. The 600cc engine whined high and mighty, and with the hand warmers on, I was able to make town without stopping in less than 10 minutes. Back within town limits, I stopped at the pub and had a coffee, then scooted around town once more before retiring for the day.
At the apartment that night, I debated what my next adventure would be. Should I take to the trails for a night of winter camping? Perhaps I could procure the machine again at some point and go for a two day trip to a neighboring town? Any option brought excitement as February had been a rather dull month all things considered. Eventually, I decided that while I had hardly had my fill of nature, taking in a town would be more fun. And what could be more fun than a town? Why, a city of course!
To cap off my third month in the North, I went further north. I was off to Yellowknife to see February out and ring in March.
I spent more time on the river and in the woods with Carter throughout February, as well as squeezing in a day of snowmobiling. The great outdoors of the Great White North have called and called again, and most days I’ve answered.
With Carter, the simple pleasures of the outdoors are tended too. We hit the river and get into a game of fetch while we trek a few kilometers to a side trail, then I put the ball in my pocket and we hit the woods. It never fails that for the first 5 minutes he is right at my side, sometimes jumping almost my height in an impatient desire for me to throw the ball again. Eventually he settles down, takes to sniffing the trails out, and just scampers through the brush. If you do not own a pet, you do not know the simple joy of watching your dog just explode with excitement as he discovers a new piece of wilderness. I also revel in finding these little patches, but regard them with little more than a smile and a warming heart.
One day, however, discovery came fast; at times nearing 100km/h on the snow. I had borrowed a snowmobile from the owner of the hotel where I am working, and was extremely excited. I could not hide the growing grin as I suited up, and the twitches of thrill hit my spine here and there as I got ready to go. After a brief re-familiarization with a type of machine I had not commandeered for over 10 years, I set off.
At first, I stuck to the patch of trails around town, stopping for gas and picking up some snacks. Within minutes I was comfortable with the sled and aware of where my limitations of control stood, so I got a bit gutsy. I hit the open river and turned up under the Old Town Bridge, let the machine wide open, and cut along the river branch behind the airport. Not too long after, I was sitting on the expanse of Great Slave Lake, enjoying coffee from my thermos and the greatest cigarette I have ever had. Rarely have I felt such a sense of “being here”, and I could never say for sure I will again.
I then decided to head up river, back away from the lake and explore beyond my furthest point from an earlier excursion around Boxing Day. All along the river, houses and side trails awoke my fancy. I imagined living there, hiking there, and just tried to feel a sense of immersion vicariously through factors I would likely never be effected by. As everything from shacks to mansions flew by in my peripheral, I decided the houses were mere fantasy, but these trails could be tackled today, and so I chose a few.
The first trail was a fairly sheer uphill entrance into the bush. Heavy on the throttle up the initial incline, I let off at the trail’s apex and found myself on a little patch of heaven. What appeared to be woods was actually long, natural clearing which started about 10 meters beyond the trees along the shoreline. The clearing had a trail that ran on either side from the river to a road about 1km along, a generous depression in between, and a small stream bubbling unseen below two feet of snow and ice. I followed to the road, sat there for a few minutes, and then was alerted that possibly I ought to move on. I had actually found myself on the local reserve, and one passing truck slowed just enough for the driver to give me a “you took the wrong fucking trail, boy” look. I turned around, and quickly got back to the river.
Continuing up river, I passed under the Pine Point Bridge, and here came my folly. I wanted to take a few pictures of the bridge, a photogenic maze of metal, and darted the machine from side to side for different vantage points. I crested another steep incline and just as I came over the hump on to flat land, another snowmobile was coming toward me. Wanting to turn around, I saw that the same trail this rider was coming down would suit as a place I could get to an adjacent road to spin back. I pulled into some soft stuff, waved them past, and they continued on without performing the courteous act of assuring I was out of my spot.
With the rider gone, I was very much alone out there and wonderfully stuck. My machine had sunk through some powder onto ice, and also lodged itself on a root. I tried for over an hour to free the sled, wrenching it from side to side, digging around it with my hands, and any number of other tactics. I had decided that after another few tries, I would use what little network reception I had to call my boss to come give me a hand.
Adhering to the “you sweat, you die” mode, I sat on the machine and removed a few layers, taking in the beautiful weather. Honestly, I could not have picked a better day to get stuck. The sun was shining, wind was minimal, and I had a clear mind. I sipped on some juice and started in on a sandwich, taking in the surroundings. About five minutes shy of giving the situation another try, two very large dogs of a Rottweiler mix breed appeared 50 yards away, inspecting me. I love dogs, and having a Rottweiler of my own, do not normally fear unfamiliar canines. These two, however, looked mean. I forfeited my lunch to them, tossing my other sandwich and a full bag of beef jerky to them, and took out my knife to have it at the ready. I pulled out my phone and called for a hand, and throughout the wait for assistance kept a close eye on the dogs until they lost interest and left.
Curtis arrived swiftly 25 minutes after I called him, and he was able to help me free the machine. Back on the river, I shot back to town at a blazing speed, the throttle to the pin almost the whole way. The 600cc engine whined high and mighty, and with the hand warmers on, I was able to make town without stopping in less than 10 minutes. Back within town limits, I stopped at the pub and had a coffee, then scooted around town once more before retiring for the day.
At the apartment that night, I debated what my next adventure would be. Should I take to the trails for a night of winter camping? Perhaps I could procure the machine again at some point and go for a two day trip to a neighboring town? Any option brought excitement as February had been a rather dull month all things considered. Eventually, I decided that while I had hardly had my fill of nature, taking in a town would be more fun. And what could be more fun than a town? Why, a city of course!
To cap off my third month in the North, I went further north. I was off to Yellowknife to see February out and ring in March.
Friday, January 29, 2010
The Last Bit in a Nutshell
While there is very little to actually speak of, a few things do come to mind. Maybe just a post to update for my own sake as well as yours, and then I should have some more to speak of in the coming weeks: a new place, an ice-fishing trip planned, maybe a new vehicle soon, and who knows, maybe a jaunt to Yellowknife or a surrounding hamlet for fun.
First, a quick job update must be in order by now, and in fact, I do not think I have spoken much on the subject at all. I took over the Assistant Manager role at this property, and I have to say, I enjoy the job. Some days are slow; like the painful slow of watching paint dry, but not quite as trying as listening to grass grow. I take care of the front office staff, housekeeping, and I look after all the group bookings and banquets, so usually I have enough on my plate as long as business is booming. Seems obvious, but truth be told, a full house does not equal a full plate.
Next, and while we’re on the subject of full plates, it appears that I must love them. The other night I sat back with a tall rye after a shower, and took to resting after about 10kms of tramping on the river with Carter. Freshened up and feeling the need to get sucked into both the couch and mindless television, I opted for my long underwear, socks, and nothing else. Feet up, glass in hand, I felt as though I was trying to look past a guy with thinning hair just in front of me. I gave his head a quick swipe, and I myself muttered the “Ouch, hey!”... turns out he was my stomach.
For every cold, wind-bitten, beautiful walk I have endured, it appeared my winter coat was determined to take shape. I wondered over and over that night how I could possibly gain about 8 pounds given all the time spent outdoors traipsing through the woods or along the river. Then, it came to me: food. Granted, this is not exactly the same as Archimedes figuring out what displacement is, but I failed to consider that almost every meal I had eaten was nothing but fatty, deep fried goodness tended to by a sympathy salad. Living and working in the hotel has limited my culinary delights because I have no proper kitchen in my room. Where I am moving into an apartment next week, I have pledged a week of thin soups and exercise. The only balding guy watching TV in my solitary confinement should be me, not myself and I.
Another point worth noting is my evening playing bass with a local pop/country band at the Legion here in Hay River. I got a call on a Wednesday from a fellow named Dan, and he said through the grapevine he had heard I could play bass. When I told him I in fact did, he asked if I would like to sit in and accompany his group for a dance the coming Saturday. Having sat in unannounced a few times on bass I was confident, so I said yes and asked what time they started. My second live stint in the north would begin at 9pm.
I showed up around 8:30pm, ready to rock. Dan asked why I was not around for sound check, a few runs through of a couple of songs, and to make sure I knew what I was in for. I was unaware that we were launching into a exact replication of RUSH’s 2112 in its entirety, but assured him I would be able to follow along. Three songs in, he turned to me and said, “well, now I feel like an ass... you should have just said you were better than the music itself”. Not much for that sort of self promotion, I told him I was uncomfortable just saying something like “oh yeah, I’m awesome”, and figured I would just let my fingers do the talking. It is pretty much the same as my approach to courting women.
The night was a lot of fun, filled with music, drinks, a few new faces, and a few familiar faces that were unaware that I could even hold an instrument, let alone play one. After the gig was over, a few folks I knew invited me to a party close by. It passed without excitement, and I enjoyed a few beers quietly, and then slipped away as the crowd was either dying down or relocating to another spot.
I was fairly uninterested in going “just to go”, and upon arriving back at the hotel I grabbed Carter and my flask and headed to the river for a 3am constitutional. The sky was so wide, the air so crisp, and the stars and moon so amazingly bright I wondered why anyone would want to be inside. I suppose that it all comes with time and territory, the old “you’re new here, you love it, and we can’t wait to leave” kind of mentality. To me, for some reason, this opposing feeling has the same ring as some people having nice parents when company is coming.
Lately, Carter and I have had some ridiculous walks, both together and solo on my own (he has yet to earn my trust to be let out the door to return, a common practice for dog owners here in town). Early morning when I cannot for the life of me get back to sleep after awaking at 4am, I will hitch him up and hit the river with a traveler of coffee. One morning, we walked up past the ice crossing to the Reserve in town and under the bridge to “Old Town”, winding in behind the airport, then hopped off the ice and made our way home on the roads. Carter was off leash the whole time, even through the town, which was of no mind for me as most residents were still deep in slumber when we made it to the hotel around 5:30am. Few cars announced themselves in the deep silence that morning, and I felt like we had the whole town to ourselves.
Another night, I could not get to sleep. It was a Friday and very little was happening so I opted to stay in, watch a movie, and catch up on some sleep. Around 1am I turned in, and nearing 3am I had tried to no avail to read myself tired, write myself tired, and tea myself tired. I threw off the covers and pillows, put my feet on the floor, and cradled my head in my hands. I knew why I could not sleep, what with certain stresses making themselves quite apparent the preceding days, but I was not about to give into them. Carter had already been out for the afternoon with a local woman whose dog could damn near be his twin sister, and the two played in her yard for several hours. He was still sleeping off his fun, and no doubt his anger at my having him fixed some years back, so I left him to rest while I packed up a few things and headed into the night.
It is worth noting that heading on to a river at night and straying even 100 meters into the brush is not advisable, but for whatever reason, I thought it was fine. Granted, you would not be reading this had I gotten lost, and I was never even close to such a disaster, but remember, safety first. Always.
I was sufficiently bundled in my winter gear, stocked up with a sandwich and chocolate bar, and had acquired some kindling from the renovation dumpster behind the hotel. I went back in the direction of the town bridge and ended up on a small delta-like island on the shore of Great Slave Lake. I sat and lit a fire, boiled some tea in a tin can I had been using on several walks, and enjoyed a sandwich. The night would have been perfect for viewing the (to me) illusive Aurora Borealis, but sadly it was not cold enough at a meager -17C. Instead, I was treated to the largest expanse of sky I had ever witnessed; a plethora of constellations, shooting stars, and satellites all poised and performing, surely just for me.
On the walk back that morning, I realized I had left the hotel around 3:30am and was not even near the hill behind the property at almost 6am. It was such an amazing time on that little piece of land, stoking the fire and sipping tea, alone with my thoughts and sorting through the stresses as of late.
I felt good, and I mean really good, waking up that Saturday, and have tried to keep that positive attitude throughout the days and weeks that have followed. However, I liken my move here to sort through my problems to moving an alcoholic into a liquor store to dry out. I wanted to escape certain things, but I find myself face to face with them all too often because of my immense capacity of free time. Not knowing too many people who I can just call up, and not having the necessary tools to escape the little town, I am hit head on some days by the issues I struggle to forget. The loneliness sinks in, the isolation steeping me; the pains of certain yesterdays and uncertain tomorrows all to present in my stomach and heart.
Forgetting what should be forgotten, I do feel as though this is a good move on my part. I am not sure I would take such measures to improve or amend my situation at home if I was still happy with everything outside of said situation. What I mean is: would I change myself if I was still in the company of those who did not think I needed to change; would I lose some extra pounds if I figured I will only be single anyway; would I look to nature and the stars for relief if I was not completely new to the area in which I found them? The questions are all relative, and mostly rhetorical. I feel they have no actual bearing and really have no answers.
As much as I like it here, and for all I appreciate my own attempts to change or better myself, I have to wonder if I would be doing this at home.
Here’s to wonder, here’s to home... here’s to hanging in there.
First, a quick job update must be in order by now, and in fact, I do not think I have spoken much on the subject at all. I took over the Assistant Manager role at this property, and I have to say, I enjoy the job. Some days are slow; like the painful slow of watching paint dry, but not quite as trying as listening to grass grow. I take care of the front office staff, housekeeping, and I look after all the group bookings and banquets, so usually I have enough on my plate as long as business is booming. Seems obvious, but truth be told, a full house does not equal a full plate.
Next, and while we’re on the subject of full plates, it appears that I must love them. The other night I sat back with a tall rye after a shower, and took to resting after about 10kms of tramping on the river with Carter. Freshened up and feeling the need to get sucked into both the couch and mindless television, I opted for my long underwear, socks, and nothing else. Feet up, glass in hand, I felt as though I was trying to look past a guy with thinning hair just in front of me. I gave his head a quick swipe, and I myself muttered the “Ouch, hey!”... turns out he was my stomach.
For every cold, wind-bitten, beautiful walk I have endured, it appeared my winter coat was determined to take shape. I wondered over and over that night how I could possibly gain about 8 pounds given all the time spent outdoors traipsing through the woods or along the river. Then, it came to me: food. Granted, this is not exactly the same as Archimedes figuring out what displacement is, but I failed to consider that almost every meal I had eaten was nothing but fatty, deep fried goodness tended to by a sympathy salad. Living and working in the hotel has limited my culinary delights because I have no proper kitchen in my room. Where I am moving into an apartment next week, I have pledged a week of thin soups and exercise. The only balding guy watching TV in my solitary confinement should be me, not myself and I.
Another point worth noting is my evening playing bass with a local pop/country band at the Legion here in Hay River. I got a call on a Wednesday from a fellow named Dan, and he said through the grapevine he had heard I could play bass. When I told him I in fact did, he asked if I would like to sit in and accompany his group for a dance the coming Saturday. Having sat in unannounced a few times on bass I was confident, so I said yes and asked what time they started. My second live stint in the north would begin at 9pm.
I showed up around 8:30pm, ready to rock. Dan asked why I was not around for sound check, a few runs through of a couple of songs, and to make sure I knew what I was in for. I was unaware that we were launching into a exact replication of RUSH’s 2112 in its entirety, but assured him I would be able to follow along. Three songs in, he turned to me and said, “well, now I feel like an ass... you should have just said you were better than the music itself”. Not much for that sort of self promotion, I told him I was uncomfortable just saying something like “oh yeah, I’m awesome”, and figured I would just let my fingers do the talking. It is pretty much the same as my approach to courting women.
The night was a lot of fun, filled with music, drinks, a few new faces, and a few familiar faces that were unaware that I could even hold an instrument, let alone play one. After the gig was over, a few folks I knew invited me to a party close by. It passed without excitement, and I enjoyed a few beers quietly, and then slipped away as the crowd was either dying down or relocating to another spot.
I was fairly uninterested in going “just to go”, and upon arriving back at the hotel I grabbed Carter and my flask and headed to the river for a 3am constitutional. The sky was so wide, the air so crisp, and the stars and moon so amazingly bright I wondered why anyone would want to be inside. I suppose that it all comes with time and territory, the old “you’re new here, you love it, and we can’t wait to leave” kind of mentality. To me, for some reason, this opposing feeling has the same ring as some people having nice parents when company is coming.
Lately, Carter and I have had some ridiculous walks, both together and solo on my own (he has yet to earn my trust to be let out the door to return, a common practice for dog owners here in town). Early morning when I cannot for the life of me get back to sleep after awaking at 4am, I will hitch him up and hit the river with a traveler of coffee. One morning, we walked up past the ice crossing to the Reserve in town and under the bridge to “Old Town”, winding in behind the airport, then hopped off the ice and made our way home on the roads. Carter was off leash the whole time, even through the town, which was of no mind for me as most residents were still deep in slumber when we made it to the hotel around 5:30am. Few cars announced themselves in the deep silence that morning, and I felt like we had the whole town to ourselves.
Another night, I could not get to sleep. It was a Friday and very little was happening so I opted to stay in, watch a movie, and catch up on some sleep. Around 1am I turned in, and nearing 3am I had tried to no avail to read myself tired, write myself tired, and tea myself tired. I threw off the covers and pillows, put my feet on the floor, and cradled my head in my hands. I knew why I could not sleep, what with certain stresses making themselves quite apparent the preceding days, but I was not about to give into them. Carter had already been out for the afternoon with a local woman whose dog could damn near be his twin sister, and the two played in her yard for several hours. He was still sleeping off his fun, and no doubt his anger at my having him fixed some years back, so I left him to rest while I packed up a few things and headed into the night.
It is worth noting that heading on to a river at night and straying even 100 meters into the brush is not advisable, but for whatever reason, I thought it was fine. Granted, you would not be reading this had I gotten lost, and I was never even close to such a disaster, but remember, safety first. Always.
I was sufficiently bundled in my winter gear, stocked up with a sandwich and chocolate bar, and had acquired some kindling from the renovation dumpster behind the hotel. I went back in the direction of the town bridge and ended up on a small delta-like island on the shore of Great Slave Lake. I sat and lit a fire, boiled some tea in a tin can I had been using on several walks, and enjoyed a sandwich. The night would have been perfect for viewing the (to me) illusive Aurora Borealis, but sadly it was not cold enough at a meager -17C. Instead, I was treated to the largest expanse of sky I had ever witnessed; a plethora of constellations, shooting stars, and satellites all poised and performing, surely just for me.
On the walk back that morning, I realized I had left the hotel around 3:30am and was not even near the hill behind the property at almost 6am. It was such an amazing time on that little piece of land, stoking the fire and sipping tea, alone with my thoughts and sorting through the stresses as of late.
I felt good, and I mean really good, waking up that Saturday, and have tried to keep that positive attitude throughout the days and weeks that have followed. However, I liken my move here to sort through my problems to moving an alcoholic into a liquor store to dry out. I wanted to escape certain things, but I find myself face to face with them all too often because of my immense capacity of free time. Not knowing too many people who I can just call up, and not having the necessary tools to escape the little town, I am hit head on some days by the issues I struggle to forget. The loneliness sinks in, the isolation steeping me; the pains of certain yesterdays and uncertain tomorrows all to present in my stomach and heart.
Forgetting what should be forgotten, I do feel as though this is a good move on my part. I am not sure I would take such measures to improve or amend my situation at home if I was still happy with everything outside of said situation. What I mean is: would I change myself if I was still in the company of those who did not think I needed to change; would I lose some extra pounds if I figured I will only be single anyway; would I look to nature and the stars for relief if I was not completely new to the area in which I found them? The questions are all relative, and mostly rhetorical. I feel they have no actual bearing and really have no answers.
As much as I like it here, and for all I appreciate my own attempts to change or better myself, I have to wonder if I would be doing this at home.
Here’s to wonder, here’s to home... here’s to hanging in there.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
"One likes to believe in the freedom of music..."
Everyone has a crutch, and some of us lean harder on those crutches than others. Be it religion, friends, alcohol, or what have you, a person sometimes requires that “something” to get them through. I have a number of good friends who rely heavily on their faith, others who look to intoxicants for personal strength, and many who believe family is all you need to get you past any of life’s troubles.
Since a very young age, one thing has always had the power to sway or suit any situation. The varieties available with this factor make its effects limitless, and the speed with which it works rival the instantaneous rise or fall of any injection. When I get to a point where I need to feel something different, feel stronger, or not feel at all, I turn to one thing and one thing only: music.
In the past month or more, I have come to realize that certain songs, albums, and bands mean more to me than I would ever have thought. My relationship with certain artists and selections has gone beyond the issue of just liking or appreciating what I am hearing, and evolved into a true love and necessity. I refuse to leave my dwelling without headphones and I will not entertain 20 minutes without pushing play or playing, and this has been a bright light in my darkened world here up North. Sometimes, I just need a song.
One particular group that has made an impact on me is RUSH. Now, I know this is not news, nor would it be a huge surprise to anyone who knows me, but taking something like music and applying it to a new environment can completely change your perspective on what you are seeing and hearing. I would listen to RUSH on average for about 25 percent of my waking day, and that amount has only increased since moving to Hay River. Be it walking on the frozen river, traipsing through the woods, or wandering the streets, the Canadian power-trio has a song for it all.
One night well into dark (oh... 5pm), I decided to leave the dog at home and go for a walk on my own, heading onto the river and walking up to one of many vehicle ice crossings in the area, then turning around. “Mystic Rhythms” came to on the shuffle, and I soon fell into step with the pounding of the drums, upping my tempo and warming me in turn. The song really seemed to speak to the area, especially the mention of the Northern Lights in the chorus, and one low synth growl in particular almost seems to represent the sound the aurora would make were they not silent, and some of the imagery presented in the song played out right before my eyes. Neil Peart mentioned “a canopy of stars”, the city lights and northern lights, but also focused a lot on recollection and distant thoughts, something I often have time for up here.
Another instance where RUSH really hit me was walking across a 2km clearing on a bright, clear morning just after the new year broke. The crossing took me close to 20 minutes in the deep snow, and upon hitting the dead center of the expanse the song “Bravado” bled from my headphones, which were resting on my shoulders. The song did not really gel with the surroundings on a theme level, but the opening riff has always felt bright and kind of like sunrise. With Carter off leash and running everywhere but near me, I was watching day break and listening to what I had always thought it sounded like.
Moments like this have been many and often, where I would find myself in a situation accented perfectly by a selection from my playlist, almost always random. Other times, a song will come on and ignite my thoughts, reminding me of home or certain people, places or times, and have nothing to do with a situation or accent. The artist or song just has a connection with a recent or deeply buried memory, and without the tune I think I would rarely bring the thought to light on my own.
Since I was a child, and I mean two or three years old, I have been a huge KISS fan. Over the last few years, while still a loyal member of the KISS Army, my fanboy-esque devotion has waned, and I find myself a little disappointed in the band. They still rock and still kick serious ass live, but it is not the same anymore. This is all fodder for a completely separate discussion, but the fact remains that this band is a part of my being, and it is no wonder that the catalogue spanning more than 35 years touches parts of my soul nothing else even grazes.
Many nights in the pub here, I have enjoyed that one drink that accompanies the previous 7 so well, and I get into DJ mode. I will log several credits on the jukebox and pick through about 10 KISS songs, and it makes me feel at home. I pay no mind to the glares of other patrons and tap along to the tunes, thinking of home, of my childhood, and always of my brother. I would give my left arm to split a case of beer with him, and pick and choose one song from disc after disc, resulting in about an hour of music versus two hours of switching DVDs.
Sometimes, I just find myself in need of having my mood suited. The fact that a person has the ability to draw up nearly any song they wish at any time is amazing. It is obvious that, yes, people can do this in this day and age, but perhaps the action is not as deserving of the adulation as the result. I am allowed to marvel at whatever I wish, and if I choose to laud simplicity, my appreciation of the greater things in life will only be more. Having the option of instant aural satisfaction to me is no small wonder, and I find myself taking advantage of it often.
Other bands and artists that have become part of my days have mainly been out of just this act, suiting my mood in the moment. Anger is paired with Misery Signals, sadness with Alison Krauss and Union Station, happiness with bands like Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam, and modes of relaxation tended to by satellite radio stations offering music with more “space”. More over, I have been trying to take the method of listening in the mood further, and getting into playing in the mood.
Having been writing songs for about 10 years now, I am no stranger to letting out my emotions on guitar and through singing. Within the past year I have written about 10 songs, 4 of which I would keep or play live. That said, every song is to be written and none to go unfinished. I have labored 6 months over songs I will never play, but the idea of ditching the effort does not sit well with me. If I do not give due diligence to something I do not care for, what is that saying for the attempts made on something I like?
Here in the North, so many emotions have run wild through me: fear, doubt, hopefulness, sadness, loneliness, nessnessness, etc. More and more, I find myself just sitting with either JoAnne or Jenna (my guitars, 6 and 12 string respectively), just strumming away on nothing in particular. I try to stay away from structure or songs I know and let my learning curve take a break, electing to try and submit to my feelings and let my fingers do the talking. My only regret is that I do not record any of this stuff yet, but after acquiring some gear in the near future, I should have hours and hours of crap to sift through.
No matter where I go or what I find myself doing, music continues to be the biggest part of my life outside of family. I can not imagine situations music could not enhance any more than I can picture a day that I would neglect its merits.
Speaking of which, it’s been nearly 3 hours since I heard a good song...
Since a very young age, one thing has always had the power to sway or suit any situation. The varieties available with this factor make its effects limitless, and the speed with which it works rival the instantaneous rise or fall of any injection. When I get to a point where I need to feel something different, feel stronger, or not feel at all, I turn to one thing and one thing only: music.
In the past month or more, I have come to realize that certain songs, albums, and bands mean more to me than I would ever have thought. My relationship with certain artists and selections has gone beyond the issue of just liking or appreciating what I am hearing, and evolved into a true love and necessity. I refuse to leave my dwelling without headphones and I will not entertain 20 minutes without pushing play or playing, and this has been a bright light in my darkened world here up North. Sometimes, I just need a song.
One particular group that has made an impact on me is RUSH. Now, I know this is not news, nor would it be a huge surprise to anyone who knows me, but taking something like music and applying it to a new environment can completely change your perspective on what you are seeing and hearing. I would listen to RUSH on average for about 25 percent of my waking day, and that amount has only increased since moving to Hay River. Be it walking on the frozen river, traipsing through the woods, or wandering the streets, the Canadian power-trio has a song for it all.
One night well into dark (oh... 5pm), I decided to leave the dog at home and go for a walk on my own, heading onto the river and walking up to one of many vehicle ice crossings in the area, then turning around. “Mystic Rhythms” came to on the shuffle, and I soon fell into step with the pounding of the drums, upping my tempo and warming me in turn. The song really seemed to speak to the area, especially the mention of the Northern Lights in the chorus, and one low synth growl in particular almost seems to represent the sound the aurora would make were they not silent, and some of the imagery presented in the song played out right before my eyes. Neil Peart mentioned “a canopy of stars”, the city lights and northern lights, but also focused a lot on recollection and distant thoughts, something I often have time for up here.
Another instance where RUSH really hit me was walking across a 2km clearing on a bright, clear morning just after the new year broke. The crossing took me close to 20 minutes in the deep snow, and upon hitting the dead center of the expanse the song “Bravado” bled from my headphones, which were resting on my shoulders. The song did not really gel with the surroundings on a theme level, but the opening riff has always felt bright and kind of like sunrise. With Carter off leash and running everywhere but near me, I was watching day break and listening to what I had always thought it sounded like.
Moments like this have been many and often, where I would find myself in a situation accented perfectly by a selection from my playlist, almost always random. Other times, a song will come on and ignite my thoughts, reminding me of home or certain people, places or times, and have nothing to do with a situation or accent. The artist or song just has a connection with a recent or deeply buried memory, and without the tune I think I would rarely bring the thought to light on my own.
Since I was a child, and I mean two or three years old, I have been a huge KISS fan. Over the last few years, while still a loyal member of the KISS Army, my fanboy-esque devotion has waned, and I find myself a little disappointed in the band. They still rock and still kick serious ass live, but it is not the same anymore. This is all fodder for a completely separate discussion, but the fact remains that this band is a part of my being, and it is no wonder that the catalogue spanning more than 35 years touches parts of my soul nothing else even grazes.
Many nights in the pub here, I have enjoyed that one drink that accompanies the previous 7 so well, and I get into DJ mode. I will log several credits on the jukebox and pick through about 10 KISS songs, and it makes me feel at home. I pay no mind to the glares of other patrons and tap along to the tunes, thinking of home, of my childhood, and always of my brother. I would give my left arm to split a case of beer with him, and pick and choose one song from disc after disc, resulting in about an hour of music versus two hours of switching DVDs.
Sometimes, I just find myself in need of having my mood suited. The fact that a person has the ability to draw up nearly any song they wish at any time is amazing. It is obvious that, yes, people can do this in this day and age, but perhaps the action is not as deserving of the adulation as the result. I am allowed to marvel at whatever I wish, and if I choose to laud simplicity, my appreciation of the greater things in life will only be more. Having the option of instant aural satisfaction to me is no small wonder, and I find myself taking advantage of it often.
Other bands and artists that have become part of my days have mainly been out of just this act, suiting my mood in the moment. Anger is paired with Misery Signals, sadness with Alison Krauss and Union Station, happiness with bands like Foo Fighters and Pearl Jam, and modes of relaxation tended to by satellite radio stations offering music with more “space”. More over, I have been trying to take the method of listening in the mood further, and getting into playing in the mood.
Having been writing songs for about 10 years now, I am no stranger to letting out my emotions on guitar and through singing. Within the past year I have written about 10 songs, 4 of which I would keep or play live. That said, every song is to be written and none to go unfinished. I have labored 6 months over songs I will never play, but the idea of ditching the effort does not sit well with me. If I do not give due diligence to something I do not care for, what is that saying for the attempts made on something I like?
Here in the North, so many emotions have run wild through me: fear, doubt, hopefulness, sadness, loneliness, nessnessness, etc. More and more, I find myself just sitting with either JoAnne or Jenna (my guitars, 6 and 12 string respectively), just strumming away on nothing in particular. I try to stay away from structure or songs I know and let my learning curve take a break, electing to try and submit to my feelings and let my fingers do the talking. My only regret is that I do not record any of this stuff yet, but after acquiring some gear in the near future, I should have hours and hours of crap to sift through.
No matter where I go or what I find myself doing, music continues to be the biggest part of my life outside of family. I can not imagine situations music could not enhance any more than I can picture a day that I would neglect its merits.
Speaking of which, it’s been nearly 3 hours since I heard a good song...
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