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.
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