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.
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