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.
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