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.