That's An Odd Place For A Hippo

*** continued from previous post ***


"We have high-tea at 2 to 3:30, then dinner at 6:30. Wine, beer, and spirits are offered at our bar anytime, or we would be happy to bring you a fine bottle of one of our local Okanagan wines on request."

See? There is that frickin' Canadian spelling again! As you know, I was born in the Okanogan Valley of Washington. Do you see it? The US side, it's 'Okanogan'. Canadian side, it's 'Okanagan', and they are pronounced the same. For being so nice and polite to your face, Canadians, as a people, really get a kick out of screwing with spelling. I can't help but think that what they’re saying in reality is: "See? We don't have to follow you silly Americans and your silly American words! We shall assert our independence and distinguish ourselves as a separate nation by these mystical spellings! So 'F' you, all you from THE STATES! Bugger off! Unless, you know . . . someone invades or attacks us. Then you better get your sorry asses up here pronto. Until then, it's naught but Celene Dion, Rush, and Cirque' de Soli for the lot of you!

"Thank you," Mom said. "Everything looks great."

Stacy smiled again, "So, when you get cleaned up come back to the dining room. You two must be starving!"

She flashed us a quick wave, and then she was out the door and into the night.

I looked at Mom. Mom looked at me.

"Well," I said, "we made it."

"Thank God," Mom replied. "I had my doubts."

I decided, in the interest of domestic harmony, to ignore her little jab. "You want to shower first, or do you want me to?"

"I think," she said, "that we should go unload the bike. Otherwise, we have nothing to change into."

"Ah . . . yes. That would help, wouldn't it. Unless you'd like to give them a shock by showing up nude, then feigning ignorance?"

Crickets. I kid you not. The sound of flippin' crickets. Evidently your mom was in serious need of finding her sense of humor. I decided to let it slide - just this once - and would attempt to get her back on track in the morning.

So, despite it being dark, and us exhausted, and raining again, and having nothing but a tiny little pen-light, and the woods being full of lions, and moose, and bear, (Oh my!), we scampered back to the bike, crammed our arms full of bags and bundles and satchels and cases, then dashed back to the room trying our best not to smell like prey.

I didn't tell your mom this at the time, but as we unloaded the bike I saw a another huge, dark mass move through the trees to our right. I believe that it was a hippopotamus. I mean, what else could it have been? A hippo in the Rockies would have been the cherry on top of the sundae. The icing on the cake. The chocolate sauce on the asparagus so to speak. So yes - hippopotamus it was. A large, hairy, toothy, snuffling, sharp-clawed hippopotamus.

And that's the story I will tell myself until the day I die.

*** the journey continues ***