Chapter 6 - Dah Bears

Today we begin Chapter 6, one of my favorite chapters. In fact, I'm working this one up into a reading/performance that I'll be testing in the next few months.

Enjoy!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------


September 27th, 2008

Dear Amber,

Okay, I’ll let up on the Pirate stuff. Mom says it’s making you feel bad.

Mom, always with the feelings.

On a brighter note, I ran into that boy you liked so much in high school. I gave him your number. Crazy how we met – it just happened that I was crossing the street in front of the half-way house when I noticed him in a fetal position on the sidewalk. I didn’t even know he was out! Stroke of luck there, eh?

Love you,

Daddio


Chapter 6

Dah Bears!



So we weaved and hummed our way through the afternoon gloom down a freeway that alternated between blinding sun and a very thin, partially suspended flash-flood. I don't mind admitting that, perhaps in retrospect, a marathon day through the Canadian Rockies was --- well, let's just say optimistic at best. The words 'foolish', 'stupid', 'ninny-brained', and 'completely off yer flippin' rocker' could also apply, and your mother, in the days to come, would remind me of this fact. Quite frequently. And with emphasis on the 'stupid'.

Yet, low and behold, we survived, and we were finally on the outskirts of Carnack. Hidden Valley Lodge was close enough to taste. In my head I could feel the softness of the bed, the warm inviting clutch of a hot shower. Inside my damp and pungent helmet my nostrils flared in anticipation of the divine aroma of something other than wet Canadians and muddy roads. Yes, we were close, oh so joyfully close, that for a moment I thought we were already at our destination and this was nothing more than a nightmare, a fever dream of insanity and maple leaves.

Before I go on, I should probably tell you a bit about our destination. I had scoured the internet for lodging that was both unique and wonderful. Remember, our plans were to spend three days using Hidden Valley Lodge as our base to explore all the wonders that encapsulate the adventure that is Banff. I wanted this to be an EXPERIENCE. You know? After all, isn't that what life is about? A collection of experiences? I felt it my duty to create a memory so powerful that I would visit it for years to come, and draw pleasure from each detail etched in my mind. You only get so many chances in life for something truly exceptional, and I wasn't about to let this one slip away. So, with that in mind I had spent days looking for 'just the right place to stay'. Luckily, I found Hidden Valley.

I suppose that some people would conclude that my enthusiasm and lack of attention to detail could be perceived as a negative. Your mother is often in that group. I, on the other hand, like to think of myself as a free-spirit, a generalist that lets the details work themselves out. It's only life, you know? And as long as no one is dead or seriously injured, or in prison, then what really is the problem?

Ha Ha! Take that you conventional thinkers! I am an explorer, a Pirate of life sailing on the outer bounds of human experience. You know, as long as that experience involves a comfy bed and a working bathroom. Oh! And lights. . . I like lights. And heat. And something to eat. And maybe a drinky-poo. But other than that I'm zipping along the edge every day, unfettered and free. OH! And TV and a wireless internet connection.

This is rather a long walk to set the tone for the rest of the story, and, as you shall soon see, I offer this not so much as an explanation but rather as a defense.

So . . . where was I? Oh yes . . . Hidden Valey Lodge. This place looked fantastic. A lodge in Carnack, AB, (please note the "in Carnack"), where the wildlife came right up and knocked on your door. Where your balcony hung over a 'wallow' and the deer and elk and moose would make a daily pilgrimage to slurp the salts that lined the banks of the muddy pit below. An enchanted abode where every room had a fantastic view of a gorgeous mountain valley, full of meadows and creeks and butterflies and rainbows and possibly - yes, just possibly - Unicorns and Gnomes. Although they didn't say that in their advertising, it was strongly implied.

*** the journey continues ***

Goodbye USA - Hello Canada!

*** continued from previous post ***

Yes I was guilty. Guilty of being an American.

The Canadian official, our guide to the splendor that is Canada, our ambassador to all things northy, motioned for me to turn off the bike. I gave him a quick glance to see what we were dealing with. He might have been 20, but I doubt it. His beard, if you could call it that, would inspire comments such as, "Aw, look! He's trying to grow a beard. Isn't that cute?". Or, "You know, shaving is 'in' right now." Or, "Dear god! Get a stick quick! That poor boy is being attacked by some varmint with mange! It might be a wolverine! Or a cat! Either way, that thing needs a good smackin'."

I guess I could have just described his beard as 'patchy', but that word does not do Capt. face-fur justice.

He was dressed in a crisp, khaki and forest green uniform and wore, what we in the USA call a 'Smokey The Bear' hat. He looked like the cutest boy scout ever. I thought it prudent not to mention this to him. It might spoil the moment.

After our initial greetings, and the typical, 'whereyoufrom-whereyougoing-howlongyoustaying?', the following conversation took place which, although you might not believe me, is reproduced verbatim:

Him: "Do you have any guns?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Do you have any knives?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Any weapons of any kind?"

Me: "Nope."

Him: "How about Mace or other aerosol devices like Pepper Spray?"

Me: "Umm . . . no. We don't have anything."

Him: "You don't have any weapons of any kind on your person or on your motorcycle?"

Me: "No." (Although, at this point, I'm beginning to get a little nervous)

Him: "Not even anything to protect yourself against animals?"

Me: (Animals? WTF????) "No. Should I?"

Him: "Go on ahead and enjoy your stay in Canada," he said with a smirk and waved us through.

Mom immediately wants to pull over and buy guns. And knives. And brass-knuckles. Oh, and Mace. Possibly a Howitzer if we can find one. Poor dear, it's been a long day. It takes some talking, but I convince her that all she really needs is a rock that I picked up in the parking lot of a convenience store where we stopped to grab our umpteenth bottle of water. The fullness, the heft, the sharp edges all seemed to soothe her. Her eyes lost that wild saucer-shape that gives me the willies.

She loved that rock. In the days to come, I believe she loved that rock more than me. I can't blame her. The rock never convinced her to go on a motorcycle trip to Banff.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Ye cannot change the laws of Physics!

*** continued from previous post  ***


I looked at the clock on my desk and realized that 2 hours had passed and I had heard nary a peep from your Mother. Where did the time go? I started out checking prices for the Uber Tote, and somehow wound up memorizing the lyrics to "Chocolate Rain" as performed by Chad Vader, Darth's younger brother. Da Netz is a vast resource of obscure knowledge. It is because of things like Chad and "Garfield minus Garfield" and epic fails that I needed to bring the laptop on vacation. What if I fell behind? What if I lost my edge? That was a risk I could not take.

I found your Mom, sitting against the house with her hair hanging in her face, and sweat beading on her forehead like the sheen on the outside of a cool, cool tasty drink on a hot, hot summer's day. Or much like the forehead of our accountant Fred.

"It's not all going to fit," she said, somewhat dejectedly, "and before you even start in we are not getting the Uber monstrosity."

Nicely played fair lady.

She looked so sad, so forlorn that it broke my heart. I walked over and offered my hand to pull her upright. "It's okay sweetie. Let's see what we can do."

As you know, the flip-side to your Mother's little tic was that I had learned to squeeze things into an allotted space that should not be allowed by our current understanding of the space-time continuum. I walked over to the bike, and looked at what she had done. The saddlebags were close to bursting, so I let them be. The trunk, on further inspection, and with some minor rearranging, could take in a bit more before it popped the hinges.

You want to know what love is? Right there in the bottom of the trunk was the laptop. She'd abandoned the Panini press/hairdryer and packed my laptop. Evidence of one of the many, many reasons that your Mom is the love of my life and my best friend. I mean really . . . who else would put up with my crap?

"You know, you've actually done a pretty good job here tiger. I can move some things around a little, and maybe squeeze some more room. What couldn't you fit in that you really, and I mean REALLY, need?"

Mom paused for a moment. It's hard to watch someone's dream die right before your eyes, unless that person is a former member of the Bush Cabinet or a Fox reporter, then it's a hoot. "I guess just these pairs of tennis shoes. I thought it would be nice to get out of our boots at night. I have no idea how to get your cane in there so you can reach it easily.' She looked around, "Most of our clothes are in the bag that we're going to strap to the trunk, so I guess we are good to go there."

"Did you get your books to fit?"

"Yeah. And a couple of magazines. I had to leave the book on birds out though," she snuffled.
"That's okay. If we see an interesting species, we will kill it and identify the body later," I said, pulling her into a hug. I knew right then I would find a place for her bird book even if I had to staple it to my damn chaps. Side note; staples stop hurting after about an hour and then itch like crazy. No, I'm not going to tell you now I know this.

She smiled. It was nice to see that smile. "It's going to be a good trip, isn't it?"

"Babe," I said and gave her a quick peck on the cheek, "it's going to be a wonderful trip. We are about to visit one of the most beautiful areas on the North American continent. We'll get some great riding on an incredible piece of modern technology, then we get to stay at an incredible Lodge and use that as base camp while we explore Banff. This little excursion," I said, meaning every word, "will be magical."

She smiled again, and after all these years I felt my heart skip a beat. That smile of hers is still intoxicating. "Tell you what, I'll finish up packing on the bike. Why don't you start taking some of this stuff back inside."

"Deal," she said and gave my arm a squeeze.


*** the journey continues tomorrow

Fuzzy Metrics

*** continued from previous post  ***


Mom walked up with a badminton set in her arms. She looked over my shoulder, studying the screen and the blue, highlighted path I had plotted. Our course blazed straight and true east-west across the map of Washington State before breaking into a squiggle as it snaked north across the border into the dark, dark heart of Canada.

Oh cool! So, that's the route we're taking?"

"Yes," I replied, full of pride regarding my excellent navigational skills, "I think that this will be the prettiest route we can take that will still give us a taste of the region, and afford us ample time to reach the Lodge on schedule." I smiled, convinced that she would admire the brilliance of my planning and relish the fact that she bore my children.
She leaned close to the screen and studied the way-points and miles, (Whoops! Kilometers!), and estimated arrival times. "Day number two looks like a long one."

"Yeah, but you have to remember that the numbers are in kilometers. Not miles."

"Hmmmm. . . still, that's a long day. 628 Kilometers. Do you think we can do that? Isn't that pushing it a bit?"

I gave her my best reassuring smile, and hoped it didn't look too patronizing. "Honey, please. Do I tell you how to pack? Trust me, I've got this covered."

Standing she said, "Actually, you tell me how to pack all the time."

This is true. "Well, maybe. But you have to admit you do have a tendency to go a bit over-board on the 'necessities'." Here, I actually put in air quotes with my fingers. I immediately wished I could have taken it back, but the horse was out of the barn. The plane was down the runway. The fuse, so to speak, was definitely and irrevocably lit.

"Did you just air quote me?" she asked, narrowing her eyes.

I froze. Luckily, I was on top of my game that day, and an answer, one that I hoped would avoid disaster, sprang from my mouth like a bus load of little leaguers at free beer and pizza night. "No. I wouldn't do that. Not air quotes." I jerked my hands around willy-nilly in the air. "Minor seizure. Nothing with which to concern yourself."

She stared at me for a moment, sighed, and with a shake of her head went back to looking for that combination panini-press and hair dryer for which she'd been searching these last two hours. After all, you never know when a nice hot sandwich is going to save your life. And as any sane person would readily admit, if that occasion should arise you want your hair to look its best.

*** the journey continues tomorrow

Chapter 1

The Journey Begins . . . Sort of

Since you've forsaken us and left us to wander alone in our twilight years while you're off getting all Navy-a-pated - we did what most 'recently elderly' people do and bought a new motorcycle.  She's a 2008 Victory Vision.  This beauty is like nothing you've ever seen.  I tell you the styling on this bike is revolutionary.  She is an ode to art deco.  She is a sonnet of line and form and function with a bass note of devil-may-care intensity.  Cherry Red.  106 cc's and 96 hp.  Cruise control.  Stereo.  GPS.  Heated seats.  Heated hand-grips.  Electric adjustable windshield.  Enough computer chips to build a robot.  

I admit, I'm smitten.  I may, if pressed, leave your Mother for this bike - she's just that hot.  Not that your Mother isn't hot - she is.  But Mom doesn't cruise from 0 to 60 in 4.5 seconds unless she's mistaken the caffeine pills for breath-mints again.  How best to sum up the Vision?  She's a big-ass Buck Rodger's lookin' rocket-ship that raises more eyebrows than a beauty-pageant contestant explaining the nuances of quantum physics.  Yeah, that about covers it.  Needless to say, the brand-lemming bar-hopping motorcycle fashion crowd gives us a wide berth.  Evidently, and unbeknownst to us, it's entirely possible the Vision is a virus that may infect chrome.  But you know us.  You know how we are when it comes to other people's opinions . . . we could not care less.  Oh yeah - we're rebels.  We're trend-setters.  We just roll like that.  Plus, we're tired of sore butts and cold hands.  And cold butts.  And sore hands.  Our new baby is a plush recliner on wheels that corners so well and accelerates so quickly it should come equipped with an extra pair of undies and an insurance policy as standard equipment.  Zoooommmmmm!!!!!  

So, what do you do when you have a big honkin' bike?  Isn't it obvious?  You take a big honkin' trip.  And that's exactly what we intended to do.  Go bust some blacktop, you know?  Shred some twisties.  Run afoul of the law if possible.  Oh, the wild yonder called to us, begging us to explore, to investigate, to conquer its mysteries.  You don't keep a thoroughbred locked in the barn, do you?  Same with the Victory Vision.  She may look like a cover-girl model but our baby is no 'garage queen'.  She's a debutante born to tour the world.  The open road is her life-blood.  She is an artist of speed and g-force with the countryside her canvas.

  

Did I mention I love this bike?  But where to go?  That was the real question.  A relaxed weekend on the coast?  A nice day-long drive through the Cascades?  An over-nighter down on the Columbia River Gorge?

Silly, silly Amber.  This is us - these are your parental units of which we speak.  Short trips are for the weak and feeble.  Anything less than 300 miles a day is for sissies.  We had the time.  We had the equipment.  We lacked common sense.  All the cards were falling into place.  This was our chance to really test the legs of the bike as well as our endurance.  Possibly our marriage of thirty years, but that would come later.  So, in the fevered optimism that is our 'reason d'etre', we decided that a 2500 mile, week long motorcycle excursion to the Canadian Rockies, and Banff National Park in particular, on a big-ass spaceship-styled road-eating motorcycle seemed like a good idea.  

No, that's not quite right.  This trip seemed like a GREAT idea.


Protip:  Pay particular attention to the word "seemed".  Funny word that.  All kinds of interesting connotations.

*** continued tomorrow