We Meet The Native Homo Canukus

*** continued from previous post ***


After a cursory check on the bike, (Yep! Still a motorcycle!), we made our way into the Lodge. The place was alive and bustling. Voices and laughter poured from the interior. Yet your mother was as tense as an OCD sufferer in a light-switch factory. We took a deep breath, casting caution and judgment to the wind, and stepped through the alcove into the dining room.

The first thing I noticed was that in the daylight, the bank of windows had one of the most staggering views I've ever witnessed. I know I keep hammering this home, but it really was indescribable. And yet I blather on anyway. Jagged granite mountain peaks, the lush meadow, the creek . . . this must be what heaven looks like. Well, if heaven were in Canada. And all metric-y.

I stood mesmerized, drinking in the scenery like a parched CEO with the first Mai-tai of the day brought to my office by the new, (nod nod wink wink) secretary.

Really, I couldn't turn away until I realized that there were 30 pairs of eyes on us, and from their perspective it didn't look so much like I was soaking up the natural beauty spread outside the windows behind them but rather staring directly at them with a slack-jawed expression.

Great.

Fortunately, Leeza skip-danced over to us and ushered us to a seat at a nearby table. "Good morning David and Suzanne. I trust you slept well last night?"

"We sure did," Mom replied. "The bed is very comfortable, and the room is great. Although after yesterday I probably could have slept on a freeway."

Leeza smiled, "Oh you poor things. Well, you're here now and we're going to take good care of you. Here," she pulled out the chair for your mom, "have a seat and I'll get you started."

Mom and I took our places at an already occupied table. My suspicions from the night before were confirmed: It was large, square, and could fit four on each side. We sat alone on our side, two empty chairs bookending us.

This was no regular table. It was a square of Canuckian humanity. Possibly a tribunal. From the moment we sat down, it felt like we were at a job interview that had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

*** the journey continues ***

Chapter 8 - Breakfast With Canadians

*** Continued from previous post ***

October 1st, 2008

Dear Amber,

It was good to hear your voice on the phone the other day.

I had no idea they were working you that hard. Sand up your what again?

Still all quiet on the western front. Nothing to report around here. Well, nothing that our lawyer will let us discuss anyway.

Oh! Good news! We got the woodchucks out of your room! Not the smell, but we’re working on that.

Love you,

Daddio
 




Chapter 8

Breakfast With Canadians. What...no bacon?



As I've said before, sleep comes in a variety of flavors, textures, and colors. Notice that I didn't use 'colour', Canada has not drilled so deep into my soul that I'm throwing extra vowels hither and yon simply for the lulz. To whit: there is the fitful slumber of the damned - it is as bitter and dark as a cup of fast-food coffee. There is the troubled dreaming sleep - it has the flavor and color of an old apple, mostly it's good, but every once in a while you hit a spot that makes you want to scream. There is the evil sleep where you dream that you are awake and can't GET to sleep, and is the color of copper leaving a foul, foul tang on the tongue.

My personal favorite sleep is the sleep of the dead. It has no flavor or color. You know, much like supermarket sushi. This was the sleep of our first night at Hidden Valley and it was, to put it mildly, glorious.

We awoke early - very early - to the first glow of dawn peeking from behind the mountains, their hulk blocking the sun, punching perfect silhouettes in the brightening sky.

I assume that is what we would have seen had it not been foggy and gray and raining. Again or still. I didn't care. I was dry! Let the heavens descend! The point being we were refreshed, rested, and ready to take on whatever adventures the day would bring, as long as those adventures took place indoors and included a lot of napping.

*** the journey continues ***

Everything's Better With Cake

*** continued from previous post ***


"Our special Rocky Mountain Mud Cake with double Swiss chocolate sauce and hand-turned vanilla ice cream. I hope you left room."

Silly, silly Leeza. It was chocolate. Your mother would slice open her own stomach to make room for chocolate, especially after a day like today.

"Oh my. Leeza, if this is anything like the rest of our meal, you are the Devil." I said with a smile.

Leeza gave a small laugh and leaned down to whisper, "This is my absolute favorite. I make sure that the cook bakes an extra cake just so the staff can have a treat."

"I am so stuffed . . . but this looks so good . . . " Mom said as she picked up a fork.
We all knew that it was a display of etiquette for social interaction, and what she really wanted to do was face-plant directly into the icing. She pulled the cake close to her, and took a tentative bite making sure to get equal portions of cake and frosting and chocolate sauce. She gently placed the bite in her mouth, letting it rest on her tongue. I saw her eyes close, and her upper body wilt into ecstasy. She swallowed.

"Oh . . . oh yeah. That's good." She took a larger bite. “I mean REALLY good."

Leeza smiled and patted her arm. "Glad you like it. Stay here as long as you like, there is no need to rush off when you finish."

"Give the cook our compliments. Simply wonderful."

"I will," she said over her shoulder. And with that Leeza disappeared into the depths of the Lodge. Probably to churn more butter. Or prepare a pep-talk for the bees.

For the first time in what seemed like forever all was right with the world.
Much to both our surprise we managed to finish our cake. We then scampered back to the room where, warm, dry and with the lights off we were asleep in seconds.

Take that Canada. We, the people from THE STATES, had survived your worst and come through in one piece.

Mostly.

End of Chapter 7

*** the journey continues ***

Lederhosen May Be Mandatory. I Can Only Hope.

*** continued from previous post ***


Leeza was waiting for us in the foyer, and with a smile reserved for idiots that have no idea how close they've just came to death, ushered us into the dining room.

I had paid little attention to the dining room on our previous visit to the lodge owning to the fact that I was in the first stages of shock. Or maybe the 4th stage. Which one is death? 3? Then it was definitely stage 4. Now I had a chance to look around, and what I saw was lovely.

The room could accommodate probably 50 to 75 people. There were four large tables with 4 chairs on each side, (you doing the math here?). Floor to ceiling windows on two sides of the dining room opened onto a wrap-around deck just visible in the light spilling outside. I could spot the entrance to the kitchen on the back wall, (near where we had walked in), and on the opposite side I could see a doorway that led into what looked like a small sitting room, complete with a massive river rock fireplace. I had noticed this room on our arrival but not the fireplace which was gorgeous and I made a mental note to spend some time by that fire with a good book.

In addition to the tables and chairs there were a few other pieces of furniture in the dining room. A hutch here, a sideboard there. A statue, remarkably life-like, of an elderly gentleman looking as if he had just stepped off the Alps. He may or may not have been wearing lederhosen.

The tables and chairs were all of natural wood, but varnished to a high sheen. The ceiling was low here, and it made the space seem cozy. The warmth of the earth-tones complimented each other, and the room was neither sparse nor cluttered but balanced just right. The tables all had fresh flowers in simple vases. At the table nearest us, and looking out into the darkness, were two place settings. We were alone in the dining room, but I could hear soft laughter and the lilt of conversation drift from other parts of the Lodge.

Leeza motioned us to the table, "Come, come. Sit down. You two have to be starving!"

*** the journey contiues ***

This Is What Marriage Is All About

*** continued from previous post ***


"I have a question for you," Mom said and I wanted to bang my head against the wall because have you ever noticed that when someone says "I have a question" they say that for one of two reasons: One, they are preparing you for some kind of bombshell, as in "I have a question for you. Has the baby always been on fire?" Or two, they are not really asking you a question. What they are doing is establishing a logic framework in order to make an accusation, as in "I have a question for you. Where were you on the night of February 4th between the hours of 7 PM and 9 PM, and were you aware that not only were you being tracked by LoJack, but we have sequential security camera footage of you on your little adventure with the Camel and the Nuns and the AK-47 badly disguised as a doll?

Guess which line of questioning your Mother was pursuing.

"Oh good. Had a bit of time to ponder the day whilst I was showering, have we?"

She ignored my question, but narrowed her eyes all snake-like. If she were John Wayne I would have been staring down the barrel of a peace-maker and the lead would have been about to fly. She smiled, ever so slightly. There was not a hint of love nor kindness nor femininity in that smile.

"Did you pick up on the fact that this is more of a 'Bed and Breakfast' type place rather than a 'What would you like from the menu?' type place?" And of course she knew the answer to that, but as I said, that's not what this particular conversation was about.

My blood ran cold. For some reason, I had hoped that the powers-that-be would have taken pity on me after the gauntlet of our day and let this one rest. Just for tonight. Silly me and my silly expectations.

As you know, your Mother has many, many, many, many, (is she still reading over my shoulder?), many, MANY wonderful qualities and attributes. Being thrust into social situations with large groups of strangers is not among that pantheon. I can clearly recall having a discussion on this exact subject some . . . oh, I don't know . . . 7 or 8 thousand times in our life.

Phrases like 'I never want to stay in a Bed and Breakfast.", and "I can think of nothing more unpleasant than trying to make idle conversation with strangers first thing in the morning." and "If you ever book us in something like that there will be Hell to pay." sprang to mind.

I have one hope. I will play dumb.

"Really?" I say, and open my eyes all puppy like. "I didn't know that. Hmmmmm . . . Well, I guess we will just have to make the best of it."

I prepared myself for a lecture. I would have welcomed a harsh word, possibly some cursing. Slight physical punishment was not out of the question. But it was worse. Mom just shook her head and sighed.

"Let's get this over with," she said, and slipped damp tennis shoes on her pruney little feet. "If this is like the rest of our day they'll probably douse us with acid before dessert."

Great. Not only have I almost killed my love countless times on this trip, now I have disappointed her as well. This day just keeps getting better and better and better. Well played, Good Sir. Well played. I had been successful in inflicting the maximum emotional damage possible in the shortest amount of time while expending the least amount of energy. That, my young daughter, is what marriage is all about.

I slipped on my boots over my sore feet - my other shoes were very, very wet - and we made the short journey out the door, through the dark, and into the Lodge.

*** the journey continues ***

The Water Had Not Been Kind

*** continued from previous post ***


Your mother glared, but held her tongue. She slipped into the bathroom and shut the door.

I busied myself with draping various pieces of wet clothing about the room. When I finished, it looked like a washing machine had spontaneously exploded and disgorged its contents helter-skelter. I tried to make it a bit tidier, but it was no use. I didn't have the energy.

I heard the water run in the shower, and, when I was sure it was safe, stripped off my wet gear and clothes. Several hours being damp had - in NO sense of the word - been kind. I disgusted even myself. I collapsed on the bed in a damp, wrinkly heap.

Mom finished in the shower and said with a refreshed sigh, "Okay. Your turn." She walked back into the bedroom, and I was glad to see some color in her face. She glanced around our quarters at first quizzically, then with a bit of disgust. Finally with a shrug she gave up. It made me sad to see the spunk gone out of her. There were pants hanging from curtain rods, socks adorning the arms of chairs and the sofa, and underwear draped over lampshades. You know, much like a dorm room on a Sunday morning.

She shook her head and massaged her temples. "Go take a shower. I'm starving."

Without further ado, or comment, I did as I was told.

I have had many a shower in my life, but none ever felt as grand as this one. I could have just stood there all night, letting the hot water cascade over me, washing away the past 14 hours emerging in the morning as refreshed as a converted Catholic after confession. But I knew your mom was waiting, and it was wayyyyyyyy past her dinner time, and I wanted to put this all behind us and make a fresh start. So I hurriedly washed, dried, and put on some (semi) dry clothes, and sprang from the bathroom fresh as a daisy. If that daisy had been sitting in a flea market flower stall for the last week slowly fossilizing.

Had we really only been gone from home two days? Felt more like two months.

*** the journey continues ***

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 ***

Too Tired To Blush

*** continued from previous post ***


We walked about 10 feet to another smaller door on the front of the building that I had assumed was some kind of a service entrance, but turned out to be the door to our suite.

Stacy stepped onto the small, wooden deck, and opened the door.

"We don't lock things around here, so there's no key to give you. But there is a lock on the inside of the door so you can secure it at night."

Stacy flipped on the light-switch, and we stepped through the door into a wonderful, warm, dry, and surprisingly large room. Although, with the state of physics north of the border I shouldn't have been surprised. Pale olive-green walls matched perfectly with the natural wood of the vaulted ceilings. The bed was king-sized, and continuing with the motif the frame was constructed entirely out of logs.

The rest of the room contained two high-back library style chairs, a small couch, all arranged in a semi-circle around a gas fireplace. We could see a huge walk-out deck, and a bay-window overflowing with cushy pillows on the built-in seat. Right then I knew that spot would become your mom's favorite place to curl up with a book for the next few days. The room was immaculate. Freshly painted, and all of the furniture looked quite new. Off to the side of the bed was a small, yet fully updated and functional bathroom with a walk-in shower.

Stacy walked around, showing us the light switches, thermostats, towels, etc. It was all fairly self-explanatory. Evidently, toilets and electricity work much the same this far north. Not like Europe or Asia. Bastards.

After concluding her tour of the room, Stacy said, "So, don't hesitate to call with anything you need." She smiled, and with her punkish-pixie looks was simply chock-full of awesome. She reminded me a more than a bit of you and your sister. Well, until you got all Navy-a-pated on us.

"Oh, just so you know since this is your first time here, all of our meals are served in the main dining room. Breakfast is at 7, and then we offer a make-your-own box lunch after breakfast. Most people do a lot of hiking while they’re here, and we find that letting them pack their own bag works out best for everyone."

She looked at us in our gear and me on my cane, and added, "Of course, not everyone hikes. There's plenty to do here in the Lodge, or you can just 'relax'."

She teased out the word 'relax' until it actually sounded quite naughty, and gave us a wink.

I was too tired to blush.

Moose-snot Roost? What the . . .

*** continued from previous post ***


Leeza shook her head as if coming out of a dream. "Well you have had quite a day. Quite a day indeed and as anxious as I am to hear the details I think we'd better get you out of those we clothes before you freeze completely. Stacy, please show David and Suzanne to their room."

Stacy wore two brilliant, neon pink pig-tails on top of her head, exactly like 'Red' from Fraggle Rock. She was pierced in the lips, nose, and eyebrow. I could see tats on her arms and stomach. Heavy blue and black eye shadow completed the look. She was adorable!

Stacy smiled, and took your mom by the elbow, steering her back towards the front door. "Come on guys, let's get you warm and dry."

Mom followed Stacy, and with a brief goodbye to our new hosts, I followed your mother. As soon as we cleared the door, I could hear the buzz of conversation erupt behind us.

"We've got you booked into the 'Moose-Snot Roost' for three nights, is that right?", she asked as we stepped into the darkness. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a flashlight playing over the Vision in the parking lot. Evidently Donny was making a thorough inspection.

"Ummmmm . . .", I stammered. Moose-Snot Roost? What the hell? I'm all one for adventure, but that seldom requires moose mucus.

"Don't be put off by the name," Stacy giggled. It's one of the best rooms in the place. The balcony sits right over the Moose-wallow. You'll be able to watch the moose come and go all day. So close that you could reach out and touch them." She giggled a bit, then stopped in dead her tracks, so quickly Mom almost ran into her, and in the dim light of the porch lamps I could see a severely concerned look flit across brow. "But don't - okay? I mean, don't try to touch a moose. Although they look all cuddly they're wild animals. And sometimes, you'll run into one that's aggressive. Some of them have quite bad attitudes."

"Oh," I said. "We know. The one that was standing in the road blocking our path flipped us off."

Stacy studied us then, trying to decide if she should call for reinforcements when her face brightened. "Oh! You're joking!" She giggled. "Good one eh?"

I wanted to explain that in our Universe, the moose really had flipped us off, but thought better of it. You can only expose so much of yourself at the beginning of a relationship. Otherwise people tend to avoid you. Or run. Or possibly call the authorities. But that's just been my experience, your mileage may vary.

*** the journey continues ***

Perhaps It Was As Bad As We Thought

*** continued from previous post ***


”Wait a second," Donny said, shaking his head, "ya rode a big-ass touring bike up here?" He glanced around at the ladies. "Pah-don my French girls."

I nod in the affirmative and turn back to Stacy. "It would have been cool any other time, but as you know it was getting dark and the darn thing just wouldn't move, and I don't think it would have been so nerve-wracking, but we'd just had the encounter with the bear . . ."

"You rode a touring bike up here in this weather from Highway 40?", Donny asked, with a bit on incredulity in his voice. "Where did ya stat out this morning?" Calgary?"

I turned back to him, and answered, "Highway 40, is that the one that comes from Carnack? Oh, and we had a pretty long day. We left this morning from Galaway's Bay."

"What bear?" asked the woman that had greeted us originally, whose name we would later discover to be Leeza - not 'Lisa', but 'Leeeeeezzaaa'.

"Well, we were coming up the hill and all of a sudden this huge, and I don't mean to exaggerate, but I do mean HUGE bear came out of the woods onto the road --- "

"Let me get this straight," Donny interrupted, "ya rode a Goldwing sized bike up the Carnack side?" As he said this his voice crept several octaves above the normal register. I took a quick glance to see if perhaps Donny had a 'boy-zone' incident of his own. He hadn't, but he was clearly impressed with our mad riding skills.

"Well . . . Yeah.", I answered.

"And you ran into one of the grizzlies?", asked Stacy, fear tinging her voice.

"Yes," Mom added, beginning to pick up on the vibe that had suddenly taken hold of our small welcoming party, "and another one that . . . kind of followed us along the tree-line for a while."

Mom smiled, looking for reassurance that this was a normal daily event in the cavalcade of fun that was Hidden Valley.

Mom’s description of the 2nd bear brought silence and quickly exchanged looks of panic from the staff.

One of the other people, I have no idea who, piped in. "You rode up from Carnack? In the dark?"

"Where the hell is Galaway's Bay?", Donny asked Stacy.

"It's in BC," I answered, "just across the US border. Above the northwest corner of Washington." I smiled reassuringly at the crowd. "Long day. I guess we did about 600 KM."

Other people, some guests, some staff, wandered in to hear what all the excitement was about. Now the small foyer was bursting with Canadians, and we were in the middle. If this were a Tootsie-Pop, we were the chewy-chocolaty center. There were hushed whispers as people brought the new arrivals up to speed on what all the fuss was about.

"And a moose blocked the road?" Leeza added, as if she were trying to make sense of our story.
"Yeah. For a bit. Which, wouldn't have been too bad, but like I said, it hadn't been that long since we'd seen the bear so I wasn't sure how far behind us . . .", I let my voice trail off. There was really nothing more to add.

Fear bathed the room like cheap perfume at the penny-slots in a failing Casino. Hasty looks were exchanged, but without a history with these people I had no idea of the subtext. I couldn't tell if they were afraid FOR us or OF us.

"Jesus," Donny said and excused himself, "I gotta take a look at this bike," and bolted out of the door into the night.

Silence. Curtains rustled on a night breeze. Somewhere in the distance a wolf howled. I could hear the steady patter of water as it dripped off our clothes onto the slate floor.

I had to break the silence, for it was beginning to creep me out. "You guys have a lot of bear up here I take it. Lot of moose. So, this is like normal. Right?"

They stared at us. We stared at them. An old man coughed.


*** the journey continues ***

Ya Cannot Change The Laws Of Physics

*** continued from previous post ***


Anyway I hope we don't frighten the staff too badly, but I have my doubts. Mom's giving me the willies and I live with her.

Back to our story. The front of the Lodge is exactly what you would expect the front of a Lodge in the Canadian Rockies to look like. Very woodsy. Very outdoorsy. Very Canadian.

We make our way to the front and open the massively planked and wrought-iron hinged door with a rumbling squeak. Soft yellow light spills across us. Your mother sneaks a glance at me in this new light and draws in her breath with a quick sucking sound, for apparently I'm not as dashing as I had assumed.

From the interior of the building a wave of warmth rolls over us mixed with the odors of something wonderful cooking. It sucks out what little energy I have left like a junior Congressmen sucks up donations at a PAC luncheon. I am a leather-clad, three-legged, quivering mound of goo. I have hit the wall and pushed through to the other wall that is bigger and thicker and painted an unsightly color. I am all in.

We stumble into the foyer with our clothes dripping and forming puddles on the slate floor around our boots.

Now that we are inside, I see that the building is much bigger than I'd inferred from the parking lot. I believe this to be true of all Canadian architecture. Somewhere, somehow, these tricky - and extremely affable people have managed to break the space-time continuum and are keeping it a closely guarded secret from their brothers to the south. Fine. See if we bail your asses out next time Hitler decides to annex Quebec!

*** the journey continues ***

I Have Become French

*** continued from previous post ***


Where was I?

Oh yeah, Mom returned with a suitable rock, and once in place I grabbed my collapsible cane off of the trunk. Whereupon, the spring-loaded demon that it is, once free of its constraining tie, quickly expanded and straightened with a loud 'shooook-CLANK' - - - and promptly thwapped me in the only place on my body that wasn't protected by leather or Kevlar or multiple layers of clothes.

Yes sir, smack-dab right in the boy-zone.

Mom watched me squirm and contort for a minute. "See, every time that happens, it just makes me a bit more thankful that I'm a woman."

That's nice," I squeaked in a gnome-on-helium voice.

”Looks like it hurts."

"Mmmmmmmmhummmmm," I manage.

"Yep, definitely looks very painful."

She shakes her head and gives a little click of her tongue for emphasis as she folded her arms across her chest.

I was able to suck in a partial breath. "Enjoying this, are we?"

Mom looks me up and down. Apparently she has a bit of buried resentment and is blaming me for this day. I have no idea why. It's obvious that she's irrational from fatigue.

"Why no", she says, "No, not at all."

I narrow my eyes and point my finger at her in a grand accusation. "LIAR!" I shout.

Only the 'boys' are still fox-holed and deeply entrenched, so in my exuberance it comes out much like the sound a squeaky-toy makes while being ravaged by a spiteful dog.

"Come on," she sighs, and gently tugs my arm, "let's get inside where it's warm and dry."

I start to protest - just for kicks - but then I fold and follow obediently. I have a small, resilient nugget of attitude deep inside, but that is all. No strength. I have no resistance left in me. I am all wiggly gelatin. I believe myself petulant, but in reality I'm just sad. You see where this is going of course. Yes, I - through the trials and tribulations of the day - have become French.

*** the journey continues ***

Ignorance Is Our Only Defense

*** continued from previous post ***


I straightened up, and small firecrackers went off up and down my spine. I steadied the bike, and allowed your mom to climb out of the saddle. The ground was very soft, so I had Mom look for a large, flattish rock to place under the kick-stand so that the bike wouldn't sink in the mud and tip-over during the night. That would put, what we professionals call, a 'damper on the party'. We carry a flattened aluminum can for just such a reason (HA! You thought I packed it for nothing!), but it was currently residing at the bottom of the saddlebag and it seemed way too much of an effort to dig it out when we were surrounded by rocks that would suffice just as well.

Mom walked a few feet away, and bent to pick up just such a rock. Then I saw a hulking shadow glide through the trees behind her, but thought it best given the day and the current situation not to scream.

I decided, and convinced myself, that this was naught but fatigue and a trick of light. Later, we would discover that it was more than likely one of the many moose that visited the lodge throughout the day. Mostly more than likely. Hopefully more than likely. Yet in my heart I knew it was a bear.

Really - it was probably best that we were clueless.

You know, that could easily be the title of this entire trip - "It Was Probably Best That We Were Clueless."

Yep. That sums it all up. Sums a bunch of things. In fact, I’ve decided that’s what I want as my epitaph. ‘It was probably best that I was clueless’.

You should write that down. That is some deep shit right there.

*** the journey continues ***

Home Sweet Lodge

*** continued from previous post ***



Not a hundred yards past the sign was the turn-off to the Lodge itself. Here the road was extremely muddy - just mud, no gravel - so we had to take special precautions as we bounced up the small hill into the parking area opposite the building.

The place looked gorgeous - the part we could see in the dusk anyway - and now that safety was but a few steps away the day caught up to us - in a hurry. Every muscle, every square inch of my skin was tender and achy. All I wanted was a hot shower, something to eat, and a clean bed. Your mother wanted the same thing, but also to be more than 6 inches away from me for an extended period of time. She didn't tell me this, but later when I tried to hug her she hit me with her rock. Not hard enough to do damage, but more than enough to get her message across.

Oh your mother - ever so coy and demure.

There were 7 or 8 cars in the parking lot. Well, not cars really, but SUVs and trucks. All 4-wheel drive. No other motorcycles. Fancy that.

I collapsed into a quivering heap over the front console of the bike.

"No giving up now. Let's get someplace warm, shall we?" Mom said with false cheer, framing her sentence not so much as a question but a demand.

"Good idea," I replied from my prone position between the handlebars, "do you want to unpack now?"

"No," Mom said as she pried off her helmet, "let's go check-in first."

"Capital idea, my dear."

*** the journey continues ***

A Journey of Self Discover

*** the journey continues ***


The rest of the journey, thank the Gods, was fairly uneventful.

Except one particular part where your mother leaned forward and said, "Bear. Bear! BEAR!!!"

"GAH", I reply. "GURK", I say, trying to form a word.

"BEAR!", your Mother reiterates, as if this concept needs reinforcement.

"Where? For the love of all that is Holy, WHERE?", I shout, swiveling my head like a possessed Linda Blair. I had no idea it would turn all the way around like an owl. This trip is just one surprise after another. I'm pushing boundaries. I'm testing my limits. When all is said and done, I may need extended care, but for now I'm on a journey of self-discovery.

She pats my shoulder, "Back there on the side of the bank, next to the tree line. It's okay, it just kind of followed us for a while but it's gone now."

"Followed us?"

"Yeah . . . just kind of popped in and out of the trees . . . following us."

Well, isn't that . . . dandy? I have no words left. I just shake my head that I understood.

Five more minutes up the road and I see a sign. A lovely sign. A wonderful sign. It was bathed in a ray of light. Bunnies skampered at its base and there was a blue bird perched on its rim. I may have glimpsed the tall red hat of a Gnome peeking out from behind its wooden supports. (Ha! I knew the brochures wouldn't lie!) It read. . .

"Hidden Valley Lodge. Welcome!"

Mom gives a small squeal and pounds my back excitedly. "We're saved!"

Pfffftttttt. . . . as if there was ever any doubt.


*** End of Chapter 7 - the journey continues ***

The Road Never Gets Wider or Flatter or Better

*** continued from previous post ***


Now, it was about this time that we started seeing the warnings for Bears tacked to sign-posts every . . . oh, I don't know . . . every ten feet or so. I didn't want your mother to worry, so I tried to distract her whenever one drew near. "Hey," I would say and point in the opposite direction, "is that a squirrel?" Or, "Quick! Look over there! What kind of bird is that?" Or, "Look! Carnival rides!" Much to my chagrin I don't believe it worked.

We passed the Nordic Centre, (Motto: "Nothing Sinister Going On Here. Certainly No Cloning. Please Move Along."), and happened on our first bit of good news in what was proving to be one of the longest days of our lives. A sign. Literally.

"Look!", Mom shouted in the first true enthusiasm I'd heard from her since leaving home, "The sign says, ‘Hidden Valley Lodge - 40 Kilometers', we're going the right way!"

I thought about adding, 'You had any doubts?', but decided that silence and a smile were more apropos.

As we passed the Nordic Centre's entrance, the wide, flat tarmac began to narrow. While the surface was fine, the width closed in on itself going from a very wide two-lane, to a narrow two-lane with no markings, to a wide one-lane road. Not a problem. Others had traveled this path. In addition to guests at the Lodge, I reasoned that there had to be delivery trucks, carriers, etc. that supplied the Lodge and whatever else was up there. I relaxed. I felt as though our 'day from Hell' was at last coming to a close.

Then, the road began to climb. Ha. Not a problem. Then the road REALLY began to climb. Still no problem. Then the road . . . well it just kind of ended into a ridiculously steep one-lane gravel path with washboards deeper than speed bumps.

This might be a problem.

Let me pause and give you a bit of advice that will serve you well in the years to come. When you hear yourself saying, "Oh, well I'll just go a bit further, I'm sure there will be someplace to turn around." --- just turn around. NOW. No good will ever come of this situation. The road never gets wider, or better, or flatter. The only thing you can expect to encounter taking this route is madness. Madness and death. I know this now, and I knew this then. So why, in the name of all that is holy, did I push on?

It's simple really. I'm an idiot.

*** the journey continues ***

It's ALL YOUR FAULT!

*** continued from previous post ***


"What are we going to do?" she asks, but it's not really a question. What she REALLY said was, I can't believe you didn't check this out and now here we are exhausted, wet, cold, and with no place to stay and we've forfeited a bunch of money because you're an idiot and IT'S ALL YOUR FAULT!

I panic. The ball is squarely in my court. I am, as our illustrious President Bush had said, the decider. I got us into this mess, and it's up to me to get us out. Silly woman trusting me. She should know better than that. I thought that I could use this line of logic to put the blame on her, and then realized there were other things in life I wanted to experience. A Canadian Hospital was not one of them. I was in the pit of despair, then - BOOM - another flash of inspiration!

"Okay, here's what we will do. We've come this far, let's give it a shot." And then, because I haven't made enough mistakes, I add, quite casually the most damning statement that I've ever uttered in my life. "Worse comes to worse, we will just turn around, find a motel, and try to get our money back tomorrow. I'm sure they'll understand if we cannot physically get to the Lodge."

I can see Mom weigh the options in her mind. On one hand, she could go along with this scheme. On the other hand, she could trick me into taking my helmet off and hit me in the head with her friend, the rock, and try to claim that I'd run away. I can see in her eyes that at this point it's a coin toss.

"Fine. You want to try it, we’ll try it. The lady inside gave me directions. She said about 5 miles out of town, beyond the Nordic Centre, is where the gravel starts. I asked her if the road was good, and she said "Well, good for a car. It's hard-packed. I don't know how it would be on a motorcycle and honestly I haven't been up there in years." Her eyes pierce me like an ice-pick in peanut butter. "That was a direct quote."

I become distracted by the ‘Nordic Center’, but shake the thought out of my head. I have more important matters to contemplate.

*** the journey continues ***

It's Never Too Early To Suck Up To Our Eventual Robotic Overlords - All Hail Klatu 9!

*** continued from previous post ***


I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."

Uh oh.

Ever so quietly, barely audible, I hear the sultry Aussie voice of the GPS whisper "Your not gonna find it Mate. Take my advice, turn around."

"Shut up," I mutter, now frantically pressing the scroll buttons hoping beyond hope that I had somehow missed the listing.

"Game oveh. Yer screwed. I suggest suicide," purrs my digital Sweet Alice.

I lean close to the screen, "Shut the hell up before I rip you out by your wires and chuck you into the ditch."

"Who are you talking to?", Mom asks.

"Nobody," I reply, a bit more harshly than I intended.

Like syrup being poured from a bottle, the GPS whispers, "Tell you what Mate. How 'bout if'n I direct you to the nearest Hospital 'cause yer gonna need one inna minute."

Mom leans forward. "Are you strangling the GPS?"

I look to my hands. Unconsciously, they've gravitated towards the GPS and are now engaged in some serious squeezing. "Umm . . . no. I think there's a loose wire, I was just trying to fix it."

Even through the rain and the helmets I can hear your Mom sigh.

“Strangling a helpless piece of technology. You've gone round the bend, eh? Toys in the attic and all that? You f'ed it up right good now, ain't ya?", whispers my sweet Aussie princess.

I may have started to weep. I don't know. Suddenly inspiration strikes!

"Suz! We have the confirmation email in the saddle bag. The address and phone number are on there. I'll just plug the address directly into the GPS and whoopsie-doodles, we will be there in a flash!"

Ha Ha! Take that you commie-pinko GPS! Your taunts mean nothing now! I've beaten you at your game for I am an AMERICAN! I am from THE STATES! Our kind created you, and our kind will destroy you at will! Well, until the eventual takeover by our Robotic Overloads. Which we all know is a given. All hail Klatu 9!

*** the journey continues ***

There May Be Trouble Brewing On The Home Front

*** continued from previous post ***


We rolled through the city limits of Carnack, (motto: Hey! You just drove through Banff at insane speeds! Well done! Enjoy your stay! Bye!"), and Mom, in her ever inquisitive, and I must admit that at this point in the day, somewhat annoying voice, leans forward on the bike and asks, "Thank God. I'm beat. So, where exactly is this place?"

Hmmmmm . . . that's a really good question. As a man is want to do, I supply an answer, even if it is less than helpful. "It's in Carnack."

She doesn't hesitate, she just pulls back and bitch-slaps the back of my helmet. Hard.

"Oh," I say, trying to inject some levity into the situation. "You mean the address. Well tell you what, we will find a parking lot, I'll consult Sweet Alice, (how I long to hear her sultry Aussie voice!), and I'll have you warm, dry, and dozing peacefully in half an hour. Hour tops."

"Okay," she says, but I can hear the suspicion thick in her voice as she answers, much like the subtext in the voice of a film-noire' gumshoe grilling his prime suspect. And not the hot girlfriend suspect. The ugly thug suspect.

With all haste I find an empty parking lot, shut down the bike, and pray that the oracle of the GPS will save us.

I bring up the map on the touch screen. Sure enough, my suspicions are confirmed. We are in Canada. More importantly, we are in Carnack. I punch the button for "Local Attractions", then "Amenities", then the sub-menu for "Hotels". An alphabetical list of all the wonderful places to stay in this paradise are displayed crisply and precisely on the screen. "Here we go," I say with confidence, "I'll just scroll down and find. . ."

Well that's curious. There is no "Hidden Valley Lodge" on the list. I don't panic, because I know it will be listed under "Lodge, Hidden Valley". I chuckle at my mistake and Mom returns a hopeful, yet weary smile. The rain is dripping down the side of her helmet, resembling - although I would never tell her this - a garden fountain gone bad.

I continue to scroll through the listings. It goes directly from "Lola’s Mountain Manor Motor Lodge" to "My Converted Garage That Still Smells a Bit of Wet Cat and Mustard But Looks Kind Of Victorian if You Squint Your Eyes and Tilt Your Head To The Right Bed And Breakfast."

Uh oh.


*** the journey continues ***