It's Big. Wicked Big.

*** continued from previous post ***


Hmmm . . . was this a positive or a negative remark? He was smiling, kind of, so I decided to take it as a positive.

"Umm . . . thanks!" I said.

"Oh yeah, no problem. Dat things a wicked honker. I can't believe you rode it up here last night in that storm."

I smiled. "It was a challenge to say the least."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mark and Carl exchange a look and a smirk. That was it. As soon as I got my bacon - for this was Canada, how could we NOT have bacon? Plus, I was jonesin' for some meat – anyway, as soon as I got my bacon, it was a fork into the eyeballs for the lot of them. See how well you can hike all blind and weepy you snotty Albertistanies!

"Not fond of a gravel road, eh?" Carl asked with the corners of his mouth upturned so slightly that it would have made me less angry had he just made a silly face and spit at me.

Donny jumped to our defense. "Well you should see this thing. I don't know whether it's a bike or a spaceship." He shook his head and chuckled. "It's big. I mean really big. Wicked big, ya know? And to think it was almost dark," he shook his head again, "then the bear and the moose? Boy, I don't know if I'd have the guts to do that."

"Well Donny," I said, leaning back in my chair, "sometimes through sheer stupidity you get yourself in so deep, you have no choice but to push through to the other side."

"Boy, ain't that the truth." He clapped me lightly on the shoulder, and with a wave of his hand, and a "Enjoy your breakfast," walked back into the main part of the lodge presumably to continue his business.

*** the journey continues ***

Shoot Me Or Sedate Me - Don't Ask Me About The Vision

*** continued from previous post ***

A middle-aged man a bit on the chunky side with a heavy Boston accent approached us with the confidence only found on the East Coast of the USA, and thrust his hand into mine.

"I'm Donny. Anything ya need while you're at the Lodge yah just let me know. My wife's the cook and I'm her lackey," he grinned, pumping my hand up and down vigorously.

"Pleased to meet you Donny," I replied. "I'm David, and this is my wife Suzanne."

"Pleased to make yor acquaintance," Donny said, finally releasing my hand in order to greet your Mother.

Introductions with the rest of the staff followed, and once all the 'hello's and 'pleased to meet you's and 'oh so you're from THE STATES!' had been bandied about, Donny gave us one final look up and down, and said, "So, what kind ah bike ah ya ridin'?"

No. Please God, I can't talk about the bike one more time today. Shoot me or sedate me, but don't ask me about the Vision.

"Ummm . . .," I stammer, trying to figure a way to make this as short a conversation as possible, "we are riding a Victory Vision." I looked to the group surrounding us for a flicker of recognition. Nothing but friendly smiles and blank stares and an implied "And . . . ?"

"It's a new model from Victory. Kind of a space-agey looking design."

"Oh," Donny said. Silently the group had appointed him the point-man for all inquiries regarding motorcycles, "dual-sport?"

"No," I say, and shake my head. "No, it's more along the lines of a Honda Goldwing. Only more Jetsons-like. And we've learned already," I give a quick wink to your mom, "that it doesn't impress the moose around here." I grin like a loon. If that loon were bald, and horribly, horribly chafed.

"You saw one of our moose, huh?", Stacy said, and began walking / herding us towards the door.
"Yeah," I smiled. "One of the reasons we're so late. Darn moose was blocking the road and we couldn't get around."

"They do that sometimes," Stacy agreed with a gentle smile.

*** the journey continues ***

Donner? Party Of One?

*** continued from previous post ***


I turned that bike back around like it was a hovercraft on ice. Lickety-split. Easy as pie. Quick as the impending collapse of the US economy.

By the time I was finished, and we were headed back in the right direction, I was panting, aching, steaming, and experiencing tunnel vision. I forgot my name for a few minutes. I had a nice little interlude in my head where the days were warm and sunny and the roads were dry and clear.

Then - BOOM - I'm back on the bike in the Rockies being a moron.

I turn half-around to your Mother. "Let me ask you something . . . if we had stayed there too long, and I know you only packed a few crackers because you tell me every 10 minutes or so . . . you'd have eaten me, wouldn't' you? A little Donner Party of one. Amiright?"

Mom sighs. "Just get the bike moving."

Sage advice that. So, without further ado I put the bike in gear and we are once again hurtling down a rainy, dusky, gravel road towards oblivion.

Things do begin to look up though. The track in the road gets better. I can get the bike up to about 35 mph now. The stretches are long and straight with plenty of visibility ahead. I suppose the area is gorgeous, but at this point I could not care less. I'm dead. Beat. Nearly defeated. But I would never admit that to anyone.

Umm . . . until now I guess.

Dang.

*** the journey continues ***

Regina Moose - Ritalin Queen of the Rockies

*** continued from previous post ***


Don't ever tell anyone this, but I nearly panicked right then and there.

I looked at that moose, and how tall she was. How long those legs were, how high her belly was off the ground and for a split-second I considered just popping the clutch and seeing if we could zip underneath her. Really. I figured we may have to duck a bit, and the luggage strapped on the trunk may scrape her belly, but I was fairly certain we could make it.

"Don't even frickin' think that you could drive underneath her," Mom warned.

Spooky, spooky woman. Fine. I didn't want to anyway. But I know I could have made it. That aside, It was clear that I had to do something. Hopelessness seemed appropriate.

I literally ground my molars together and said, "Much as I hate to say it, we are going to have to turn around and go back down the mountain. I have no idea what else to do. I know there is a bear back there, but there could be a bear right here, any minute. I would rather be a moving target than a sitting target."

I feel the hope drain from your mother like air from a pin-pricked balloon. "Go back down?"

"I know, sweetie, but we have two options. Stay here, for I don't know how long. How long does it take a moose to get bored? For all we know this one could be 'Regina Moose - Ritalin Queen of the Rockies'. We can't go in front of her, we can't go behind her . . . you've completely ruled out going UNDER her - but we know I could have made it - so we either sit here until God knows when, or we turn around."

*** the journey continues ***

Big Bear. Huge Bear. Grizzly!

*** continued from previous post ***


Your Mom leans forward, "What? I was wiping the fog from the inside of my shield."

"Bear."

"What?"

I want to point out the massive reddish-brown mountain that is now two thirds of the way across the road, but taking my hands off of the steering seems like a bad idea. I try to motion in the direction of THE BEAR with my helmet, but it's useless. It just looks like I've developed a tic. Mom is leaning forward on my left side, and THE BEAR is on the right. I'm effectively blocking her view with my head. It's probably for the best.

For whatever reason, and I assume it is pure pity, THE BEAR steps off the road and ambles to the edge of the trees. Here she stops, and turns to watch us roll by. I hit the throttle and Mom is rocked back into her seat. I pick up speed, trying to put as much distance between us and THE BEAR as possible.

Mom grabs my shoulder and leans forward again. "What's going on?"

I try to unclench my jaw. "Bear."

"Really? You think this is the time for a beer?" she asks with disgust.

I shake my head in the negative.

Mom pauses for a second. "Did you say 'Bear'?"

I shake my head, a bit too vigorously, in the affirmative. Stars explode inside my skull.
"Yes. Bear. BIG Bear. REALLY BIG BEAR."

I keep looking in the mirrors to see if we are being followed and then decide that I would rather an attack from behind be a 'surprise'. There's nothing I can do. I can't go any faster, so anticipating massive jaws wrapping around my head is an exercise in futility. Although, I must admit thinking that if that were to happen, at least this cursed day would be at an end.

I feel your Mom tense. "Where?"

"Just walked across the road in front of us."

"How close?", she asks in a whisper.

Despite my best efforts, I giggle. "Close. Really close."

"Close as in 'Boy, that mountain looks close', or 'The store is only a couple of blocks away, so it's close'?"

"Close as in, 'Hey. Don’t sit so close to the TV or you’ll go blind."

She contemplates this for a minute. I know what she's doing. She's trying to get enough information to decide what level of panic is appropriate. "25 yards?"

"No. More like 15 feet. 10 right before we passed. Maybe. I saw puffs of steam coming out of her nose. The hair on her rump was flattened and wet on one spot. She may have been wearing blue eye-shadow."

Mom makes a slight 'Urk' sound in her throat.

"A black bear?"

I giggle again. The hysterical tone and quality of the laugh frightens even me. "Nope. Big Bear. HUGE bear. Grizzly."

“You sure?"

"Oh, pretty sure!"

I can feel her shift her weight as she swivels her head from side to side, scanning the brush around us.

"Grizzly?"

"Yep."

"Crap."

"Yes. Crap. That about says it all."

"But it's gone?", she asks, looking for reassurance.

"Um," I say, stalling. "umm . . . . . . . . . . Sure."

I feel both of her hands tighten their grip on my sides. Were her hands to get a good hold I would have several cracked ribs with which to contend.

*** the journey continues ***

Jaques Costeau Is No Friend Of Mine

*** continued from previous post ***


THE BEAR swings her massive head to look at us. It's not a particularly friendly gesture. She is obviously not frightened - curious would be a more apt description. Annoyed would be another. I jump on the brakes as hard as I can without skidding. The only thing worse than running INTO the bear, would be to tip over and SLIDE INTO the bear. I've seen enough cartoons in my day to understand this would be, according to animated mythology, 'bad'.

It was then that I realize that I should probably inform your mother, for the umpteenth time on this journey, of our impending death.

I reach back and pat her on the leg to get her attention. "Suz, I don't know how to tell you this, but after all we've been through today it looks like we are going to be eaten by a bear. A Grizzly Bear. And a huge one at that. With a big butt. But that's beside the point. I'm so sorry sweetie, I didn't want it to end like this. I will offer myself first. I'm twice your size, and perhaps she will fill up on me, giving you at least a fighting chance for an escape. I love you."

But what came out was a high-pitched girly-girl EEEeeeiiiiiieeeee!!!"

Frantically, I fumble for the horn button. It's somewhere on the handle bars, but damned if I can find it. I do manage to change the headlight from bright to dim to bright again. I think THE BEAR may have interpreted this as an attention getting device for she slowed a bit and turned her massive shoulders towards us with a calculating eye. I'm hoping that the bike is enough to distract her. That she will appreciate the flowing lines that are the Vision. Marvel at its unique design, the subtle engineering, and the beau coup enhancements that escape the casual glance.

No luck, THE BEAR could care less. Evidently, she's more into sport bikes.

I attempt, once again, to warn your Mother.

"Bear. Bear! BEAR!!!", I shout, with each word spoken more distinctly, louder, and in a slightly higher pitch than the one preceding.

The 'boys' - and once again, don't feign ignorance - have not only left the building, but taken a cab back to Seattle and forgot to close the door and turn off the lights. A part of me, the detached observing bastard inside, marvels as the words escape my mouth. Evidently certain death adheres to the rule of three. As in, the Three Musketeers, the Three Stooges, and the three things you shout right before you die. Usually, and this is documented on Wikipedia, (Wait just a second . . . okay . . . it's documented now), the three things most often said right before you die an untimely death is, "Shit. Shit! SHITTTTT!!!" Or, if it is really untimely, just "Shi-. . . "

THE BEAR kind of sways her head back and forth, as if she may be singing to Sir-Mix-A-Lot as well. Or possibly the Foo Fighters. I make no judgment as to her musical taste. The important thing is that I've seen this behavior on the Discovery Channel. To put it politely, we are screwed. This is what's commonly referred to in the animal kingdom as 'Le Dance d'appetite'. Or, in the vulgar, 'I'm gonna boogie me up a hunger'.

Somewhere deep inside a memory bubbles to the surface. I hear Jaques Costeau intone. . .

"But de intrepid motorscooterists are no match for de bare. We shed ze zmall teer as nate-chur, in all her splendor, keeps da balance. Eef it were not for de bares, the landscape wood be over run with motorscooterists. Once again we are reminded dat de miracle dat ez life ez harsh as well bee-yootefull. Now, let's sit back and watch as she mak ze keel."

Frickin' Jaques Costeau.


*** the journey continues. maybe ***

I Like Big Butts And I Cannot Lie

*** continued from previous post ***


The boulder approached the road. We approached the boulder. I slowed down so as to not run into said boulder.

The boulder stepped off the slight bank onto the gravel in front of us and promptly resolved itself into a bear. A huge bear. And by huge bear I mean a HUGE HUGE HUGE FRICKIN' BEAR.

I have seen a few bears in my time, mostly through the mesh of a zoo enclosure or painted comically on a coffee mug. Plus, I've watched many, many programs on the nature channels, so I'm pretty much an expert on all things Ursa. Despite my encyclopedic knowledge, and possibly due to the stress of the moment, there are only two things I could remember off hand that pertained to our present situation.

One, this is a species known as 'Grizzly'.

Two, we are going to be eaten.

THE BEAR started to saunter - yes . . . saunter. There was no rush - or if you prefer, 'lumber' across the road in front of us. Did I mention this thing was HUGE. Not like the smaller black bears we will on occasion spot in the Cascades. This was a proper bear. A mighty bear. A top-of-the-food-chain, rip-your-head-off-for-fun bear. And it was female. Probably, if the journey so far was any indicator, PMSing. And more than likely just broke up with her boyfriend that used to ride a motorcycle and was bald and breathed oxygen.

Just - like - me.

Time, which anyone that deals with intense situations will confirm, is not a constant. The flow of time varies with the situation. Here the seconds slowed to a crawl. I stared through the drizzle and realized that the haunches of this beast towered over the height of the Vision by a good degree. If we were sitting side-by-side, and we almost were, I would have had to look up to see her jaws of death.

Lord but this bundle of muscle and ill temper was HUGE.

And I was on a ridiculous motorcycle on a ridiculous day on a ridiculous collision path with this behemoth. She hadn't begun putting on weight for the winter yet, so I could see the muscles ripple beneath her fur with every step. I could see the size of her paws, larger than my head, slap on the wet gravel. I stared, slack-jawed, as her rear haunches rolled and shuddered, slightly swaying from side to side. You should know that in times of extreme stress the mind will grasp at any straw to comfort itself. I am not ashamed to admit, that for the briefest of moments the lilting strains of a song rushed through my head. Sir-Mix-A-Lot streamed like a beacon into my skull, crooning his epic regarding the size and likability of a healthy-sized posterior.

I have just enough time to ponder that I may look into all of those kind suggestions for therapy should I make it out of this alive.

*** the journey continues ***

Hold On . . .

*** continued from previous post ***


As the tires hit the gravel, and the nose of the bike pointed toward the Orion cluster, I hear your Mom utter one hushed word that summed up the situation precisely.

"Shit!" she said.

Yes. Shit. Shit indeed.

I was now in a situation where the burden of choice had been removed. Even if we were not at a ridiculous angle, on gravel, the road was too narrow to turn this beast around.

I leaned back and whispered to your Mom the only thing I could, "Hold on."

I don't know if you've ridden the equivalent of a GoldWing up the side of a steep mountain, on marbles, and a cheese-grater surface, but it's really not as much fun as it sounds. The dynamics of the ride change dramatically. Imagine riding a jack-hammer - pogo-stick style - up the steep side of an icy glacier. Now add a rhinoceros strapped to your back. Make that rhinoceros an epileptic. Just for kicks, tell the rhino that he isn't getting into medical school because there is a 'quota' on rhino doctors and you know that it's unfair but he can always go home and take over the family business which happens to be eating grass and dodging poachers.

I leaned over the handlebars of the bike, bringing my feet behind and underneath my body. This gave me a bit of an advantage, allowing me to counter act the fish-tailing motion of the rear of the motorcycle as it skidded over the gravel washboard. I didn't look too far ahead - it made my stomach turn. Because - and this is where it gets funny - the road was not a straight path as I had hoped, but turned into a series of switchbacks. Hairpin switchbacks. Gravely, certain death, hairpin switchbacks that became progressively steeper and steeper.

Mom leaned forward, "Are we doing okay?"

I would have liked to have said something witty, but I was concentrating too hard. "We are okay. We are upright and that's good. Just try to relax back there and keep your weight steady."

"Okay."


*** the journey continues ***

Good News Everyone! I Got Nuthin'!

*** continued from previous post ***


As I was preparing to take one for the team and go in to rescue her, she emerged from the building holding a piece of paper in her hand. Victory! Sweet, sweet accommodations here we come!

However, the hackles on my neck raise a bit because I can see that your Mother isn't exactly exuding joy. I can tell from her body language. It's those subtle motions that are visible only to someone you've spent your life with, the hidden language that the two of you have developed over the years. No one else would be able to pick up on these clues, and if they did, they would have no frame of reference from which to decipher their meaning. In this case, your Mom was banging her fists on the side of her helmet and jumping up and down. I studied her as she approached. Ah. . . I recognize this - it's her universal signal for "I have great news! I love you and I'm sorry if we've been short with each other for the past few hours but all is well now, all is well."

Mom steps to the side of the bike and says, "We're fucked."

Oh. Well dang.

"Okay, how fucked? Fucked as in 'I forgot my wallet', or as in 'Hey, look! The right wing just fell off?"

"Fucked - fucked."

"Well alrighty then. So, was this some internet scam? Is there a Hidden Valley Lodge? Wait . . . don't tell me, did it burn down yesterday?"

"Oh," Mom says, a tad sarcastically I thought, "there's a Hidden Valley Lodge alright."

"Okay," now my patience was running thin, "so what's the problem?"

”Did you," she asks as she pokes a finger into my arm, "think to actually look where this place was before you booked it?"

"Well if I had, then we wouldn't be asking for directions, would we?" I say through clenched teeth.

She stares at me long and hard, and for a moment I think she's reaching for her shank. Or her rock. Or any number of other things she could use as a weapon.

"When I asked directions they looked at me horrified. HORRIFIED! It was obvious I was on a motorcycle. This place isn't IN Carnack. It's OUTSIDE of Carnack. Actually OUTSIDE and ABOVE Carnack and still another 40 kilometers away!"

I do a bit of mathematical calculation on the fly. That means that we have another 157 gallons to go. Damn you Canada.

"Alright, so we still have a bit of traveling to do."

"Forty kilometers away," she says and pokes my arm again for emphasis, "up the side of a mountain. On a narrow, one-lane gravel road. While it's getting dark."

I feel my stomach knot. The Vision is a wonderful bike, but it is definitely a street bike. Not a dual sport. With all of the rain water she weighs as much as a binging hippo. Or, in the metric system, 6000 stone.

My mind frantically turns, I'm trying to salvage this day somehow. Eventually I give up. I got nuthin'.

*** the journey continues ***

In The Mountains of Madness

*** the journey continues ***


I can feel something building in your Mom. Something dark and disquieting. Something powerful and ominous and thoroughly unpleasant.

"Oh for God's sake. This is ridiculous.” She punched me on the shoulder but there was little enthusiasm in the act. “I saw a sign a bit down the highway for an ‘Information and Tourist Centre’. Let's just head over there, I'll go inside and I'll get directions."

This was the best idea that I'd heard all day. "Suz," I say, "you my dear are absolutely brilliant! No wonder I love you so much!"

She looks at me. Or maybe through me. "Sure. Whatever." She casts a weary eye about our surroundings, "Let's just get to the Lodge."

With the optimism that can only be mustered by the seriously mentally ill, we wheel the bike around and in a few minutes are pulling into the parking lot of the Information Centre to get the low-down on all things touristy. I don't even mind that the place is spelled all Frenchy.

"Tell you what," Mom says as she pulls off her helmet, "you stay here with the bike and I'll just pop in. I'll be back in a jiffy."

I think this has less to do with saving time, and more about having a short break from me, but I'm smart enough not to press the issue. "That would be grand sweetie. Thank you."

She heads off towards the building. Slightly shuffling, shoulders hunched. The day has certainly taken its toll. But I'm positive this will soon be just a memory that we can laugh about later.

I'm sure I make a sight, sitting in the parking lot in the pouring rain on a weird shaped bike, arguing with a GPS, but I could not care less. Any modesty had been beaten out of me long, long ago. Just for giggles I plug the PO Box into Sweet Alice. To my surprise, it actually registers on the screen! Although it is obviously wrong, because it shows the location up in the mountains where there are no roads. Yet, I'm encouraged that the Lodge is around here somewhere and not an internet scam as I was beginning to suspect.

The minutes tick by. And tick. Then tock. And eventually they drag on and there is no sign of your mother. I'm actually beginning to get worried. What if my premonitions were right, but I had the wrong Tourist Centre? What, if at the very moment, my loving wife of 28 years was being all molestered by cannibals? Canadian cannibals at that?

Right then and there I began to hate Canada.

*** the journey continues ***

Something Dark and Disquieting This Way Comes

*** continued from previous post ***


Mom climbs off the bike and instantly her seat is wet. I don't think she cares anymore. She rummages around in the various articles that we've stowed and, after what seems like an eternity, finds the confirmation paper. It starts to get soaked immediately, so she folds it in half and hands it to me, trying to keep the printing dry. We don't need any more mishaps on this fine and beautiful day.

Triumphantly, and with a wag of my tongue in the general direction of the GPS, I unfold the note. HA! There is the confirmation. There are the dates. There is how we paid. There is, quite quizzically, no phone number. Perhaps I should have noticed that before.

No matter, there is an address. Oh yes . . . there is an address. Hope flushes through my system like Mentos in a Diet Coke. Rain had peppered my glasses and I squint to read the print in the dimming gray light. The address is . . . PO Box AB804, Carnack AB.

I swear I heard the GPS snicker.

"What’s the matter?" Mom asks but her tone says she really doesn't want to know.

"Well. Well, well, well." I brace myself, "Seems like the only address we have is a PO Box."

I can feel something building in your Mom. Something dark and disquieting. Something powerful and ominous and thoroughly unpleasant.


*** the journey continues 02/21/11***

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 ***

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 ***

A Non-Refundable Deposit Is A Harsh Mistress

*** continued from previous post ***



On reaching the bathroom the pressure of having to pee increased ten-fold because - well because I was near a toilet. See my bladder, in anticipation, was about 6 steps ahead of my body. I tried to explain that I had 57 frickin' layers of clothing on, and that it would take me a few minutes to disrobe, but my bladder was having none of it. So I hurriedly, and I do mean hurriedly, stripped off as many layers as possible while crossing my legs and bouncing up and down in the stall.

I will not go into details, but you can ask any man and he will agree, that one of the greatest pleasures in life is taking a much needed pee. I know it's not the same for women. But for men? If you could bottle that feeling or put it in pill you could make millions.

Success! Having accomplished my mission, I struggled for the next 10 minutes trying to re-layer. I may have once again put the top of my Frogg-Toggs on my legs but I don't know. The euphoria of warmth, and dryness, and an empty bladder all blended into one magical blur and before I knew it I was back out in the great hall looking for your Mom.

I finally found her standing outside like the trooper she is, ready to get back on the bike. I was relieved to see that she hadn't been eaten.

"Where," I asked her, "did all those frickin' people come from?"

"Well, I overheard some of the women talking. Evidently there was a tour bus, or maybe three, that dropped them off here and they were waiting for another one to pick them up."

I wondered, was this a habit of the Canadian Tourism Industry to randomly abandon the elderly at Tourist Centers? You couldn't blame them. Old people can be a real pain in the keester with all the "I'm tired" and "I'm hungry" and "Dear God George isn't breathing!" It just never stops.

"Come on," Mom said, "time to hit the trail."

Against all common sense we saddled up and hit the wet, cold, misty road. Again. We were now so far behind schedule that it wasn't even funny. But the lodge beckoned. A non-refundable deposit is a harsh mistress.


*** the journey continues ***

649 Liters Per Hour in the Rain. Again.

*** continued from previous post ***


So I closed my eyes and change lanes at 649 LPH. LPH. That's Liters Per Hour. Finally, I'm getting the hang of this Satanic measurement system. My eyes are closed because I'm not stupid. I don't want to see death coming. After a few seconds of leaning I figure I'm either in the right lane or on the shoulder about to plummet into a ditch. Either way we are coming to a stop, the question is how fast? You know how much I like surprises.
The gods were favoring us and I maneuvered safely to the right turn lane and gently braked to take the exit to the Centre. I breathed a sigh of relief. I hadn't realized how tired I was, or how much I needed to use the Loo until we were circling the building, looking for a parking spot.

This wasn't a rest area - no small port-o-potty for this place - it was a huge building with a parking lot that could accommodate more than a few large buses. However, only a few cars populated the stalls nearest the building and we had our choice of where to put the bike. I pulled into a slot a bit away from the other steaming vehicles. Mom hopped off the back the second the bike stopped moving. Evidently she wasn't kidding when she said she her need was urgent.

"Sorry. Come and meet me inside," she said, and sprinted in the direction of the door. Although 'sprinted' may be too strong of a word. She hadn't even stopped to take off her helmet. Which was probably a good thing, for now there was no rain - we were simply living in a lake with tiny air spaces between the water. How can I convey how she looked as she semi-bolted towards the rest room? Words fail me but I shall try my best. She looked large, bulbous, and sported a cherry-red helmet-shaped head. Layers of over-sized outerwear. Frogg-Toggs that look like a haz-mat suit, and a strange, strange waddle to her walk that I can't erase from my mind to this day.

I turn away. I can't look anymore. What have I done to the woman I love?

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

A Cannibalistic Canadian House of Horrors . . . . Or Not.

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Finally, through the haze I spotted a sign for a 'Tourist Centre'. My hackles were up immediately. Which, with the cold, was quite painful. What abomination was this? What diabolical mind changed the spelling of 'Center' to 'Centre'? Eff'n French Canadians, that's who.

Protip: Never trust a person that lives in one country, but believes they are in another. Aw screw that, I'm just trying to be politically correct here. Protip: Never trust the French. Canadian or otherwise.

In my defense, I may have been slightly paranoid after all the excitement of the day. As we fish-tailed down the road I explained to your mother that this place was most certainly a trap where tourists went in - but they never came out. Much like a Roach Motel. A horrible place of death and exported Canadian pot-pies, (New and improved flavor from THE STATES!"), to which your Mom argued - quite successfully - that it was NOT some cannibalistic house of horrors, merely a bathroom and some brochures. Possibly a Mountie. Certainly a stuffed Beaver or two.

I resisted stopping, but in the end I capitulated to ensure domestic harmony. Oh, it took some convincing on her part, but the phrase that sealed the deal, and made me pull into the 'Tourist Centre Du Death' was, "I want you to stop now. You should know I've fashioned a 'prison shank', and I will stick it hard and quick between your fourth and fifth rib. . . straight into your liver."

I have no idea how, or when, she had the time to fashion a 'prison shank', but that's not really the point. I thought it over for a minute and was going to call her bluff but two things prevented me from taking that action: 1. You're Mom had A LOT of time to sit on the back of the bike and think while enduring the rain. 2. I felt a sharp object, pressing hard against my Frogg-Toggs in the region of my kidneys. I calculated the risk. She may, or may not know exactly where my liver was located, but the point was moot. She was prepared to do damage, and in the end quibbling about whether I was hemorrhaging out of a liver or a kidney didn't seem all that important.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Chapter 5 - THE ROAD TO HELL IS PAVED WITH CANADIANS

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September 27, 2008

Dear Amber,

I’m really having a hard time letting go of you being a Pirate.
Is it too late to change your course of study?

Love,
Daddio

PS. You may want to ignore any notes posted to you by your friends on Facebook or in email. I couldn’t sleep last night and I found your password and login, so I posed as you for a bit. Ever notice how sometimes things that seem hilarious at 3 AM, seem a little crude the next day? Ah well.

PPS. Um . . . I may have taken a bit out of your bank account as well. It’s ok. You owe me.



Chapter 5


The Road to Hell is Paved with Canadians



Did I mention it was raining?

As I said before, most of the trip was a blur. Literally. Riding in the dense mist of a rain-soaked road with spray kicked up by thousands of tires - did you ever see the freeway during rush hour with a good rain pounding the pavement? If you're not driving through the thick of the storm it really is an amazing sight. A gray tunnel of dirty spray. But we WERE driving through it, and it took A LOT of concentration just to keep the bike going down the road. We were wet, tired, cold, and, as Mom pointed out, for some reason when she gets tired I get cranky. Luckily our communication was kept to a minimum, for each time I raised the shield to try to say something - surprise! A mouth full of oily Canadian road juice. Yum.

So we droned on and on and on. Through mountain passes. Through small towns. Through the heart of the Canadian Rockies. I don't remember much other than the recurring thought of 'Hey! We’re going to die!', yet there were a couple of interesting moments worth mentioning.

At some point in the trip, I can't tell you exactly when, or exactly where, because I may have had an out of body experience wherein I was having warm tea and crumpets with the Queen, or Bob Dylan - it doesn't matter really except if it was Bob Dylan I should probably get some therapy because roving hands from the Queen is one thing, but from Bob? . . . but I digress. The fact is at some point mom had to pee.

Fine. I'll just whip this baby across three lanes of certain death and find her a bathroom because that's just the kind of guy I am. Far be it from me to point out that she has a bladder the size of a grain of rice. Did I mention I may have been a tad cranky by this point? Did I mention how hard it was raining? Take that and double it. Visibility was only a few hundred feet at best and often much less.

*** the journey continues ***

Rain. Mountains. Maniacs. Oh My!

*** continued from previous post ***


By now the traffic from the boat is long gone, blasting at a break-neck speed to God knows where. I couldn't worry about them. We had our own place to go, and we were WAY behind schedule.

Nothing to do but get back on the road.

For the next two hundred miles, (or 8 thousand km in Canadianeese), we wind our way through some of the most beautiful scenery in the world. Nothing compares to the Canadian Rockies. They are unimaginably beautiful. The size, the sheer granite cliffs, the peaks reaching into the clouds lend an aura of antiquity that is rarely experienced elsewhere.

I would have probably enjoyed the scenic grandeur much more had the deluge from the Sky God not returned with a vengeance. But it gets better because what party would be complete without rain's other two friends? Fog and mist. Certainly not this one. Rain, fog, mist, and horribly, horribly wet roads. Oh! Did I mention through all of this splendor of nature that we were on the Trans Canadian highway which evidently is THE ONLY FRICKING ROAD IN CANADA???

So, if by enjoying the scenery you mean traveling at 80 miles an hour through mountain passes with heavy traffic tail-gating you at every turn while riding through a lake, then yeah - this was a stroll in the park.

You have to understand that I was concentrating so hard on keeping the bike upright and on the road that much of this portion of the trip is a blur. So, if I'm a tad scant on details you'll have to forgive me. At some point in the future I may be able to access the memories through hypnosis, but I seriously doubt it.

To give you the flavor of this leg of the journey you only need three words, a mantra so to speak. Learn them and repeat them for the next 4 hours.

Rain. Mountain. Maniacs.

Yet, as I've come to learn, every dark cloud may have a silver lining, but it also has a much darker - and definitely evil - core. In fact, I've come to understand that the 'silver lining' much ballyhooed in lyrics and prose is actually a tin-foil hat for the cumuli-nimbus bunch. Dark clouds are, straight off their rocker, toys in the attic, monkeys in the fridge, bees in the glove box, fundamentalist Christian women with eyes open WAY to wide banging on your front door because you just happened to leave your 8 foot 'Christ on a Stick' neon "WWJD? He'd pick up some harlots and PARTY LIKE HELL" sign turned on and it's causing a row at Easter Services - bat-shit crazy.

These Canadian clouds would just not stop hammering home their point. Whatever that was. Oh yeah. . .it was "LET'S KILL THE GUYS FROM THE STATES. LOL". Frickin' clouds typing in all caps and using leet. I hates 'em.

I thought of home. It was nothing but a distant memory.

Right then I knew one thing for certain: if we survived this vacation Mom was going to kill me.

And honestly, I couldn't blame her.





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And so ends chapter 4 of this tale. Hope you're enjoying it so far. :)

David


*** the journey continues tomorrow with Chapter 5 - 'The Road To Hell Is Paved With Canadians ***

It Looked Easy Enough On Paper

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Doing as I am told I get the gear out of the saddlebags and begin to put on the Frogg-Toggs.

These are great. Best investment in rain gear we've ever made. Light weight, breathable, and completely dry. It is a simple two-piece suit, with an extra long coat that fits over the high-rise pants so nothing gets where it shouldn't. The jacket even has a built in hoodie to go under your helmet should you so desire. They are fantastic. Except for one small, tiny little problem: I'm soaked to the bone already. I believe that may defeat their purpose. Like counting the calories in a Triple Burger with Cheese and an Insanely Large Fries after you've scarfed it in your car ducked behind, and slightly below, the steering wheel so no one will see what a horker your are.

When your Mom gets back from the bathroom I have managed to put on my rain gear.

Now, usually, this wouldn't be a huge accomplishment. In my defense it was the first time I had actually put on the Frogg-Toggs. And it had been raining. And I was cold. And we were in a foreign land, with foreign customs, and everything was all "kilometer this", and "liter that", and "no it's not play money just because it's a different color and no that's not Bob Dylan's head it's the Queen for Christ's sake so stop giggling and fork it over." So when I tell you that I struggled for a bit, and through sheer determination and perseverance, managed to put the jacket on my legs, over my boots, and had a hoodie hanging from my crotch, (I thought it was just to make it easier to pee with the chaps), you'll understand and not think less of me as a rider.

To my credit I discovered my blunder rather quickly. It may have been the howls of laughter coming from the cars passing me on the road. It may have been that when I tried to put the pants on my upper torso, I looked like a giant "V" and lunged hither-and-yon for a few minutes until I hit a light pole and realized something was amiss. But what it came down to was I just didn't feel comfortable with no hole for my head or slot to peek out through and the whole hoodie-in-the-crotch thing, the more I thought, was a dead giveaway. Typical 'Merican technology. You'd think something as complicated as this would have come with instructions.

It took your Mom like 2 seconds to get the things on. She is such a show off.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

They Eyes of a Fish

*** continued from previous post ***


It's now apparent that the skipper is winding the engines out to ramming speed. We may skip the dock altogether and just run this baby right up on shore, Omaha-Beach style. To no one's surprise but ours he throws the engines in reverse at the last minute and we cruise at a civilized speed to the dock.

Now, I don't know if you've ever had this experience, but once in a while in life you will stumble across a situation where, earlier in the day you admired someone, then, through no fault of their own the situation changes and you pity them. That was us in a nutshell. As we disembarked none of our previous friends would look at us. If they did, it was to sneak a quick glance in our direction. But I knew what they were thinking. It was the same thing I would have been thinking had the situation been reversed. "Sucks to be you Chester!"

Yes. Yes it does. Thank you for noticing.

We wait our turn and I roll on the throttle and pull up the now rain-soaked steel ramp. I don't know if you have experienced the delight of a half-blind, (my glasses and visor were still fogged up), fish-tailing ride on a motorcycle up a steel ramp in the rain with maniac Canadians inches from the back of your bike, but it's not as much fun as it sounds. Then, just as our tires kiss the tarmac, it quits raining! Oh benevolent God in heaven, why must your sense of humor be so cruel?

At the top of the hill leading to the Ferry is a small parking lot and a squat building that may be a smoke-house or a rest-room. I slow the bike, take a sharp curve and cruise into the lot. This looks like a good place to re-group, catch our breath, put on our rain gear, and attempt to think through the rest of our day.

"Well," I say, as I pull off my helmet with a definitive sucking sound, (Think of pulling a suction cup off of a sheet of glass, or Robert Downey Jr. circa 1995 from a post Oscar party with an open bar and a group of Colombian "fans".), "that was something, eh?"

Mom cocks her head slightly. "Did you just say 'eh?'

The woman I love looks at me with the eyes of a fish. Dead, terrible eyes. "If you start talking like a Canadian I will be forced to kill you. Kill you dead. Right here. Right now. Do you understand? Get your rain gear on while I visit the rest-room and try to dry out a bit."

I think that this deserves a calculated reply but then my brain starts working and I decide to smile and pursue the path that has kept our marriage on the right track for almost 30 years - I keep my mouth shut.


*** the journey continues ***