The Trap & Knowledge I Should Keep From Your Mother

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As I look around the interior I realize this may be a hologram.

Beyond the slate-tiled entry is a small room doubling as registration / gift shop. Beyond that another room with comfy chairs and bookshelves. The rest of the Lodge is hidden from our view. From what we can see, however, the exterior motif continues to the interior. Very woodsy. Very outdoorsy. Very parallel-universey. Very Canadian.

Before you can say "The Right Honourable Stephan Harper", a small woman with short, dark hair and a semi-hippy casual look about her springs forth from the woodwork - for I have no idea where else she could have been hiding, possibly another dimension entirely - and rushes to our side.

"Oh, my God!" she exclaims, takes a good look at us, and adds a troublesome, "Urk!", to the end of her sentence. "You made it!"

That's curious . . . she seems overjoyed that we are alive. Mom and I exchange blank looks. This is not the greeting we were expecting. It carried so much more concern than we are accustomed to from the hospitality industry in our country of origin. I immediately became suspicious. What's your game Innkeeper?

"Yes," Mom agrees, but casts a slightly scornful glance my way. "We made it."

"We were all so worried! We were getting ready to send a couple of cars out to look for you!"
"Really?" I ask, with true surprise.

"Oh yes . . . we've been waiting for you all day. On your reservation you said you would be arriving in the early afternoon. And then it got later and later and darker and darker and we didn't know which direction you had come in although since you're riding a motorcycle I assume you came up from Highway 40 . . . well, let's just say that this isn't the area you want to be riding a motorcycle in after dark!"

Concern shone in her eyes and relief poured from her body. And this wasn't fake 'how is your day going?' concern. This concern was genuine. Real.

This emotion, coming from someone we had just met, was disquieting to say the least. What fresh insanity was this? My mind worked like a jack-hammer. It was a trap. No human was this friendly. It had finally happened. They were going to kill us. Or quite possibly they were on drugs. In which case I hoped they would share. And was I imagining it or . . . did I detect a slight Nordic accent? I cast a sly eye about for Viking paraphernalia.

Through the addled oatmeal that was my brain, the phrase 'which direction you came in' stuck in my mind like a stubborn raisin on a spoon fourth time through the dishwasher. What craziness was she on about? There was more than one way into this fourth circle of Hell? And more importantly if this was true how could I keep this knowledge from your Mother?

*** the journey continues ***

Where The Hell Are Those Vikings When You Need Them?

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I hit the brakes on the bike and immediately your mother leans forward. At first I'm alarmed because I can smell the fear coming off her in waves. Then I realize it's just the smell of damp, musty, sweaty, human. And it's coming from me.

Mom chooses to conserve her energy lest she have to shiv someone, or something, and speaks one word. "BEAR????"

"No." Although In my mind I can see the bear closing the gap behind us, and after the kill, slipping a couple of bucks to the moose for the assist.

"No, this would be a moose. Big moose. Really big moose. Standing - well, make that blocking, the road ahead. See?" I say, and quickly take a hand off of the handlebars to point at what now looks like a tank on stilts a few yards ahead.

"Oh," your mom says, as if this were the most rational thing in the world. I could have probably told her that we were approaching a band of Mongols playing chess in pajamas and she would have just shrugged.

"Hopefully," I say, "it will not like the bike and move."

"Hopefully," Mom agrees.

I think you can see where this is going. As we crawled closer, but keeping a safe distance, the moose didn't so much as raise its head nor glance in our direction. It just stood there, licking the road. Seriously. Licking the fricking road. As if wet gravel and mud were the Cherry Garcia of the wilderness. It may be for all I know. Next rainstorm, I'm going to find a country lane and give it a try. You never know. Someone has to be the first to try something new. Think of the idiot that ate oysters for the first time. "Hey Thag . . . how oyster?" "Not bad. Like snot. Only fishy. Here. You try." "Screw you Thag. Me still recovering from licking live mountain lion you tell me taste like cotton-candy."
I stopped the bike. Moose in front. Bear in back. Cranky, wet woman sitting behind me. Full on dusk. Happy vacation!

Mom raised her shield. "What do we do now?"

"Cry?"

"Too late," Mom says.

Where in the hell were seven identical Svens and a Hagar when you needed them?



*** the journey continues ***

It's A Little Game Married People Play

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"Whoopsie!", I say, with a melodic lilt that manages to annoy even myself.

"Well great," Mom sighs.

It is now that my masculinity kicks into high gear. I need to take control. I will not stand idly by and let this cursed day get the best of me. I will solve this problem, like so many men before me have solved problems of their own creation.

I will lie.

"Look, standing here is doing us no good. Get on the back of the bike and we will push on. I know how to get to the Nordic Centre." (Lie #1)

"I'm sure Sweet Alice can get us that far, and probably a bit beyond." (Lie #2)

Really, it can't be that bad. (Lie #3)

“I told them in the note when I booked the place that we were coming in on motorcycle. (This is true.) If they thought we couldn't make it, they would have told me." (I believed this to be true.) It's going to be fine. (Lie #4)

Your mother - my wife, my companion, my friend, co-conspirator, cheer-leader and all around pal these last 30 years - knew right away I was spewing total bullshit.

"Fine," she said and without another word climbed on the back of the bike. Though silent, I could read her body language under the layers of clothing. She had not so much capitulated as she had decided, as if she were on a dare, to see how this would play out. And of course, then hold me accountable. It's a little game married people play.

I took a deep breath, fired the engine, and without further ado set off to find this Canadian / Scandinavian Cloning Facility masquerading as some sort of ski operation. I had turned the volume down on the GPS, but I could see our rough path laid out on the map to where Sweet Alice thought the PO Box might be. It was just a big arrow pointing towards the mountains on the other side of town. It did nothing to calm my nerves when the screen started flashing red and the word DANGER in all caps popped on and off the screen like a demonic jack-in-the-box. F' you Sweet Alice! I've had enough of your silliness for one day! I clicked into first and hit the gas. Right or wrong, I was at least moving and that felt good.

We wandered through the streets of Carnack for what seemed an eternity. Missing turns, pulling u-turns in parking lots, changing lanes abruptly - you know, all the stuff that makes taking a HUGE FLIPPIN' MOTORCYCLE THROUGH UNFAMILIAR TERRITORY DURING RUSH HOUR IN A MONSOON so exciting. But my perseverance paid off. At last, I spotted a sign for the Nordic Centre.

I patted your Mom's leg in what I hoped was a reassuring manner, and we took the turn into the mountains. It was probably gorgeous and breathtaking. I have no idea.


*** stay tuned - the journey continues ***

They Clone Vikings Don't They?

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Now I know what I wrote earlier about driving on gravel. I had driven the Vision on gravel in the past, and while it is tricky, it can be done if the gravel is packed hard and there aren't too many pot-holes or soft spots. You don't want to hit a soft patch with the front tire of a bike. It has a tendency to dig in and not want to move. Yet, our friend inertia, and the back of the bike, will have none of that. So best to avoid the situation entirely.

But if all was well you could put the baby at a constant speed of 15 to 40 miles an hour - depending on conditions, easy on the brakes and easy on the throttle, with a very light touch for steering and you should be fine. 'Should be' being the operative words. Yet it's edging towards dark, it's been raining for days, and your Mother, bless her soul, is delusional. Possibly – although I have no proof - possessed.

"What's a Nordic Centre," I ask.

"I have no idea, but it really doesn't matter."

"You think that's where they herd Scandinavians to keep an eye on them?"

"No. I think it probably has something to do with the 1988 Winter Olympics."

I stroke my chin in contemplation. Which is ridiculous, because I'm wearing a helmet so it looks as though I'm trying to get bugs off my face plate in a slow, drunken motion. Suddenly an image of countless tall, blonde people that we’ve encountered since crossing the border fills my mind.

"Could be, could be. But these Canadians are a wily bunch. They may be trying to clone Vikings. How would you like that? Herds of Vikings pouring south across the border, downloading music illegally. Sharing files. Littering."

Mom pounded her gloved fist on the side of her helmet. "They are not cloning Vikings!"

"But," I add, "at least they would be polite Vikings. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to be pillaged and raped, I want to be treated with a little respect."

It's then that I notice that your Mother had developed a nasty - and by no means attractive - eye tic. Perhaps I should leave this line of speculation for another time.

"Come on babe," I say, "let's have a look at that map she drew for you."

Mom held the sheet of paper out to me, and before I could grasp it and take a gander, the ratio of water to paper became too much. It disintegrated like a ball of toilet paper in the tree of a cranky old fart that one day pushed the neighborhood kids too far.

I heard God laugh. I kid you not.

Turns out, it wasn’t God. It was just your mother sobbing.

*** the journey continues ***