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 ***

It Was A Dark And Stormy Ferry Ride

*** continued from previous post ***


After the mandatory, "Well, good luck with all that, eh?", I can finally turn my attention to your mother. Her group has scattered like a bag of dropped marbles, and all that is left of her entourage is her and motorcycle girl. The time has not been kind. Mom - how can I put this gently - no matter how you slice it, she's not a pretty sight. Her hair is wet and matted and clumped to the side of her head like day-old oatmeal. Her mascara is running down her face giving the appearance that her eye may be leaking ink. Or dark, dark tears. I vote for the tears. We make eye-contact, and a silent thought passes between us. A shared observation between long-term companions that is understood immediately - there is no need to give it voice.

Although, had we chosen to speak, our communication would have been a simple "FUCKIN' A!!!".

Yes, that sums it up rather nicely.

I feel bad for the poor girl on the bike. With the enthusiasm of youth beaten out of her, she looks like the family dog that's been caught chewing on the baby one too many times.

I approach your Mom cautiously. Tentatively. Careful not to make any sudden movements. "Hey babe, how you doing? Have I told you today how beautiful you look?"

To your mother's credit, she didn't punch me in the throat. I love vacations!

"Little wet, little wet," she says, in a voice that is the einsiest, tiniest, itsy-bittiest four or five octaves too high.

"Yep," I reply. It seems like I should add something else, but, as I said before, I got nuthin'.

The ferry picks this moment to blast its horn. I look around, dumbstruck, forgetting where I am for the moment. Then it comes back to me in a flash. I'm in Hell. And not a regular Hell, but a maple syrup swilling north-of-the-border-down-the-rabbit-hole Canadian Hell. I expect Gordon Lightfoot songs over the ferry's speakers system at any moment.

"Looks like we've made it to the other side," Mom says. "Do you want to dig out our rain gear, or should we wait to get off the boat and then pull over?"

I notice that we are HAULING ASS into the dock. It looks like we are about half-a-mile away, but everyone on board has started their engines. I trust they know what they are doing. But it may be that they just want to turn on their heaters. The temperature has dropped from a pleasant 77 degrees, (that's Fahrenheit - in Celsius it would be like 10 kilometers), to a chilly 60. Sometimes I really regret having a thermometer on the Vision's instrument panel. I KNOW I'm cold, I don't need it quantified. And lucky us, the skies are looking angrier and more foreboding with each passing minute.

"Guess we should put on the rain gear but I don't think we have time. Looks like we will be at shore in a couple of minutes. I'll pull over once we get off, and we can put the Frogg-Toggs on then."

Mom nods approval.

*** the journey continues ***

With Enough Speed I Could Make It

*** continued from previous post ***


Finally the line to board the boat begins to move. Slowly. Very slowly. So slow in fact that it made me contemplate if driving a 900,000 pound bike down an incredibly steep slope with Canadians fore and aft was really such a good idea. The brakes on the Vision are great . . . but man, did my legs wear out. I had to paddle that puppy most of the way.

Of course, the insanely steep hill bottoms out and then climbs up an INSANELY steep ramp up to the level of the boat. For a moment I want traffic ahead of me to clear so I can gun this baby. Catch some air. I think if I did it right, hit the angle of the ramp at just the right speed I could probably not kill us.

Probably.

We wait our turn and the Ferry-folk point us to where we should park the bike. The space they have allotted us is maddingly small, and they want me to pull so far ahead that the tire is almost touching the bulkhead. It is then that I notice something is amiss. Something is very, very wrong. The staff manning the Ferry are . . . well . . . there's no other way to put it - they're smiling. Smiling and friendly. Instantly my spidey-sense tingles. It's a trap of some sort, of that I'm sure. I've ridden enough ferries in my day to come to understand how ferry staff should behave. They do not smile. They do not make eye contact. They sigh a lot. They're armed. They have all the personality of a pit-bull PMSing. I tense - just exactly what is your game, Canada? What diabolical schemes do you have for the people from THE STATES? Will they eat us? Are we the 'afternoon tea' for this boatload of maple-leaf worshiping hockey sacks?

Turns out my fears were unfounded. They were just nice. I'm not used to that kind of crap. I find it unsettling.

So we park and mom debikes. Or disbikes. Or crawls off the frickin' thing. Take your pick.

Another motorcycle pulls up behind us. It's a Suzuki S-50. They used to call them 'Marauders', I think. It's quite a bit smaller than an 800cc Suzuki C-50 that you ride - a bullet-proof cruiser if ever there was one - but it is still a good solid bike none-the-less. The person riding it is a young woman, and we find that she is very sweet and very shy. We strike up a friendly conversation, and I can't stop thinking of how much she reminds me of you and how much I wish your sister and you were here with us.


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

A Bevy of Beavers

*** continued from previous post ***


"The boat runs every half-hour. Or every hour." She pauses. "Or maybe hour-and-a-half." She shrugs. "It'll get here when it gets here." She looks at the long line of cars in front of us, and looks and the semi's backing up behind us. "Hope we all fit. It isn't a very big boat."

In my mind's eye I picture a smallish canoe with a Canadian Mountie in the bow, decked to the nines in his traditional uniform. The canoe powered by tame beavers. Now there's a thought: can you tame a beaver? That would ROCK! I would lash like six tame beavers to a rowboat and have them pull me around. Ah someday . . . the good life. What would you call a group of beavers? I think a bevy. A bevy of beavers. A bevy of beavers at my beck and call.

Damn I crack me up.

Mom and I prepare ourselves for a long, long delay. We hadn't figured this little escapade into our schedule, and although it is still early in the day I'm beginning to get a bit concerned about exactly what time we are going to arrive in Carnack, Alberta. We have Glacier and part of Banff National Parks to drive through, and although we will be on the Trans-Canada highway most of the time, I really, REALLY, want to get there before nightfall. For various reasons. Not the least of which is I promised your Mom.

Suddenly the girls let out a squeal. "Oh . . . there's the Ferry Grandma! It's coming!"

I look out into the brilliant blue water and am greeted with a pleasant surprise: There, skimming across the lake, gliding like a back-handed pimp-slap on a sweaty thug's face, is a ferry that looks like it will hold about 50 cars. Plenty of room. It's a one-deck, flat-bottomed craft with an elevated wheel-house off to the right side. Very old school, yet it looks fairly new. I notice it's hauling some serious ass in the water. It is, after all, staffed by the same speed-crazed maniacs that drive the roads around in these parts.

The Ferry is moving faster than even I had realized, and before you know it everyone has bidden adieu to their "line friends", crawled back into their vehicle, and started their engines. Mom and I hurriedly gear up, climb on the bike, and wait for the next phase of our adventure. But you know that odd feeling you get when you've been in line with someone and the conversation has run its course and then you realize that YOU'RE GOING TO THE SAME PLACE SO YOU ARE GOING TO BE WITH THEM FOR A WHILE YET ONLY NOW IT'S AWKWARD BECAUSE YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING ELSE TO SAY?

Yeah. That's how people were looking at us. Like they might just sit in their cars, pretending to be engrossed in what has become the most fascinating steering wheel they have ever seen, in order not to have to notice us standing outside their window. The Ferry, in all its glory, has no seating - no room at all really except for the deck which is now lousy with Canadians.

It takes a bit for the Ferry to unload. There are 18-wheelers. Campers. SUVs. Cars and delivery vans and trucks galore. We even get to see a small rear-end accident between a camper/trailer and a rental car as they exit the boat, so that's a bit of a spectacle. Really - you can't buy entertainment like that. We all slow and gawk as we board. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have giggled like a maniac at the people exchanging insurance information, but what's done is done. You can't put the cat back in the box. It does no good to close the barn door after the horse has run away. Unless you want to spite the horse in case it wanders back. But if you do that, you also need to reinforce that you are spiting the horse, because as you well know, subtlety is usually lost on an equine. It would probably be best to tape a sign to the barn door that reads "I'M LOCKING THE BARN DOOR SO YOU CAN'T GET BACK IN. SO --- FUCK OFF HORSE!".

Seriously, you can't be too blunt with a horse.

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

Chapter 4 - FERRY OF THE DAMNED

* * * after a short mid-winter break, we return to our story with Chapter 4 of the ongoing saga * * *


A few more minutes and we see the sign for the Ferry, and follow the only path available to us - which I now notice is wet - looks like it may have sprinkled a bit in the last hour - and start a rather steep descent towards the lake.

We had been gently climbing for the last mile or two, but I hadn't realized how much we had climbed. We came around a bend in the road, and saw a line of cars parked on the incline, waiting to board the boat. I cruised behind the last car in the queue, turned off the bike and set her gently on the kick-stand. I stayed on the bike while Mom climbed off the back. I didn't want to leave the bike unattended. Did I mention how steep the hill was? Think of one of the hills heading to the waterfront from downtown Seattle. But without the bums. Or the smell of urine. Actually, replace the vagrants with tourists, and the smell of urine with the smell of trees, and the saltwater with fresh water, and the . . . well, this is just getting silly now. It was steep. Let's leave it at that.

Anyway, we are sitting there with nary a boat in sight. Now what?

"I wonder how much this will cost? Not that I really care, and not that we have a choice, but I'm curious."

Mom pulls off her helmet, and attempts to smooth her hair. It is a lost cause. I don't tell her that though, because I like my teeth.

"I don't know," Mom says, "I don't even see any signs listing the charges."
By this time a few other cars have pulled in line behind us. People are getting out of their vehicles, stretching their legs, walking their dogs, and generally doing what people do when they wait for a Ferry. Two teenage girls, carrying a bag of chips, explode from the car behind us and run down the ramp bursting with giggles and squeals to see if they can spot the Ferry. The woman driving the car climbs out, yells after the girls to be careful, then sort of loiters by the driver’s side door. Mom and I give her a quick smile and nod of our heads in a "Look at us, we are friendly American types from THE STATES and will not harm you. Probably. Mostly.", which seems to put her at ease. I hate to generalize like this, but these Canadians are way too trusting. I smell an opportunity. Anyway, she strolls over, gives the bike a good once over and says, "Wow. That is a really nice bike."

I love her immediately. The way to a man's heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a biker's heart starts with "Wow. Nice bike."

The Gathering Gloom

*** continued from previous post ***

Funny thing about what Sweet Alice is showing me. It looks like this road, a very major road by Canadian standards, it about to end. Abruptly. In about 5 miles. (Or about 9 kilometers in hippie-speak.) Directly into a huge lake. I blink, thinking I've seen wrong. No, there is no mistake, the road just ends.

I lean back in the seat, and motion for Mom to raise her visor. "Hey, get a load of this. The road just ends. It runs into a lake."

"Really?" Mom says. "Well, is there another road we can take?"

"Funny thing, that," I answer, trying to mask the panic in my voice, "No. According to the GPS, this is the only road. For like . . . miles."

"Oh," Mom says, with no surprise in her voice. "Is there a bridge?"

I consult the oracle of Sweet Alice. "Ummm . . . no."

I zoom out on the map. There is a dotted line across the lake labeled "Ferry".

"It says we have to take a ferry," I tell her, just as we pass a sign that says "Shelter Bay - Galena Bay Ferry 10 km."

"Cool!" Mom replies and settles back in her seat. She loves Ferries.

"Yeah," I agree, and pull down my face-shield.

I'm thinking that a Ferry ride is going to be a nice little break. And how pretty is this going to be? I mean we are in the middle of INCREDIBLE scenery. There's no wind. The sun is. . . hey . . . where did the sun go? I hadn't noticed that. Ah well, it is still warm.

So there are a few clouds. Big deal. We may get a sprinkle or two. Just a passing summer storm. I'm a Northwest boy. I can take it.

I mean. . . how bad can it get?

Right?

* * *

 
September 23, 2008

Dear Amber,

I hope you enjoyed these installments on what has turned out to be quite a trip. Buckle up - we haven't even reached the good stuff yet.

Oh! I watched “An Officer and a Gentleman” last night. If they try and give you the call sign ‘Goose’, run and don’t look back.

Love you,
Daddio

PS. Your car was stolen and set afire last night. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.



*** the journey continues after the New Year with Chapter 4 - Ferry of the Damned! ***