5.
I’ve got an answer,
I’m going to fly away.
What have I got to lose?
—Stephen Stills (Crosby, Stills and Nash)
To say I feel uncomfortable would be a colossal understatement. Pulling out of the driveway we share with the Fas Gas, my bike is overloaded and hard to manoeuvre, and as I attempt to roll it onto Bow Valley Trail I’m growing increasingly uncertain of my packing job. Kicking a leg over the saddle is a big stretch because of the gear piled on the rear rack, and the whole set-up is heavy and unresponsive as I try to pedal up the minimal incline that leads to the road. Everything wobbles and leans when I’m not centred directly over the wheels, and there’s an unsettling creak coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the bottom bracket when I dig into the pedals. Clearly, I have too much stuff.
It also doesn’t help that it’s Saturday afternoon, warm and sunny, and Fas Gas is one of the busiest stations in town. Looking like an incompetent boob is bad enough when there are no witnesses, but it is much worse when there are. Fortunately, I’m heading south this time and don’t have to endure the indignity of pedalling ineptly across town. A kilometre, maybe two, and Bow Valley Trail turns into Highway 1A and leaves the industrial park at the edge of Canmore, where I can be alone with this awkwardness.
As I pedal past the last of the houses and businesses at the edge of the corporate limits, it’s not long before I’m distracted from the task at hand by three important discoveries. One: inspiration is a naturally occurring phenomenon – sit quietly for a few minutes, and specific answers to troubling questions won’t come, but it’s a good bet a direction to start looking will present itself. Two: acting on that inspiration is hard – as it turns out, thinking about something is easier than doing it. Three: once the initial distress of being pushed out of your comfort zone passes, you always feel better – it might require going out for a drink to calm your nerves, or lying down in a dark hotel room where no one can find you until you get your bearings, but eventually you will feel better. I guarantee it. Now if I could just figure out how to keep the momentum going, I’d be set, but I’ve let the excitement of finally making a decision wane, and for reasons that defy explanation almost a week has passed since I left Banff and came back to Canmore to collect the bulk of my gear.
Part of the problem is that I’m fond of lists. Quite fond of them actually, which is strange because I’m not an especially organized or time-sensitive person, at least as it relates to my personal life. At work I am orderly, punctual and tidy, but on my own time everything falls apart and I become disorganized, lazy and sloppy. My home office looks like a two-megaton book bomb exploded and scattered hardcovers, paperbacks, journals, manuscripts and random scraps of paper everywhere. It’s almost as if my orderly self gets used up between nine and five (or, as is the case for many service industry drones like myself, six p.m. to three a.m.) and whatever is left can’t be bothered. On some level, making a list feels a bit like doing, without the sweat equity investment, and once the lists are done, I’m done.
At any rate, sometime in the spring – right around the time I started thinking about travel as a means of getting a fresh perspective – I typed out a message to myself, in big bold capital letters, that hung at my desk next to the computer all summer long. The list made me feel better and was supposed to inspire action toward the end goal that is this trip, but was, perhaps predictably, already being ignored by the time the ink was dry. It went something like this:
STEP 1 – CONSOLIDATE A PLAN
STEP 2 – ORGANIZE THE GEAR
STEP 3 – DO A COUPLE OF SHORT WARM-UP TRIPS
In August I scribbled in a fourth step in pen, hoping it would help.
STEP 4 – GET GOING BEFORE IT SNOWS YOU DUMB BASTARD
What I should have included early on was a specific date for departure, but I rationalized that idea away by claiming travel would feel too much like just another job if approached too systematically. Turns out I don’t like being told what to do, even when it was me doing the telling, so for most of the summer I didn’t do much of anything to make things easier on myself. As a result, this past week has been a chaotic mess of checking and rewriting lists, idle panic and not much else. If success is what happens when preparation meets opportunity, then I’m in big trouble.
Of all the equipment on these famous lists, the bike has been the easy part. It’s over a year old now but practically brand new because I haven’t bothered to ride it much. It’s just been sitting out on the deck, waiting, because in a moment of impulse I decided I needed a touring bike. I do have a history with bicycle touring, so the purchase was not as impulsive as it sounds. It’s not like I went out and bought a pet tiger and caged him in the spare room. But with the exception of two or three trips to Banff and back, I also hadn’t ridden more than two or three kilometres at any one time in at least five years, so the new ride was not exactly a necessary purchase either. It’s almost as if my subconscious was anticipating an existential meltdown and was predicting a need to return to a more simple and familiar way of approaching life. For me, that means riding a bike.
As kids, my friends and I rode everywhere – to school, to soccer practice, around the neighbourhood just for kicks – and I have had at least eight bikes in my lifetime, including a shiny red machine with high chopper-style handlebars and a banana seat that I got for my fourth or fifth birthday. It was so big I couldn’t ride it at the beginning without blocks on the pedals, and I left a fair bit of skin out on the gravel road in front of the house before getting the hang of things. But I loved that bike; it represented freedom and mobility in a way that my young mind wasn’t yet ready to understand. It was sturdy and it was powerful and, best of all at the time, it was very, very shiny.
I didn’t get serious about riding a bike until I was 15 or 16, when I began thinking about it as something more than getting from point A to point B. In the way most kids that age start thinking about getting a car and cruising around on a hot summer day, I started romanticizing about getting a new bike and pedalling to the next province and then the next country after that. Maybe even to the next continent, eventually. I would buy the latest issue of Bicycling magazine with my paper-route money and pore over the ads as much as the articles. Coveting the bikes and the racks and the panniers in the same way gearheads covet a vintage Dodge Charger. Of course, this was the kind of nerdy behaviour that made people look at me funny and inspired close relatives to wonder out loud what I was going to do with my life, so mostly I kept those ambitions and dreams to myself. When asked what my fascination with the bike is all about, I still can’t manage to explain it. It just is.
So if the bike was easy, then the rest of the equipment has been more problematic. My camping gear was a shambles when I dragged it out from deep in the back of the closet – all worn out or broken down – and I knew I didn’t have a big enough budget to replace everything on the list. My pile of packs was similar, a large number of options and combinations but no best choice. Lately, I’ve taken a real shine to photography, and beyond the fact that a comprehensive selection of equipment suited to shooting wildlife and landscapes weighs a fair ton, jamming it all into a pack that fits on my back and straps onto a bike meant too much time staring down at piles of stuff and cursing. I would fill the available bags, try and get them strapped on the bike and then empty everything out on the floor again in new piles when the whole mess didn’t sit right. And when the set-up was acceptable, it couldn’t be transformed into a practical form for walking with.
Part of the appeal of going backcountry hiking or bicycle touring is the minimalism it requires. Bringing along only what is absolutely necessary for survival, and can be reasonably carried, is meant to rid a person of all the crap that accumulates in closets and cupboards and drawers. Theoretically, freeing oneself from that clutter is meant to help free the mind of cluttered thought, but being unable to achieve that Zen state with my gear, let alone my life, I did what any reasonable North American does in a crisis. I went shopping.
Wandering around Valhalla Pure on Main Street, I probably looked as much like a vagrant as like a guy ready to drop 500 bucks. After quickly putting a couple of maps and a nifty combination emergency-whistle/compass/thermometer down on a discreet corner of the glass-top counter next to the cash register, I began to amble somewhat aimlessly through the racks of expensive new gear. There was a huge selection of sweaters and cozy fleece tops and all manner of high-tech clothing for every imaginable temperature variation, all in a rainbow of colours. There was also a comprehensive selection of climbing gear, books and camping equipment of every description. Not to mention packs and shoes and boots. It was all gorgeous, and a guy could get out of hand rather easily. In fact, I could feel my credit card heating up in my pocket, desperate to purchase unnecessary items. But I had one of my famous lists and was determined to stick to it for once. Everything I need and nothing extra, I kept telling myself. Yeah, right.
After countless attempts at narrowing down a dozen piles back at the condo, I finally figured out that the biggest priorities were a tent compact enough to strap comfortably to the outside of my pack and a sleeping bag that would keep me from freezing to death in October. Sure, my panniers are 20 years old and wearing thin at every edge, and my boots and favourite hiking clothes have seen better days, but the slow accumulation of small tools and miniature kitchen pots and utensils means I might be able to get away with the just the above items. And perhaps, because I’m afraid the beat-up old piece of junk I’ve got will blow up in my face, a new stove.
“Can I help you find something?” Skippy (or Braedon, or Carabineer, or something equally fitting and ridiculous), the young, way too fit and way too energetic sales associate, finally asks after watching me do three slow laps of the store.
“No thanks,” I say. “Just resisting for now.”
Skippy gives me a funny look, then shrugs and continues stocking some recently arrived items in men’s outerwear.
I hate being bothered in a store by the sales staff. I want to take my time, look at everything on offer and weigh the pros and cons of the purchase. I am often afflicted with buyer’s remorse and know I’m going to regret bringing home whatever I purchase no matter how necessary the item. So I need to talk myself into it. That takes time, and when I’m finally ready for help, I’ll ask. I don’t need to be prodded along by someone whose primary purpose is to get merchandise off the sales floor and out the door. I may be a cynic, but I’ve never had a salesperson say, “Oh no, sir, I don’t think that item is right for you,” unless it was to suggest an expensive upgrade. All I ever really need to know when I go in a store is “Do you have my size?” and “Do you take Visa?” Most of the rest of the time I can figure things out for myself, thank you very much.
After cruising through tents for the fourth time, I finally decide on a model that should suit my needs. It’s incredibly compact when packed away, yet surprisingly spacious when pegged up. It’s designed as a two-man, but the active outdoor folks this stuff is built for are often diminutive and lithe, so I always have to add a person to be comfortable. As a bonus, the vestibule is large enough to keep my camera bag, panniers and boots dry through any inclement weather, which is inevitable where I’m headed. I’ve also made a choice of stove, which only took two trips through stoves; a Jetboil that breaks down and packs up inside the cooking pot. It takes up about as much space as a one-litre water bottle and is convenient because no extra pots and pans are required. The fuel canister also screws directly to bottom of the unit, so there’s no tiresome pumping and priming of the stove, and presumably no leaks.
I’m pretty pleased at this point, and all that’s left to figure out is a sleeping bag.
“How’s the bag?” Skippy asks without missing a beat, while on a trip to the stockroom at the back of the store. I’m lying on the floor in the corner, tucked deep into sumptuous layers of 800-fill goose down wrapped in sleek black and silver nylon.
“You know,” I say, a bit surprised, “not bad at all. It’s long enough, and the hood fits well.” I cinch the whole thing up to full mummy mode, so only my face is poking out. Then roll around a bit for effect.
“It’s a bit tight in the shoulders, but overall incredibly comfortable.”
“That one’s rated to minus-seven, but you can tack on a few more degrees if you’re in the tent you were looking at earlier. If you take good care of it, it should last practically forever and…” Skippy’s on a roll, I can feel the pièce de résistance of the sales pitch coming. “… it’s on sale.”
All good features and well presented, and I’m already almost sure I’m going to buy it, but now it’s time to bring the pain.
“How much?” I ask, wincing. Anything this luxurious has got to cost a pretty penny.
“Three fifty, down from 500.”
Yeeooow, talk about sticker shock! It’s more than the tent, for Christ’s sake.
I’m momentarily speechless, but instead of saying something rude when I do come to, I make some quick calculations in my head. Three hundred and fifty bucks is a lot to spend on a glorified blanket, but then again, sleeping outside in Canada in the fall can be a bracing experience. Besides, it’s not always easy to find anything in my size in stock. Usually shoes are the issue – size 13 often only gets one order per style per season, and goes fast – but most items that need to be worn have some kind of awkward or annoying deficiency.
This bag, for instance, really is a little tight in the shoulders when I lie on my side, which is how I usually sleep, but overall the effect is minimal, and without special ordering I’m not going to find anything that fits better. On the plus side, it should be the last sleeping bag I own, ever. If I add the bag to the tent and the stove and a few other small amenities, then I’m over budget by nearly 300 bucks, but I will sleep well knowing my gear won’t let me down. I’m going to regret it on the 20th of next month, when my credit card statement comes due, but I’m going for it, the whole lot. I give a resigned little nod and gather up my loot and make for the cash register. On the way, I realize that Skippy (his real name was Bob or Tim or something, I’m sure) has not been so bad after all. He was helpful and knowledgeable and not at all pushy, and as I leave the store with an armful of stuff I also take away the refreshing feeling that I haven’t been had, or at least not completely had.
So after repeated forays to town to have a good look around and clean up the final details prior to departure, I think I’m ready to go. It took six days instead of the intended two, in part because I still can’t wrap my head around the idea. It seems that without the bolstering effect of adrenaline and the soothing touch of alcohol, there are moments when it’s hard to accept an extended bike ride as the best choice of activity for a proper adult. In the sober light of day, I’m finding it difficult to admit that this is what I most want to do, right here, right now.
Still, there’s no denying I’m sick and tired of working day after day for nothing more than a paycheque and am similarly uninspired to plan my retirement fund or build a small business out of my writing and photography. All the things I’ve been programmed to want as a grown-up person simply don’t hold much appeal. I just want to go out and do. I want to go and see what’s out there in my special little corner of the world. But it all seems a little ridiculous as well. Turns out I feel like a fool not so much because I’ve packed poorly, but because I’m a grown man who’s putting his life and his future on hold to go for a bike ride. What am I, 17 all over again?
• • •
Fortunately, it doesn’t take long to clear town and start to feel more confident about my decision. It’s a gorgeous day, and apart from a few small stones and the occasional scattering of gravel on the shoulder, the road is in pretty good shape. Traffic is almost nonexistent. One car in either direction every five minutes, tops, and after a couple of kilometres the angle on the Three Sisters changes significantly. Even though I’m just underway, I can’t resist the urge to pull over and take a picture. From home I’ve got an almost perpendicular angle of view on the mountain formation, but as I gradually travel in this direction the three distinct peaks are lining up in a row, smallest to largest in a roughly east-to-west orientation. I’m also slightly higher up the valley wall now, and that meagre shift in elevation results in a remarkable aspect change. I realize I don’t get to this side of the valley often. I’m also reminded that I’m very lucky to live here, because it really does take only 15 or 20 minutes in any direction to get an entirely new perspective on my surroundings.
Barely clear of the incorporated town limits, I’m also finding it unusual to feel suddenly so free and unreachable. Detaching from the grid, with no phone and no email, and indeed no radio or anyone around to talk to, can be disconcerting at first. After a couple of pictures, a few notes in my notebook and a moment of pure awe as I take in the beauty of a flawless fall day, I’m suddenly uncomfortable all alone with myself, and I hope for a vehicle, or better yet another cyclist, to come along. But looking back the way I came, and then forward toward where I’m going, reveals only an empty highway, and I can’t help but laugh out loud. I’ve stumbled and bumbled my way through months of dreaming and awkward planning, only to experience, within a half an hour, a bizarre longing for the security of everything left behind. Even without any direct intrusion at this moment, the sensation of the modern world being out there is unshakable, and I’ve yet to grow accustomed to this new-found silence. And I suppose that is not so strange, all things considered.
A long and deeply ingrained history of increasingly constant contact is a byproduct of our industrial and electronic ages, and does not easily switch off. But a funny thing happens as the minutes begin to tick away unnoticed and uninterrupted. As the background hum of civilization fades, a quiet descends and you eventually realize how long it’s been since you actually stopped, took a deep breath and listened: not to the voice programmed to execute a well-laid plan for social and economic success, but to the one yearning for more personal and intimate truths. Strip away the external noise, and you have to pay attention to something deeper and infinitely more profound than skyrocketing housing prices, idle gossip and the price of gas at the pump. Eventually you begin to think about the important things sitting at the back of your mind that nag and linger and simply don’t go away. I suspect that this quiet corner is where art and poetry and music come from, and paying attention is probably the first step on the road back from who you’re expected to be, to who you really are.
The thing is, coming face to face with your true self can be a scary proposition, so I quickly pack up my camera, jump back on my bike and try to shake off the idea that I might eventually have to learn something out here. Part of me thinks that a mindless, booze-soaked week at the beach is a much better idea than a month-long, effort-filled journey of self discovery, where I may not like what I find. As I continue to ride with no great urgency, I grudgingly accept that taking a vacation from everyday life is going to produce some uncomfortable moments, and as the miles slowly accumulate, the cap that keeps everything in its proper, orderly place is slowly going to rattle free. As time and space lose some of their shape and structure, there will be days where none of this makes any sense, and others where all those bits and pieces will come together in a singular moment of clarity and purpose. Then, inevitably, it will all come apart again, like so many fall leaves scattering on the wind. I guess that’s one of the great joys and terrifying challenges of solo travel: having the opportunity to be open to the place you’re moving through, and to the pure thought and real experience that come with it.
Practically speaking, these early days will also mean getting used to the small details of touring, and for the moment I’m grateful for the distraction. For example, my seat post needs to be raised slightly the next time I stop, to take some pressure off my knees, and sooner or later some of the heavier items in the front panniers are going to have to go in the back because steering is a bit unresponsive at the moment. It will also take a few days of experimenting with different set-ups for the gear strapped to the rear rack before it all sits properly. But although it is excessive, the load is manageable. I’m also noticing a subtle yet encouraging shift in how my legs feel: a bit of strength has returned. I can’t push with any force for long without gasping for breath or noticing the burning accumulation of lactic acid in my thighs, but I can push hard in short bursts, a good indicator that my former level of fitness is willing to at least try and make a comeback.
Swinging east around the southern end of Grotto Mountain, I have a couple of minor hills to contend with and often a resident flock of bighorn sheep to navigate around. The animals are by no means tame but are habituated to humans and are drawn to mineral licks near the road at fairly regular intervals along this route. Today, the usual spots early on are abandoned, however, so I pedal through, a little disappointed. Farther along, on one of the short, steep downslopes before Exshaw, I’m chugging away without a care in the world when I notice a dramatic change in the handling of my rolling rig. Suddenly, I’m back-heavy, and the rear of the bike wants to fishtail left, then right, then left again. Glancing over my shoulder, I notice the rack is hanging precariously off the back end. I’ve had this happen once before and realize quickly that four adjustment screws have come loose and the weight of the equipment has dragged everything back along the two stays linking the rack to the frame. Everything is still attached, but just barely, and I am travelling at 50 kilometres an hour!
It’s the kind of situation disasters are made of, but fortunately the trouble is at the rear of the bike, not the front. The worst that can happen is some damaged equipment getting scattered across the road. Maybe a few broken spokes if something gets caught in the wheel. I suppose there’s an off chance a loose strap could get tangled up in the brakes, the seat stays and the rapidly spinning spokes, inducing an inconvenient skid that would lay me out on the pavement, but I’m slowing down quickly, and as I glide to a stop on an old driveway that now seems to lead nowhere, I realize this could have been much, much worse.
Years ago, I rode through the Coast Mountains. I was bombing down into the Pemberton Valley in BC after a long slog up and over the pass on Highway 99, coming from Lillooet. The road was steep and wickedly fast, and near the bottom it was full of switchbacks. As today, my bike was fully loaded and not easy to manoeuvre at high speed, but I was feeling full of piss and vinegar after stomping up the mountain and was probably a little more tired than I was willing to admit. I managed the first few tight corners with ease and was amazed how quickly the bike gained momentum in the short straightaways between turns. I would hammer the brakes and then dive into each bend before accelerating out again simply by releasing the calipers on my handlebars. There was no traffic, and it was fast and fun.
Then, coming into a long, sweeping left-hander, I quickly realized I was in trouble. Lulled into complacency by the relatively gentle start of the turn, I had left the braking until too late, and the shoulder was covered in a fine, loose gravel. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out I was travelling way too fast to make it around, so I pulled the brakes as hard as I dared and tried to ease away from the danger of the ditch. Or more accurately, manage the danger. Fortunately, it was a shallow ditch with an easy ride in so I did the only thing I could and followed momentum into it.
There was actually a point where I thought I was going to make it out in one piece, escaping with no damage to body or bike, and with an exhilarating story to tell. Then the ditch narrowed abruptly. The last thing I remember is the front panniers getting wedged into the narrow space before being unceremoniously ripped from the bike. The panniers flew past in a blur, accelerated by the fact that I was launched over the handlebars and was travelling in exactly the opposite direction. It was one of those split seconds that are amazingly fast while still playing out in that strange kind of slow motion that has an underwater quality to it. One pannier flew by, followed closely by the second, and the thought Hey, why are my handlebars below me and not in front, where they belong? Wait a second, am I flying? flashed across my mind.
Then everything went dark.
The next thing I remember, amazingly, is hauling my bike into the woods five minutes later. There I was, stumbling around like a punch-drunk boxer, trying to hide evidence of the accident before anyone happened along, hoping against hope to sort it all out and carry on. No harm, no foul, as they say. Thing is, my helmet was smashed, and my front wheel looked more like a figure eight than a circle. The front panniers were easily ten feet away and ripped up so badly at key points that they would not attach to the front rack anymore. Clearly the bike was unrideable, and I wouldn’t have been able to ride it safely even if I hadn’t just mangled the entire front end (it would be over a month before I noticed that the head tube was bent where it attaches to the down tube, effectively reducing my wheel base by about a quarter of an inch).
After getting everything safely stowed from prying eyes, I finally began to properly come to. That entire ten minutes, from accident to full consciousness, is still just a couple of vague snapshots on the otherwise blank canvas of my memory. I was standing on the far side of the ditch with a pannier in my hand, wondering, What am I doing? And why am I hiding my gear in the woods? The human psyche is a bizarre thing. I wasn’t frightened, or shocked at being in an accident (but looking back, was probably in shock). I wasn’t worried about getting to a doctor, or even upset that my bike was bashed half to bits. My biggest concern was: Did anyone see that bonehead move? I was embarrassed at having been in an accident that was clearly my fault, and my first course of action, executed before I had even completely regained consciousness, was to try and minimize the fuss. What I wanted to do in my addled state was sit quietly and get my bearings, then pack up again and continue as if nothing had happened. A pretty strange reaction, when you think about it.
Fortunately, as my neural pathways began to rewire after the massive short circuit that is a knockout, it dawned on me that I was in no state to do anything except get to a hospital. So I began unpacking my stash from the cover of the woods. Just as I was dragging my bike back to the side of the road, a pickup truck happened by, headed down. I jumped out of the ditch to flag the driver, probably using my cracked helmet as makeshift signal, and as the truck slowed to a stop I poked my head in the open passenger window.
“Hey,” I said a little wildly. “This is going to sound a bit strange, but I think I’ve been in an accident. I don’t know what happened, exactly…”
I paused awkwardly in mid-sentence as a few more neurons made the leap to functionality, and realized I didn’t know what province I was in, let alone what town might be nearby. “And I don’t know where I am.”
“Pemberton is just up the road,” the guy at the wheel said hesitantly, as if I was putting him on. “If that’s any help.”
The bit of information did connect a few more dots.
“Yes, yes, okay. That makes sense. I was coming down from Duffey Lake and ended up in the ditch.”
I took a minute to process the options going forward, something that would have taken a minute at the best of times, and I’m sure I was mumbling under my breath as I replayed recent events to try and get them straight. I probably didn’t sound completely sane, because nothing in my head would travel in a direct line and only parts of sentences were being vocalized.
“Say,” I finally said through my mental haze, “do you think you could drop me at a hospital? My head’s not right and I’m not sure I can make it on my own.”
I also waved vaguely at my gear, as if it was a clear explanation of everything, but it seemed to be enough.
“Sure,” the guy said, “there’s a clinic in Pemberton. Toss your stuff in the back.”
“Thanks,” I said, greatly relieved he didn’t make fun of my foolishness. As if crashing my bike was a direct indicator of my worth as a human being.
In the end, all was well. I didn’t make a lick of sense in the truck on the way to town, and the doctor added a concussion to the growing list of sports-related injuries in my medical file, but by morning my head was clear enough to continue, and the local bike shop went above and beyond to make sure my equipment was also ready to go. I pedalled the short distance to Whistler cautiously and then navigated the old Sea to Sky Highway all the way to Vancouver without incident.
This time, as I make my way around Grotto Mountain east of Canmore, the unexpected interruption of a speedy downhill is far less dramatic. After wrestling the bike to the shoulder and affecting the appropriate repairs, I’m back on the road, and about 45 minutes after leaving Canmore I pull into the hamlet of Exshaw before stopping at the Heart Mountain convenience store.
I must admit I have a soft spot for little places like the Heart Mountain store. They have “character” as opposed to “style,” they have junk food and they have interesting people passing through. What is most compelling about these kinds of shops is that they remain in the spirit of the small independent corner store – or general store, as it was known in the days before franchises began dominating the retail landscape. I’ve noticed this is becoming something of a rare breed in North America, but those that remain are places for browsing and marvelling at unusual combinations of products and services. Some are even hanging on to the idea of being a meeting place.
Many of the mom-and-pop shops of old were community centres in addition to places of commerce – a stark contrast to today’s big boxes, built on vast wastelands of pavement, designed to move deeply discounted and/or grossly marked up luxury goods. One is an experience of sights and sounds and smells, and the other is a sterile transaction, in my humble opinion. What is that annoying tag line again? “Save money, live better”? I’m always amused by the insinuation that saving money is the deciding factor in a happy life. And all this time I’ve been wasting my energy caring about people and ideas, misguided soul that I am.
At any rate, I’m not sure I’d enjoy working here at Heart Mountain every day, but it’s still a great place to people-watch if you happen to be in the neighbourhood. Even before they reach the door, you can almost pick out which customers are going to be demanding, polite or troublesome, and it’s a pleasant experience to just sit outside for a while, taking it all in. As I relax into it, the warm Indian-summer sun shines with muted intensity, the high, wispy clouds drift by in a pleasant lazy fashion, and I notice that from here, Heart Mountain (the mountain) looks very much like a Valentine’s Day rendition of a heart near its peak. After a while, I step inside to purchase two “mountain size” Kokanee cans, a small bag of cashews and a crappy prepackaged sandwich for dinner. The purchase stretches the absolute upper limits of my already strained packing system. I’m forced to jam the beers into the spare shoes dangling off the pile on top of the rear rack, and only hope I remember to rinse off the cans before putting the aluminum to my thirsty lips later this evening.
Another 20 or 30 minutes will get me to Bow Valley Provincial Park campground, where I plan to spend the night, and I find I’m anxious to get going now. I’ve had an encouraging tailwind and have spent the comfortable afternoon in shorts and shirtsleeves. Most of the stress that has been accumulating this summer is gone for the moment, and I’m curious about what I’m going to see in the coming weeks. I find I’m feeling a measure of cautious hope as well. Although it doesn’t look like it yet, winter is coming, and with it snow and cold. Maybe the bad weather will show up next week, or maybe it will hold off at the lower elevations until the middle of next month, but it is coming. It’s impossible to know how far I’ll be able to go before the weather turns, but I feel like it will be an interesting adventure as I make my way to finding out, so I pedal off not so much in a specific direction but toward a place in time I have no control of.
Near the junction of Highway 1A and Highway 1X, I slip from the shadow of the mountains and am now staring at the edge of the foothills as they roll and gently fade away onto the prairie. This is the only real horizon anywhere close to where I live. I suppose I could just keep the wheels pointed east and would be home at my parents’ home in Morin-Heights, Quebec, in about a month, if I really pushed it. A difficult trip, but doable, although in order to make the distance I’d have to dump about three-quarters of the junk I’m hauling around. The wind kicks up, as if encouraging me to give it a try, but I realize that suffering and ambition of this kind will have to wait until next time. I am gently reminded, however, that there is something compelling and inspiring about wide open spaces, and it can be easy to forget that these kinds of big spaces and persuasive journeys are here, and there, and everywhere, really. It also dawns on me that I’m now officially back out in the wider world, and I can’t help but wonder what took so long.
• • •
It is said that he who ignores history is bound to repeat its mistakes, and there certainly are plenty of difficult moments from the past that had uncertain outcomes but predictable consequences. The Great Depression comes to mind because it is followed over the decades by any number of depressions, recessions and “market corrections” that have caused untold hardship and stress. I only mention it because I’m not sure I’d even be out here if my steady and well-paying job didn’t make me nuts, but the economy, though volatile and unpredictable, appears to be the number one measure not only of an individual’s place in society but of society itself. Just because I’m not savvy in the ways of the dollar doesn’t mean money shouldn’t be our most trusted appraisal of how things are going, but I do have my doubts about how well it evaluates “quality of life.” And when the economic bubble bursts again, will we have the right to act surprised?
Cautionary tales aside, ignoring history also means missing the opportunity to be moved and inspired by those who have gone before. Prior to relocating to Alberta, I had an idealized and somewhat naive view of the mountain West. I saw it as an escape to simplicity in an uncrowded, wide open environment where people kind of did their own thing at their own pace. I probably watched too many Westerns on TV as a kid, but in my mind’s eye I saw the Eastern Slopes of the Rockies as a rough-and-tumble kind of a place, where a man could challenge his wits and endurance in a vast natural setting. In Alberta and Montana, a man could fall in love with being out of doors, and inspiration and beauty meant more than careers and possessions.
Lately, however, I’ve been feeling a bit hoodwinked, as even my anonymous little town appears to be turning into nothing more than another outpost of commercialism and growth. Being unable to articulate why I came here to begin with, or express what I really believe is going to happen if we continue forward unchecked, has kind of poisoned my soul. I spend too many of my days waiting for the other shoe to drop, and that’s not healthy. Yet accepting everything that’s going on around here as normal and inevitable feels too much like giving up and giving in. As a college-educated white male with a good job and the appropriate amount of personal debt, I may be complicit in the system, but I do not believe in it. It is not a path that soothes the soul.
The Reverend Doctor Chief John Snow, an accomplished leader from the local Stoney Nakoda First Nation, cuts through the mire swirling around my mind in a few simple sentences:
These mountains are our sacred places. They are our temples, our sanctuaries, and our resting places. They are places of hope, a place of vision, a place of refuge, a very special and holy place where the Great Spirit speaks with us.
Hallelujah! Snow was a controversial character around here, no question, and like so many political leaders was accused of using his power and influence for personal gain, but I believe that the spirit and power of those words still resonates, even if they were too carefully chosen to serve his own needs when he spoke them. Chief John Snow lived most of his life on the Stoney Nakoda reserve just to the east of here and passed away in 2006.
After negotiating the obnoxiously long access road leading to the actual tent sites at Bow Valley Provincial Park – and getting stuck in a crappy hookup site in an open area away from the water because of all the car campers taking advantage of the last long weekend of the season – I shed my gear, set up my tent, eat my sandwich and wander down to the river with my beers to watch the sunset. The campground is full but not as noisy as you would expect. The season is winding down and everyone appears content to let it go quietly. If it was the May long weekend, there would be pickup trucks and beer coolers and portable stereos going full blast. As it stands, it’s couples and families and campfires, and that suits me just fine.
Along the river, there’s a nice walking path that runs the length of the campground, and at odd intervals a cut in the bank drops down to the water’s edge. I pick one at random and find a suitable log for wasting away the final two hours of the day. The Bow is about 40 metres wide at this point and drifts by at a sedate yet powerful pace. Yamnuska is there, directly across the river from my perch, and with my telephoto lens I imagine I can pick out a few of the climbing routes up the famous crag, but can’t be entirely sure. At odd intervals, trucks rumble by on their way to or from the Graymont and Lafarge plants along the 1A on the far bank, filling the air with the heavy drone of rubber on pavement, but the sound dissipates quickly into the surrounding forest. Every once in a while, somebody walking a dog passes by on the path behind me, and just before the sun drops behind the mountains to the west, a pair of kayakers drifts by and stops chatting just long enough to wave. I wave back.
In the stillness after the kayakers’ voices follow them down the river, I listen for a continuation to the lessons hinted at earlier in the ride today. A successful trip will not be x number of miles covered or y amount of peaks bagged, but success could be defined by days filled with challenge and effort, followed by evenings of relaxation and reflection. Lately I’ve been noticing that I don’t even know what it looks like to live in that kind of calm or exist with that kind of certainty of purpose. To just be and do is as foreign to my psyche at the moment as German or Japanese or Mandarin would surely be to my ears. But I know that some of the answers on how to achieve a level of peace and purpose are out here, and even though it’s going to be an awkward search, I will find them. I realize I can’t go back empty-handed. I won’t go back empty-handed.
In Sid Marty’s book Switchbacks, about his life in the Rockies, he captures the essence of this feeling quite eloquently at the end of the first chapter. In that final paragraph, he’s looking back at a younger, more innocent and perhaps naive version of himself: one who, in a fit of youthful exuberance, is determined to “climb that peak at the end of the valley,” and who thinks that “if you could do that, you would learn something about life and about yourself that could be found no other way.” I’m not young, innocent or naive anymore, and I’m not a climber either, but I understand. I’ve experienced the same certainty and sense of accomplishment in my own visions and in the subsequent efforts designed to make those singular dreams come true. The point, I think, is not to achieve the goal but to undertake the effort that is most a reflection of you. The rest will take care of itself.
Tim Cahill, in “Professor Cahill’s Travel 101,” explains that in all adventures there needs to be a quest, a reason to step into the unknown, and that these days we all get to be the protagonists in our own mythologies. The trick is simply to figure what your quest is and then go. I guess mine is to retrieve the feeling Marty talks about in Switchbacks, and I want to retrieve it because it belongs to me. Maybe if I’d been a little wiser in my life choices along the way, I never would have got so lost, but I can’t change where I’m at any more than I can change what I want. My rational mind still resists this idea of wandering somewhat aimlessly through these mountains, but instinctively I know for sure that I’ve got to do something worth believing in, even if it appears at first glance to be pointless or irrational. It might be that I have to do it because it’s pointless and irrational. Maybe I need to do it because my life needs some life.
So, as brown trout and mountain whitefish surface to strike at caddis fly larvae and insects unlucky enough to fall in the river, I realize that a driven man overcomes all obstacles, a smart man avoids the obstacles in his path, and a desperate man does the best he can.