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Cranbrook, October 21
3:56 p.m.
George always shows me to my room, always gives me a piece of German chocolate as a complimentary gift.
This is my third visit to Cranbrook, and each time, I’ve stayed here at the Elizabeth Lake Lodge. My window faces a bird sanctuary and lake that are backdropped by the majestic Kootenay Rockies. I find the sight beautiful and inspiring.
A bluish-white hue tinges the mountain range. Jagged, snow-capped peaks thrust so high up they seem to pierce the cloud streaks.
I hear it’s quite empowering to climb a mountain and stand there at the top, looking down at the world. The few mountaineers I know have told me it can be a life-changing experience. One day I’d like to give it a try just to see if I feel the same way.
I turn from the window and set my watch to reflect the two-hour time difference. Back home, it’s closing on six o’clock. Heidi will have the girls fed and is probably cleaning up.
I haven’t decided whether I’ll call tonight. Maybe I should wait. Give Heidi a time-out. She might calm down and collect her thoughts. Come to understand she’s overreacting.
Still, I wonder if I’ll go back to an empty house.
I imagine she’s rifled through my office by now, possibly even my dresser drawers and coat pockets. My computer is password-protected. Even if she could access it, I’m careful to delete my browsing history. It’s a good thing I keep these journals in a safe place, one Heidi would never think of.
I always bring them on my business trips. Some evenings, alone in my room, I’ll add entries. Other times I’ll just sit, reminiscing over ones already written, reliving the experiences captured in them. They help flood my mind with euphoria, send soul-deep waves rippling through my body. It’s the next best thing to being there again.
I unpack my bags and put everything in their proper order. This is a ritual I go through after I arrive at a hotel room. I’m not one to live out of a suitcase. The very idea of it seems so chaotic.
I hang my wrinkle-prone clothes in the closet. Line up my toiletries in the bathroom. I leave my underwear sealed in Ziploc bags. I have this weird aversion to using dresser drawers in hotel rooms, no matter how clean the place is.
Shrugging on my coat, I head outside to my rental car. I have two stops on my agenda. First, I want to pick up a set of trekking poles. Second, I want to have a good meal. I know of a Mediterranean restaurant that serves up some mean couscous crab cakes.
Cranbrook isn’t very big. They call it a city, even though it’s no bigger than many towns I’ve been to over the years.
The drive to the downtown core takes only a few minutes from the lodge. I stop at High Country Sports, a modest store that sits beside the desolate Armond Theatre. I’m not sure how long the theatre has been closed down, but the for-sale sign I saw during my last visit still graces the front window.
I go into High Country. The clerk behind the counter is a teenage male with an emo haircut—long black hair highlighted with purple bangs. He wears a gray hoodie that has the words Life is dumb and I want to sleep printed on the front. As I walk past, he seems more interested in his cell phone than me.
I find the trekking poles at the back of the store. The selection is adequate. I’m specifically looking for two-section aluminum poles. They’re stronger and can hold up to a little abuse. The carbon ones can’t take much of an impact. One good whack, and they’ll break or splinter. I found that out when I was at the Riding Mountain National Park a few years ago. Aluminum will just bend on you but can be straightened.
I use poles on my hikes only once in a while. It depends on the terrain. My bum knee flares up if I trek up steep elevations for too long. And I know Kimberley Nature Park has some challenging spots.
“The Black Diamonds are on sale,” the kid calls over. “Comes with three pairs of feet.”
I look at the ones he points out. Carbon shafts with cork handles. Not what I’m looking for.
“Have any aluminum poles?” I ask. “Two piece. Not three. Not the folding ones, either.”
“The folders are the most popular.”
“Not really what I’m after.”
He puts down his phone, comes over. “There should be some Trail Pros left.”
I watch him dig through the selection. Eventually he finds the brand at the back. He hands them to me.
It’s an attractive set. Black aluminum shafts with foam grips and red straps. It’ll be a shame if I have to throw them away.
“Are these on sale?” I ask.
He nods. “All the Black Diamonds are. Twenty percent off.”
“Perfect. I’ll take ’em.”
“Right on, man.”
He rings in the cost at the till. I pay him with cash.
“Would you like to join our customer rewards program?” the kid asks. “You can get up to twelve percent back in store credit.”
“How do I do that? Fill out a form or something?”
“Just leave your name and phone number. Or email, if that’s preferable.”
I don’t even give that a moment’s consideration. I always like to keep a low profile, not leave a trail behind for the wrong people to pick up on. That’s why I pay cash whenever possible.
I politely decline his offer. He hands me back my change.
“Have a good day,” he says.
“You too.”
I walk outside to my car and place the poles on the backseat. I feel those couscous crab cakes beckoning me from across town.
Tomorrow, I’ll have a full day of consulting with Flatbow Lumber. I plan to get up early and jog the trails through the bird sanctuary.
On Saturday I’ll drive north up to Kimberley Nature Park. The forecast looks promising: sunny, with the temps rising to twelve degrees by noon. Perfect hiking weather. Not too hot. Not too cold.
Maybe it’ll get people out. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time.
Third time’s the charm, right?
That’s the eternal optimist in me speaking. I always look on the bright side of things.
