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

*** continued from previous post ***


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 ***

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 ***

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 ***