Thursday 11 August 2005 - UP TO BANFFFFFF!
From Maycroft PRA to Castle Mtn CG
We wander away from Maycroft north on the Oldman River, back into the foothills, up a wide coulee with classic meandering stream rolling around in it — oxbows and crescent lakes and cutoffs, like the Mississippi on a tiny scale. The top of the coulee is lined with birch and beech, with a dark conifer forest on the hills above. We pass farm- and ranch-steads, with blue skies behind us and a few scattered cirrus clouds ahead. Aye, a lovely morning.
GOVERNANCE: A few weeks ago I saw a notice of the Einstein Awards, commemorations of stupid deeds and utterances. George Bush recieved the prize for the most stupid utterance: "Our enemies never stop thinking of ways to destroy America, and neither do we." Canada got a special award for having the most stupid government. It's a wonderful place to be, with a high standard of living and nice people, it's just like the govt does very stupid things, such as buying a fleet of used submarines without inspecting them thoroughly.
There's possibly no connection, but a current controversy in New Zealand questions the legitimacy of its government, due to the way that independence for New Zealand and Australia and Canada was devolved from the mother country, rather than being won in a clean break, In this view, Canada and Oz and EnZed are not truely sovereign states, still subject to (dominions of) Great Britain, and thus do not qualify for membership in the United Nations, nor recognition by other nations. Nor, since their basic charters of law have not been ratified by their peoples, are their governments or courts legitimate.
But Canadians are not generally a rebellious people (see yesterday's notes), so this point probably won't be fought out here, even though Canadian courts HAVE invalidated over a century of laws because they were written only in English. And lack of legitimacy doesn't seem to bother the Bush regime nor the Murkan people too much. Ah well...
But the rebels do exist. We passed a wheeled billboard near a ranch-house saying MORE ALBERTA, LESS OTTOWA. (for more, click on AlbertaAgenda.Com) There are rebels back east too. During our long-ago trip to the Maritimes we saw flags flown over houses. Some flew a Union Jack, desiring re-union with Britain. Some flew a Fleur-de-Leis, showing their allegience to France. And some few flew the Maple Leaf, actually expressing Canadian identity.
LIVING HISTORY: Alberta's Hwy 22 is the COWBOY TRAIL. Along the way we stopped at the BAR U RANCH National Historic Site, a living history ranch with the old original building in place, filled with costumed working interpreters-actors portraying ranch life of long ago. The BAR U was formerly frequented by the Sundance Kid, Charley Russell, the Prince of Wales (King Eddy), and Annie Oakley and Rin-Tin-Tin for all I know.
But guess what? It seems that our National Parks pass doesn't work at National Historic Sites. And we didn't feel like paying an extra $13 to wander around the pigsty and horse pens. The cafeteria food smelled good; a bowl of soup is $9. Now, if it was 9 pesos, fine. Ah well, back to the pretzals and those nice juicy grubs and slugs.
At Longview we pass our first oil well and IAN TYSON'S NAVAHO MUG coffee shop, and the FOUR WINDS Restaurant. G'z, was Ian from around here? Don't see him listed in the guidebooks. Then there's the big trash can painted I AM CANADIAN.
After Longview we turn away from the Cowboy Trail for the road to the Kananaskis Country, supposedly a prelude to Janff and Basper, er I mean Banff and Jasper. We cross a cattle guard, which around here is called a Texas gate, and which is indicated by what looks like a Mexican TOPE (speed bump) sign. Same symbol, different structure. And a Kananaskis Country sign proscribes NO HUNTING WITHIN 365 METERS OF HIGHWAY. Maybe Canadian bullets don't travel that far?
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MY CABOOSE: Just before that first Texas Gate we saw a caboose. I mentioned that I'd like to have a caboose. Hey, I could turn that into an office and library. Then Maureen would *never* have to see me. No, we don't have space for a caboose (detatched or otherwise) at our Sierra Nevada house and there's definitely no room in Bisbee, so we'll have to get a large southwestern property and build a large Spanish hacienda-style house with the caboose attached. The car's end would be stuck in right through a wall so its rear platform and steps are inside the house.
To begin planning, we'll build a scale model of the grand hacienda (Spanish-Mexican with a hint of Pompeii), and get a kit model of the caboose. and stick them together and see how they look. When we're up in the North Country, we'll have some weeks to while away, waiting for the budget to catch up with us. That's a perfect time to build that model. (Maureen laughs.) Oh darn. I didn't bring our 3D house design and landscaping softwares. Note to self: pack those for next long trip (per Maureen's suggestion).
The caboose's inside walls can be lined with bookshelves and trimmed with elegant rustic decor; my computer desk will be up in the cupola, elevated, where I'll have a grand vista of my domain. Lord of all I sees, yup. Command location. Whatever.
KANANASKIS: Up into the Kananaskis a little bit, glaciated mountains all around us, and a few cattle walking down the middle of the road. Well, why not? They live here. But they're not quite as spry as those in Mexico.
Just entering Peter Lougheed Provincial Park, we're in a classic U-shaped glacial-carved valley with steep forested rocky walls on both sides. The trees are in parallel vertical bands, spaced not too irregularly along the mountainsides. Looks like the barer areas in between these forested bands are slide or avalanche zones, giving the huge terrain a strange intentional effect.
The strata in the Rockies run every which way. Here they're level, horizontal. Otherwise they lie at 30° or 45° or 70° or 90° angles, or corkscrewed and whipped around. Ergo, these ancient Front Range sediments have really been pushed out of shape.
Now a herd of Rocky Mountain Sheep occupy the highway, kids and does and young bucks out in the middle of things, licking the asphalt, passed by Grey Line tourist buses with student drivers. And aways further a brown canine crosses the road. Maureen says FOX. I say COYOTE. The guidebooks don't mention foxes around here, so maybe I'm right.
Beyond are more wild (but human-tolerant) sheep herds in the road, followed by warning signs for mountain sheep crossings and elk crossings. No notice of squirrel crossings; I guess they're on their own, them and the wee least minks that eat them.
Proceeding: this Kananaskis Country is all a string of provincial parks, so we can't just pull off on some logging road and set up camp. Travelers are funneled into the pay campgrounds. I'm gaining an aversion to Alberta's money traps. Pay $17 to $27 for a parking space stuffed away under a dark forest canopy? Right. And something else I don't like — Swiss-style crap (look right).
Theme song for today is Johnny Horton's NORTH TO ALASKA (Go North, The Rush Is On) backed with (When It's) SPRINGTIME IN ALASKA (It's 40 Below). By the way, that's a very bicultural song, because 40 below zero is the same temperature in both the Farenheit and Celsius scales. Now, that works biculturally but not triculturally. I mean, you could SAY that in Mexico, but it wouldn't mean anything. "40 below? What you mean? 40 below what? What you talking about? There's nothing 40 below nothing here!" (Maureen laughs.)
PORCUPINES? We pass Porcupine Lake. No warning sign for porcupine crossings. We'll pass Beaver Lake and there will be no beaver-crossing signs. Now, back in California, around Morro Bay and San Simeon, they have warning signs for Sea Lion Crossings. On the highway. THEM, ya gotta watch out for, but you can smell them coming. But nobody cares about the poor porcupines and beavers. Run over'em if you want to.
At the gateway to Banff we fuel up. Petrol is getting dear here, 95.5 cents a liter. We get into the town of Banff, a very upscale resort-looking place where the pedestrian cross-walks have timers showing how many seconds you have left to scoot across the road. A fancy town filled with scruffily-dressed people. Maureen says it looks like Interlaken, Switzerland, except the shop windows are filled with expensive American stuff instead of expensive Swiss stuff. (Is most of that 'American' stuff made in China?)
And on the north side of Banff, a warning for PASSAGE ANIMALS SAUVAGE, savage animals crossing, with pictures of a moose, a bear, a wolf. Those savages! But no beavers. And then there's the equestrian crossing, but they're probably insured, not like the savages.
Also just outside Banff, our first elk sighting — not in the middle of the road this time. And we're going through nice mountains but there's almost no snow on them. Has global warming melted away everything already now?
OUTA BANFF: We've given up on looking for campgrounds around Banff town. I blame bad vibes. And for some reason, my sense of direction, which is usually pretty good, is all messed up this afternoon and evening. Yeah, bad vibes. Maureen says it's not bad vibes, it's just that I don't like these toothpick larch forests. Sacre bleu!
We pick a campsite at Castle Mountain, where the road from Radium Hot Springs joins in. We're accosted by another camper, a Floridian artist who travels to places like this to offset his income, writes the trips off as travel expenses. But he's in a tent. Kinda cool and damp here for that. A nice heavy rain this afternoon — a regular mountain occurance? Whatever. Tomorrow, Lake Louise.
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SWISS CRAP: I don't like these Swiss-style lodges — pale, flat-sided cuckoo-clock Hansel und Gretel lodges with cutesy paintjobs — so damn wimpy. (Maureen laughs.) I didn't like 'em in Waterton, didn't like 'em in Tahoe, and I probably wouldn't like 'em in Switzerland even.
Western-style lodges with big tree trunks and massive stones, great big manly things, THOSE are good, but not this cheezy Swiss shit. I want something sturdy, something some Norse god might have chewed up and spit out, that's what I like. Big logs, big rocks. And asymmetrical, it helps if they're asymmetrical.
Next time I see one of those Swiss lodges I'm gonna ask'em where they're hiding the St Bernards and the brandy. And the chocolate. And the cheeze. Yeah.
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Friday 12 August 2005 - BANFF TO JASPER!
From Castle Mtn CG to Wilcox Creek CG
Whatever the hell day it is — oh yeah, the 12th, Sharon Leslie's birthday, she's a year older than me today, for three months and three days. We're out of camp mid-morning, past Lac Boom towards Vermillion Pass on The Road To Radium; but we won't get to Radium, we'll stop at the portals of BC's promised land and then turn back. For we have other fish to fry, or trails to tread, or vistas to miss, or whatever.
Back down from Col Vermillion, north past Escarpments Castle (heavy French accent — Maureen laughs), escarpments towering 1/2 mile above us. If we ran the buffalo off that, there wouldn'tbe much buffalo left to pick up afterward, notes Maureen.
It's a crisp day, snow at the mountaintops, clouds hovering above, clear-ish right overhead. We're trying to say funny things to each other in cartoon French accents. Sacre bleu!
LAC LOUISE: We're now at Lake Louise, crowded with tourists; the lake a pale turquoise green hued by finely-ground "rock flour"; the glacial cirque of clouded Mount Victoria behind to the southwest flanked by pare peaks. It's alright. At Lac Louise, canoes rent for $35.00 per hour. I wouldn't pay a psychiatrist that much. Hopefully, I don't need one that much. Here is the vast French-style Fairmont Chateau, with prices to boggle the mind.
At the next attraction, Moraine Lake, the water color is a deeper turquoise blue, different and lesser amount of rock flour precipitated in the solution. Lac Moraine, is less frenzied, less crowded, no tour buses, a steeper road to get here. Canoe rentals are the same. We should have brought our little raft from the RV. But then we might be attacked again by moraine eels.
At Bow Lake, between Lake Louise and Jasper, we stop to look at a glacier, and a Clark's Nutcracker jumps on the door and yells at us.
EVENING: The drive through lower Banff park, from Banff townsite to Lake Louise, is OK. North from there it gets pretty spectacular. These deep glaciated valleys and wide wandering braided rivers, and the wild plants and animals and waterfalls. Zowie.
Late afternoon we pulled into a fairly cheap Wilcox Creek campground just below the huge Columbia Icefield. It's rather sublime here, just across from Mt Athabaska. We hope for more so tomorrow. Or maybe we'll lay over for a day, take a rest. Yeah. It's high and cool here, something over 7000 feet, the highest we're likely to get in the Canadian Rockies. And down to around freezing tonight.
This is bear country but they're smart enough to be lower and warmer, raiding beehives and trashcans in more temperate climes. Raven-like birds here screech oddly at each other — at first we'd thought that someone's pet peacocks were loose. Slow fat mockingbirds walking around, ignoring pestering by three kinds of squirrels.
The fridge crapped out again. Maureen had a few drinks and read the manual. I had a few peanuts and grabbed the tools. We tore off the outside cover and peered in and found all sorts of debris blocking the burner. Clean it off, put it back together, and VOILA! it works. Now we needn't go to Edmonton for repairs. Whew.
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WARDENS: Canadian parks seem to have wardens, not rangers, and they seem to keep a low profile, rarely seen. They're not the gun-toting patrollers of US national and some state parks. Maybe they're not beset by rowdy hoardes of brutish (sub)urban slobs who think of parks as a good locale for bad behaviour, as in the states.
Come to think of it, we haven't seen any RCMPs yet. About the only uniformed presence we've noted are the ticket-checkers and toll-takers at park or major campground entrances, and they're sometimes in mufti. Canada seems to be much less of a police state than the US, yet more orderly. Hmmm...
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Saturday 13 August 2005 - HANGIN' IN JASPER!
Recuperation — But I Walk to Icefield Center
Layover day at Wilcox Creek, just inside Jasper National Park of Canada, just below the Columbia Icefield. Maureen sleeps late; I take a good walk up the Icefield Highway past sublime scenery, tons of traffic and a bus-filled parking lot.
The Columbia Icefield Chalet is a rather large structure; the main floor contains a gift shop and desks for information and for purchasing expensive ticket on the SnoCoaches, buses that ride on the nearby glaciers; an eatery fills the upstairs. It's now noonish Saturday and this place is jammed and bustling. It looks and feels like an airline or railroad terminal but with less luggage being hauled around.
Nearly half of the bustling hustling hoardes appear to be Japanese tourists. The majority of the rest are older Euro-Anglo types. Nobody here has very dark skin. The crowds are quiet; the hubbub is minimal; possibly the soundproofing is excellent.
This chalet really is a giant fully-equipped bus station. Visitor can be and are processed by the thousands. Scores of buses are parked here, close to 100, drivers lounging around and smoking and/or talking.
I've walked the few kilometres from our camp to the Icefield Center and back, along the highway. I tried going along the stream running down the center of this narrow canyon but the picking is a bit difficult. On my stroll I was passed by possibly 5-6 bicyclists. There were three other walkers, a couple of young Japanese guys and a girl. Otherwise there've been thousands of cars and buses and campers. I would expect no less, midday Saturday.
Dozens of vehicles are parked at the entrance to the campground. A trailhead, leading off 4.5 kilometers to Wilcox Pass, or 12.5 klicks to somewhere else. Also nearby are hikes up steep grades to alpine meadows and waterfalls and the toe of the Athabaska Glacier. My four miles (six klicks) has been far enough for today. The hikers' vehicles mostly have local plates (lots of rentals) with others from as far away as California, Utah, Ontario, Rhode Island. I predict that sales of DEET in local shops are booming.
RETURN: I return, clean up, rest. Maureen sits outside reading TRAILS OF A WILDERNESS WANDERER about southwest Alberta. A young Chinese woman approaches, asks if she can plug her camera into our power to recharge. Sure, no problem. I wander out to join the conversation. Sheena is delightful and smart. She's originally from Beijing, now in a local university working on her masters in marketing, and hopes to live and work in Calgary. We talked of life and travels etc. She fetches us lamb kebabs and beer to thank us for the battery charge. NO PROBLEM! Then she's off for a hike while we ponder what to do tomorrow.
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CHINA: From Sheena we learn that many middle-class Chinese seek to gain Canadian residency and/or citizenship, not because China is bad, but because international travel is much easier with a Canadian passport. And we learn that the cost of living in Chinese cities is very high, maybe twice Canada's rate. Sacre bleu!
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Sunday 14 August 2005 - GET OUTA JASPER!
Wilcox Creek to Bear Lake, Alberta
I arose very early, while Maureen slept, for a fast hike up to Wilcox Pass. The air was clear and crisp; the first rays of sunrise illuminated the glacial peaks to the west. I had gone about a mile and rounded a turn into a small clearing when my heart stopped. On my left, about 20 yards away, stood a dark cinnamon-colored brown bear. And just entering the clearing on my right, maybe 30 yards away, came a larger, greyer grizzly bear. Both bears saw me. I thought I was doomed. I knew better than to run. But, utilizing my hard-practiced mastery of ventriloquism, I threw voices and induced each bear to believe that the other was directing crude jests, curses and insults at the other. They engaged each other fiercely and I was able to slip away and retreat to our campsite.
GLACIER EXPRESS: After Maureen awoke she pan-toasted a passel of blueberry bagels for breakfast. We headed fairly early up the Icefield Highway to the Columbia Icefield, mother of four glaciers whose meltwaters are destined for the Pacific, Arctic and Atlantic Oceans, the latter via Hudson Bay. We ascended the steep trail to the toe of the fast-receding Athabaska Glacier and came to the edge of the ice. I walked out onto the glacier about a meter or two and quickly discovered the glacial ice to be very slick. I could not nor did not skid far, only a meter or two. The sun intensified; the glacier brightened; thus the surface became even slicker. Had we lingered, I'm sure we would have seen busloads of Japanese tourists (whom we passed as we descended the trail) slipping and sliding all over the glacier. Beware the crevasses.
We stopped below the glacier and I walked a little ways up the terminal moraine. No moraine lakes here, hence no moraine eels. Whew.
We continued north on the highway, stopping at several viewpoints to view various glaciers and mountains and trees and riverscapes, etc. Leaving one viewpoint, we witnessed the result of incautious driving: a rolled-over rental passenger car, smashed against the road- and mountain-side. Four people were sitting or standing, the sitters holding their heads. None seemed seriously injured. We stopped to inquire if help was needed. No, help was on its way; but I was admonished by a standee for taking photos of the scene. Tough. I should have taken more, to sell to image-hungry media outlets. Ah, the driver was paying attention to scenery and not the road. Tsk tsk. Maureen wondered how much of which insurance coverage was being carried, and whether the driver must now buy that rental car.
STURM UND DRANG: A bit further, and we were enveloped by a loud, tumultuous, tempestuous storm: heavy rain, high winds, terrified squirrels being shaken from tree limbs. To the west below the road, the braided glacier-melt stream became a braided, meandering river, a wide, sturdy river of the palest blue, surrounded by dense dark forests overhung by steep rocky cliffs, glacially-scoured mountains, and yet more effusive clouds. After a half-hour of torrential deluge, we despaired of seeing any sights around Jasper townsite. But then we emerged from under the storm cell. Ominous clouds hugged the mountainsides and valleys ahead, but here and now, everything is beautiful.
Next stop, a major tourist attraction: gnarly Athabaska Falls. The mighty 300-meter-wide Athabaska River is forced into a rocky chute 10 meters in width, into a steep, sublimely precipitous, heavily-sculpted gorge, with much spurting and spraying and splashing and cavorting-about by the water. Many nearby rocks exist, upon which one may climb, from which one may fall into the surge and be dashed to splintered blithered fragments. BUT NOT I!!! NOT THIS TIME!!! HA HA HA!!! Well, OK, I *did* climb out there, but not *too* close to the edge.
We roll into the town of Jasper under a soft cool rain, low shadowy clouds — I think this is what Vancouverites call the evergray. I'm sure that at another time, with different atmospheric conditions, this would be a visual delight. But not now. So we roll out of town, and as soon as we do, an expensive rear hubcap falls off. Those things aren't supposed to fall off. Just had those wheels inspected a few days ago. Those guys at Big-O Tires in Mucktown, mucked up. I'll call my attorney — wait, I don't have an attorney. I'll call my avenging angel. I'll call their hotline — hey Maureen, that's a good idea!
LEAVING JASPER: So we're now aimed downhill, out of the Canadian Rockies. We must return sometime when it's not so overcast and raining, when the air is warm. Wait, this is midsummer — when CAN we come back? We saw warnings for caribou crossings but we haven't seen Caribou One. Yet nor Moose One. Yet nor Timberwolf nor Rocky Mountain Goat nor Wolverine nor Porcupine. I feel ripped-off. Does Parks Canada have a hotline I can call?
For the next attraction, we approach Maligne Canyon, Wicked Canyon, 160 meters deep and narrow enough for an average squirrel to leap across. NATURE AS YOU'VE NEVER SEEN HER! And yes it's true, it's the tightest slot around, not like Reno. (This refers to all the casino billboards there proclaiming LOOSEST SLOTS IN TOWN, which we usually translate as LOOSEST SLUTS and make wry, disparaging remarks about the casino staff and habitues.)
We have dropped out of Jasper National Park of Canada (it's official name), following the mighty Athabaska River and the long long lakes thereupon, railroad tracks over on the far side, too-too-twains tooling along towards twilit townships or whatever. We're still in the Front Ranges of the Rockies; the signs say Yellowhead Country. Yellowhead Pass is behind us somewhere, the Yellowhead Highway is what we're on.
SUNDAY EVENING: We've driven across rolling prairies and hills, through vast very-green muskeg-boreal forests, yada yada. We stopped in a small city (Edson) to pay a horrendous price for fuel — the drive-thru of Banff and Jasper, 333 miles, cost CA$120 (US$100) for gas. No cheap food here either, not even the generics. Now we're at Bear Lake Park of Yellowhead County, and we are indeed parked right at the lakefront. And the atmosphere has been damp all afternoon, and it is dampish and cool now, drizzling even. And now we wonder just when we'll get to see some sunshine again?
Evening on the lake. Squirrels chatter at us, the loons laught at us, the wolverines hiss at us. Good thing there are no bison around; who knows what they'd do? The Canadians camped here are so quiet, not that this is actually the most inviting weather for hanging around a roaring campfire and telling lies and singing, remembering past hockey and curling triumphs, whatever. The park is rather full. It's a family campground. Kids were running about yelling and doing other noisy kid stuff, before the onslaught of darkness. Wild canines howl. Good night.
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Monday 15 August 2005 - GET OUTA ALBERTA!
Bear Lake CG to Demmitt Alberta
MORNING: We are yet parked by Bear Lake. Rain fell off-and-on through the night. Rain falls more heavily now. We see and feel a slight water leak through the air-conditioner housed in the center of the roof, the air-conditioner we have never used. Last evening, as alluded to, we reprovisioned at a Safeway market. The least expensive, most cost-effective items we purchased were US-grown carrots and locally-grown animal flesh.
We bought chicken legs. The chicken legs existed as wrapped packaged objects before we became aware of them. They existed as potential food before we saw them, touched them. We saw them; the price seemed right; we purchased them. They yet remain potential food. We determined that the best (most cost-effective) way to realize their potential would be to start a campfire and roast them all at once, not expending our purchased propane. We arrived at this campground where, unlike the national parks, there is no surcharge for building campfires, and the firewood is free. Yet the cooled, wrapped chicken legs only remain potential food. This does not seem like a good day to go outside and cook them on a campfire, not while the rain yet falls heavily.
We have not seen a day without rain since we entered Canada. Have we had a day without chicken? Probably not. The squirrels now are not chattering, the loons are not laughing, the wolverines are not wheezing. I don't know what the bears or bison or musk-oxen aren't doing.
NOONISH: It's noon and we're pulling out of this [expletive deleted] wet campground on this [expletive deleted] wet day, [expletive deleted] wet rain drippin' all [expletive deleted] over us. Welcome to [expletive deleted] summer vacation, [expletive deleted] Canada-style. But we're not angry.
We roll across the countryside, muskeg forests, some of it cleared into farmland, most not. And we consider the countryside, and we consider the weather (which is several more days of rain) and we figure, "Well, the Slave Lakes are out." Going to the closer of them. means sitting in rain for the rest of the week and we can't see anything until then. And the further of them is a long long distance and we're only halfway across Alberta so far. So we're diverting to the Yukon. Bugger. Northwest Territories, not now. So in a couple years we'll be back with a bigger budget, and we'll go out to Hudson Bay and do all the Great North here. But not this time, dammit.
Meanwhile we see a helicopter. Yes, those are in Canada too. (Maureen hits me.) As well as Safeway. Oh yeah, don't forget that the PM is Paul Martin. What can we blame on him?
I should note that with Canadian fuel costs so high, to keep our fuel expenses as low as possible, we keep our speed low. So we're going to Yukon and Alaska at 40 mph (65 kph). Hey, we're doing SIXTY FIVE! Klicks, that is.
Just outside the town of Fox Creek, heading towards the campground at Smoke Lake, I log my first moose sighting. She gallops across the road on a crest ahead of us. But the campground sucks. So we roll across the vast slightly-rolling flatness of the high prairies; it's enough to fall asleep on. Finally, a bit before Grande Prairie, we come to the notable valley of the Smokey River. At least it's something we can dig into, because we must, because that's where the road goes. Meanwhile, a nice thing about crossing the Alberta prairies towards Brutish Columbia is that the storm system is getting higher and the clouds seem to be thinner and lighter. Is there sunshine ahead?
EVENING: We stop in Grande Prairie for some shopping and fueling. CostCo exists here! But we skip the Cheezies. It's evening, not quite dark yet but we're still driving. We're out of Grande Prairie a few miles and TWO moose run across the road, Mere et Bebe. They're pretty big and they're running pretty fast. In the far lane of this divided road, Mere held up traffic for Bebe to cross safely.
In the town of Beaverlodge we pass a giant statue of a giant beaver, sponsored by Northern Bottling Group — makers of Beaver Piss Beer? BEAVER WATER! It's what you get when you squeeze a beaver. Enough of that. And just past there, a fenced field full of fulminous ELKS. With antlers. Dozens of'em. Much smaller than the giant beaver, though. There's a sign: PLEASE DON'T CLIMB ON THE BEAVER. I didn't see any warnings about not climbing on the elks, so that's OK.
We finally pulled into a little town campground, Demmitt Alberta. It's cheap, just off the highway, free firewood. We lock our doors; we don't want no Alberta Chainsaw Massacre here. We're somewhere north of Goodfare and west of Valhalla. And we had to bypass Sexsmith. No sexes to be smithed tonight, none.
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Tues 16 Aug 2005 - INTO BRUTISH COLUMBIA? NO.
Layover in Demmitt Alberta, at the BC border
NOONISH, we crawl out of the RV in the cheap township campground in Demmitt Alberta and start a fire. Maureen, Goddess of the Holy Flames, remembers her Girl Scout lessons well. The chicken cooks exquisitely. No bears to be seen, just brutish campers. The border is near. I split firewood, mighty blows struck with our midsize axe. The birds sizzle; the first batch in the heavy covered Celphalon frypan is done. We devour, grunt, drop the bones back in the fire, wipe our greasy fingers on the wet grass (Nature's HandyWipes, sez Maureen). Life is good, almost brutish. No rain yet today.
Later, we've decided to layover in this park whose fitful fields are filled with fruiting fungi. Big honkin' hongos (mushrooms) EVERYWHERE! But are they safe to eat? Are we brave enough to experiment? Are we broke and desperate enough to try them, sauteed in chicken fat (Jewish penicillin) with carrots and risotto'd with Uncle Ben's? Probably not.
Aaargh. My old tiny Sony Vaio laptop (GINOME), upon which I compose these texts and store our pictures, had a near-death experience last night. Guess I'll have to transfer everything to Maureen's newer tiny Sony Vaio laptop (GAZELLE) which means building the network and doing non-creative tasks. Bother. I already moved the website stuff, and porting all the pictures will be tedious but straightforward. But transferring the mail system to another machine, including a few years' worth of old emails, will be bothersome. Sigh. I'd rather eat unknown mushrooms, almost.
EVENING: I did the computer brain transfer, most of it. Sure hope the new mailsystem works. Oops, still gotta get the FTP settings. Then old GINOME can be put to pasture. Meanwhile, we skipped the mushrooms for dinner, so we yet live. But since Maureen did the firework, I get to do the dishwork. Today's theme song: Frank Zappa's CAMARILLO BRILLO, in honor of my scrubbing. Tomorrow, we're on to BC and maybe Yukon even, entering another exciting phase of this monumental trip. No, wait — Yukon is too far for one day.
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