Down from the Mountains

The sun is shining on the icicles hanging from the roof as I make my way out of Gary's cabin in snowy Rossland. The icicles are also hanging from the back wheel of my bike, souvenirs of a slushy journey. I grab a coffee and directions at the bakery then hit the road.

One more high, snow-covered pass after Rossland, then down to the river valleys of the southern BC interior. This is Highway 3, the forgotten highway, and the road conditions show it. Lots of potholes and broken road, but not too much traffic and a very folksy charm to the surroundings. Like Coral's Cabins, the size of half a one-car garage and painted a bright lemon yellow, likely by Coral herself. My favourite real estate ad: "Spouses with Houses" a husband-and-wife realty team. My first thought was, too bad they don't get along well enough to live in the SAME house. The weather got quickly warmer, the roads dryer. Moving into cattle country with pines at the heights of the low mountains. As the hills got lower, the gas prices got higher. Must be some kind of connection.

I drove into Surrey around 5:30 p.m. and couldn't find a place to park around June and Dave's place. My family has an almost religious connection to their cars. What a warm welcoming. And the twins are here, too. Now about triple the weight they were are Christmas and babbling away. They can really hold a room.

Time for some family visits and maybe that historic interview with Mom that I always tell OTHER people they must find the time for.

A Surfeit of Weather

There’s a saying in Alberta. If you don’t like the weather, wait half an hour. It will change. On this day of travel, I have to amend that saying. If you don’t like the weather, drive for another half hour. Sunshine, rain, flurries, deep snow, then sun again. It certainly holds your attention. As does the landscape changing from flat sepia prairie to cold green mountains then white. Renee and Tristan made me a good breakfast, then saw me off at nine. They’ve got dreams and yet a very practical nature. I wish them well.

I stopped in Nanton for a hot chocolate and a phone call. It’s 70 degrees in Newport Beach. Minus six outside the café. I’m travelling the right direction. Just outside Pincher Creek, I stopped for gas at a Mohawk station and met Fiona. Same name as the princess in Shrek, but she’s more reminiscent of the after-dark version. Quick smile and big heart, too. She told me of meeting a trucker from Virginia who saw the beauty inside, I suppose. Now, she’s looking at real estate in the American south online and looking younger than her fifty-plus years any time she mentions Mr. Virginia. Told me of a surprise visit he paid to her cabin in February. Just walked in one night as she was in bed reading a book. Her first thought, she said, was that the gun was in the kitchen and she’d be fighting someone off with a paperback. Not much of a weapon.



Then it was into the mountains and the snow. My poor bike will never forgive me. The back wheel sticks out beside the truck and quickly became encrusted with ice and snow. I tried wrapping it with a garbage bag, but then it becomes a sail that seems determined to take the bike on a different journey.
It’s a long drive to Rossland from Calgary. I don’t envy Gary making the trip all the way from Winnipeg. But here in his cozy cabin, I can understand the appeal. Snow everywhere, so the ski runs that are half a kilometre uphill from here must be wonderful. No time to check them out, however. June has a big dinner planned for me tomorrow night. So, a quiet night ahead in a cabin with no phone and no internet. Then a good sleep and a drive to the coast. Hope I’m through the worst of the snow.

On the Road

Oh, wait, someone already used that title. But here's the thing. I'm about to climb into the room that's left inside my little Tracker and hit the road. So it's official, kind of. The sabbatical has begun. And soon my brain will accept that. It's a blustery day in Edmonton, so that's a good omen, I suspect. Though I'm hearing stuff about the road to Calgary - my first stop - that's not reassuring. I will travel carefully. Renee and her partner Tristan have promised me a meal and a bed this evening and a chance to catch up on a niece I've not communicated with for far too long. So it's the kind of warm start that seems most appropriate.

The First Lesson

A six-month sabbatical is kind of like a vacation on steroids. Which may explain why I was expending so much energy this morning to get things done so I could get on the road so I could relax. But a sane voice that I barely recognized intervened to say: "You've got six months. WHY are you rushing around? Doesn't this time belong to YOU?" At which point, I called my niece in Calgary to ask if dinner tomorrow night would be okay instead. She laughed. The wisdom of youth. But it does point out how responsible I feel not just to my job, but to a clock and a timetable. That's the first thing I have to discard. And I know it won't be easy. In any case, I geared down, read for a bit, sipped on a beer and made plans to get out of here tomorrow with a cool head and all the stuff I might have forgotten had I started my journey today. This gets easier, right?

The Journey Begins

The calendar says so, but my head is still in the old reality. Wondering if I need to set my alarm to wake up to the workaday world. It's the night before the first day of six months of wandering and wondering. I'm in the middle of my life, if those scientific projections on longevity come true. I've got more possibilities in front of me than my mind can encompass. And I don't know whether to be excited or terrified. I think I'll be both.

There are still many loose ends - mortgages and real estate closes and documents and divorce details - but I think I can drive away and let them fray. I KNOW I have a dinner invitation tomorrow in Calgary. Then I head for the hills. There ARE plans. A hike here, a drive there, a tropical adventure south of all that. And many, many hours with a woman I love. But there are many empty spaces to fill. And that feels curiously satisfying.



I've always had a restive relationship with improvisation. My brain needs to plan. My heart trusts my ability to cope with and enjoy reality one moment at a time. It's long past time the two of them came to an accommodation. Perhaps that will be the real treasure unearthed by my sabbatical.

I can't count the number of people who've said I deserve this. And I believe them. At which point, I usually say EVERYONE should get six months off every five years. I believe that, too. Perhaps this experience - and the sharing of this experience - will make that come true. But, for now, come travel with me.