Canadian Travels

 

This is a Canadian morning: sunny-side-up, dressing of mist, and a lake which is not optional. Crossing Canada west to east, I camped by water most nights. Even the Alberta prairies had cow ponds. On one of the two long days it took to cross those prairies, I moved in tandem with a thundercloud running ahead of me as if it were the gingerbread man calling out, “Catch me if you can.” The vastness of the land under an uncatchable cloud made me meditate on larger things—of men unrestrained by wilderness, of women following, and the courage of both. I camped that night on an island in a lake with the sun dropping red through smoke from fires further north. 

When I prepared for this Pacific coast to Atlantic coast trip, I considered a plethora of hazards and emergencies. I packed foul-weather gear, bought two brands of tick and mosquito repellants, and even purchased a smoke-repellant mask for my dog. But I was most worried about the hazard of not “seeing” the country I was to cross. Of fussing about the miles clicking by on the odometer and of arriving each evening weary and late at a reserved campground. I waylaid this worry by advance study. The Lethbridge train trestle (highest and longest train trestle of its kind in the world) is an example. 

I camped that night on the edge of Lethbridge in a most unremarkable campsite, but with a host, who when I mentioned my interest in the bridge, enthused about the it and how to access it. I might have been tempted to go to bed early and see nothing remarkable, but instead I headed out to find the trestle. 

The trestle’s construction reminded me of those antique Meccano child’s construction sets but upscaled to a giant’s play. The train trestle fit the range of the land and welded with my pondering the willingness of humans to go into difficult terrain and make things happened.  

The endeavor to connect eastern to western Canada with train tracks and a highway were engineering feats. Later in the trip, as I passed rock walls with their evidence of blasting, I wondered how much dynamite built these corridors. And how many lakes they avoided. And how many trees were felled.

Although most of the trip was seen at a large scale, I also looked at the eye and macro level. The wider vistas needed something to ground them. Some days I stopped to hike with Chester and some evenings, I wandered campgrounds and took photo shots. I especially loved the curls of white birch bark. And the bird in the bark.

Short hikes brought me other views. Whispy grasses on the edge of a lake.

Chester’s view of Canada was mostly by smell. His nose led him to a Newfoundland, who was also named Chester. Their connection brought me to a most wonderful Canadian. Hearing him speak of playing hockey, of his cabin near a lake, and his devotion to his now deceased wife—who had endured a long illness, tallied with my image of Canadians—of their tenacity and grace under difficulties.

I am sure this leg of my journey will remain in my mind fondly.