Then the rains came, and my last day in Whitehorse was something of a wash, literally, a slog through the bog. I resolved not to let it ruin my schedule, though, so dutifully got out there to see anything remaining to be seen. That includes the world-renowned salmon ladder, which during the spawning season must be a real riot to watch, fish fighting the forces of Nature to get upstream merely for the sacred purpose of reproduction. When they get there- IF they get there- they’ll drop trou, drop eggs, and then go limp till rigor mortis kicks in or some enterprising homie decides to make fish stew while the sun shines. This makes shooting ducks in a pond look difficult. Too bad the meat is not much good by that time. At least the ladders give protection from the bears, who KNOW to hang out at the cascades and catch the fish during those long flying leaps of faith upstream.
Long Lake is also not far away and nice enough- especially on a sunny day I’m sure- but other than that, there aren’t many sites left to see… except the log cabin three-story ‘skyscrapers’. Okay, so that’s that, but that’s okay. It’s better to stay in a place a day too many than a day too few, especially a place you’ll likely never see again. Then you can start to act and feel like a local, finding a coffee house to call your own and a cute little barista to chat up. There’s even ‘Art in the Park’, featuring stellar musicians for lunch, in this case one Lawrence Graf doing classical guitar versions of such standards as ‘Hot ‘Lanta’ and ‘Rock ‘n Roll Hootchie Koo’. It doesn’t get much better than that.
There’s a lot of nice visual art here also, so I go scour a couple thrift stores and pawn shops looking for buried treasure, just in the remote chance of finding some interesting native artifacts, in a place where ‘Indian pawn’ is not a standard commercial lure… all to no avail. The sun finally comes out late in the day for one final appearance, so that’s a nice send-off. I’ve got a 7am flight to catch on a day when the sun never really sets, so… catch sleep as catch can. Everybody comments on my funky flowery shirt. Have they never heard of Hawaii here, or have I worn it too many days?
For once my Air Canada flight seems to be operating on time and on schedule. I wish I were, these long interminable waking hours something like jet lag without the long flight or time change, just the inability to feel in sync with myself. From Calgary’s international airport I catch a shuttle straight to Banff town in Banff National Park, where I’ve allowed myself a couple days, and then several more days right outside the park at Canmore. I might have allowed more time in Banff itself, except that Lonely Planet and others have lambasted its commerciality so thoroughly, somewhat unfairly I’d say. I was expecting golden arches galore along with all the barkers and colored balloons, but it’s not like that at all. It’s mostly a numbers game, the numbers being some four million a year touring through for their nature and northern fix. It’s not distasteful, though, nor are people processed unmercifully. The locals are nice as they can be, and to criticize it for merely being what it is seems somewhat elitist. It’s no more of a zoo than Berkeley, CA. Would you bash Berkeley for having too many students?
These same LP guys probably go straight to Khao Sarn Road in Bangkok, then Koh Samui down south, then Pai up north… and think they’ve found the Promised Land. Don’t get me started… Truth be told, Banff is probably no more my cuppa’ tea than it is the LP guys’, but I don’t see any need to cop a ‘tude about it. If it’s paradise for some people, then more power to them, no reason to piss on their parade. It compares favorably to many places in Colorado, and Europe, too, for that matter. Go a block off the Miracle Mile and you’re back in a 50’s neighborhood, and go a half hour and you’re alone in the forest; don’t forget the bear spray. If you still don’t like it, then go to Jasper. You’ll probably be back. Some people LIKE crowds, you know? Ni hao; ni hao ma? And don’t forget a highway runs through it, too, Hwy 1 from coast to coast, and a railroad, too, not to mention a river.
Actually I pretty quickly got a WTF attack myself , as in ‘WTF am I doing here… in Jellystone Park… me and a bear named Yogi and a dog named Boo?’ The Yukon is one thing- that’s otherworldly- but this is not. This is all TOO worldly and I’m wishing I could drink, maybe even get drunk, or at least cop a buzz… but my doctor- ME- won’t let me, not yet anyway, so that’s that. And THAT is what there is to do in the Americas, for me as tourist anyway, without the thrill of exotic culture to get lost in. In some exotic cultures you don’t dare drink- not alone anyway- for fear of what might befall you in your drunken reverie. So I start re-shuffling my schedule to cut my time here in Banff and lengthen it in Calgary. There I’ll try to find somebody selling off their 4-day music festival pass, or… maybe go home early. Even the daytime tickets are long gone now, and somehow it seems silly to sit in Calgary for five days, by some accounts the most boring city in the world. Till then, though, I’ll see what the park has to offer, got a tour to lakes Louise and Moraine today, no more $ than the cost of a Greyhound, really…
And they’re nice, two of the nicest smaller lakes that I’ve ever seen in the world. Actually my first introduction to the Canadian Rockies was in the Cindy Walker song, singing about Lake ‘La-weez’, and that’s not a bad place to start, nor is ‘Four Strong Winds’ by Ian Tyson a bad way to go for the region in general. The region DOES evoke that long lost lonesome feel, man yodeling his way through Nature with not much more than a guitar and a song. The Natives are strong around here, too, one of the main groups apparently a remnant from the Little Bighorn, ‘fleeing a cholera epidemic.’ I bet they were fleeing more than that. Still it’s nice to see the Plains style in all its glory, beadwork and buckskin.
Canmore down the road just may be the Goldilocks resort town of Alberta, not too touristy, not too boring, juuuuust right, something like Flagstaff to Banff’s Aspen, the place where locals come, those who don’t care about shopping, the rarefied atmosphere of exclusivity, or the picture postcard poses with Nature. Apparently ‘Canmore’ is a Scots Gaelic name meaning ‘Big Head’ so that leaves some room for linguistic speculation. So there won’t be as many foreign languages here or Asians taking pictures of each other, but that’s okay, isn’t it? This is hiking and biking country, more trails than there are streets, more animals than there are cars. If you want to look at snow bunnies styling and profiling, looking at themselves while they’re looking in your eyes, then go back up the road to Banff. This is a place to talk trash over lattes, compare high country notes, maybe plot a revolution or two. And here we’ve got REAL bunnies, more later…
Unfortunately Canmore’s second-tier status as a high country resort doesn’t necessarily guarantee lower prices, though you might save a nickel or a dime over Banff. I don’t stay in fancy hotels- not when I’m traveling alone, anyway- so can’t really speak to that. The hostel’s more or less the same, except less crowded, so less gridlock in the kitchen. Bunk beds are nicer, too, real 2x heavy lumber, none of that squeaky creaky aluminum. Actually I don’t mind some random nighttime squeaking. It’s when it becomes regular that I worry. Milk prices here are as high as gas. So now I know why they confiscated my cheese at Toronto airport earlier this year. There’s a golden opportunity here for cheese smugglers, could be the biggest thing since cigarettes. At least the cherries are cheap, and good, too, around two bucks a pound, must be right in season, much later than the US. I haven’t eaten so many since Lupita and I picked them semi-professionally down in Hood River, OR, back in ’82, I believe it was.
Unfortunately my laptop doesn’t like the router here at my hostel in Canmore, so that’s good in a way, get off the Facebook intravenous injection for a change. So I take a long hike in the countryside, along the Bow River. I’m worried about running smack into a hungry bear, one accustomed to Twinkies, but that doesn’t happen. I DO see an elk doe, though, so that’s nice. The most interesting ‘wild’ animal here, however, are what seem to be feral bunnies. That’s bunnies, not rabbits, that seem to have found themselves a little evolutionary niche here. It must have been one lonely Easter… and the moon was full… and the rest is history. They escaped and just started doing what they do best. By the time I return my feet are killing me, my foot issues not helped by cheap-ass hiking boots.
Still I could use a beer. That’s what’s missing and the main difference since my last real North American travel some years ago. The micro-brew and brew pub movement is one of the happier events in American culture over the last twenty years, not to mention the entertainment that goes with it. Could you imagine going to Ireland and not drinking? Just imagine one of those thick black stouts, with a foamy head that’ll slide up to you for a kiss on the lips while you drink, then go right back to cover the goods and keep them fresh while you wait…
As it is I’ll have to make do occupying myself with mental character sketches of all the characters here in the hostel, including many Quebecois, the cute little one on Skype all day, the girl on skates, and guitar-boy, leading the pack in old Beatles songs until the wee hours. Who’d’ve thought kids would still be learning by heart and taking to heart these old songs that meant so much way back when? Leave it to the Quebecois, and their huggy-kissy lifestyle derived from the French. They’ll survive the Apocalypse that we Germans have been working on for a millennium or so. They cluster-flock so tightly that you can’t move around the kitchen. Don’t they know that too many cooks spoil the broth?
So now it’s on to Calgary, the big question being whether I can find a ticket to the Calgary Folk Music Festival or not. It looks pretty grim. Trying to finagle an early return to the US doesn’t sound much fun either. So I’ve got the classic Hardie K travel solution- book a rental car and head to the outback if all else fails. You gotta’ be creative. Now where are those dice?