Rocky Mountain High

It’s now been three days since my last entry (although it may be more when you read this since my computer can’t hook up to the hotel wifi to post it), and three days feels like an eternity ago. Admittedly, I have to check my Google timeline to even remember where we began and where we ended. It has all blurred together at this point because we are moving forward so fast. But I am appreciative now for a comfortable bed and easy day so I can journal my thoughts.

Monday, August 13th 2018
The dingy hotel we spent the night at in St. Cloud didn’t provide us much (read: anything) in the way of breakfast, so with a quick Google search we found ourselves at this cute little independently-owned Waffle bar called Waffle-It. If you ever find yourselves in St. Cloud, Minnesota and are in need of a reasonably priced, delicious breakfast, and like waffles (because who the hell doesn’t like waffles?) definitely check this place out.   After breakfast, we began to heard north again on I-94. We traveled through Fargo, North Dakota to Jamestown, ND. Going 90 on I-94, both Cameron and myself each enraptured by a different tourist trap billboard that whizzed past us at 90 miles an hour. I the “World’s Largest Buffalo!” and Cameron the amazing white buffalo (“It’s a Miracle!” the billboard proclaimed). It just so happened the two traps were the same place—The Jamestown Buffalo Museum and Pioneer town. We didn’t spend much time there, just enough time to peer through the 25cent binoculars at the miracle buffalo, pet the horses in the stables, and take some photos with the world’s largest buffalo. It was outrageously hot. Close to 100F. We grabbed lunch at a little cafe in Jamestown. I found myself a little judgy of the sign on the door that said “We have the right to refused service to anyone.” It looked relatively new, as the paper was crisp and white. I wondered if this had to do with the current political climate the SCOTUS ruling a couple weeks ago, and I pondered the kinds of “anyone” the sign could be referring to in a rural red state such as North Dakota. But with those questions in the rear view and our bellies full, we returned to the interstate, flying north as fast as the roads would allow.

At the bottom of the past two entries I’ve indicated what we’ve been listening to. For whatever, we’ve been listening mostly to podcasts. A variety of the ones I like, such as the informative Adam Ruins Everything and StarTalk, the comical My Brother, My Brother, and Me, and the horror fiction podcast The No Sleep Podcast. The latter is the one we have listened to for the vast majority of this trip as the stories prompt discussion and wandering imaginations. It has filled the cabin of the car almost nonstop since we left, leaving hardly any periods of silence between my brother and I. 

I have been listening to this one for a while now, and at the beginning I told Cameron that the stories are mostly mediocre, but when they are good, they’re good. During the long drive from Jamestown to the Canadian Border, I played him the first story I had ever listened to from the podcast, and the story I thought was the best. While most stories are more in the range of flash fiction or short stories and last 20 to 30 minutes, the one I put on is a two and a half hour novella. The story called Borrasca (by author CK Walker) is a tale of a boy’s family who moves to small, prosperous former mining town in the Ozark Mountains and the horrors and mysteries that surround this town. While I always knew this story was excellent, I certainly didn’t expect the reaction it got from Cameron. The story is a horrifying and unsettling tale of the underbelly of Americana, and as we drove through rural Saskatchewan, it sparked an hours-long discussion about the structure of good movies, Americana, and what could improve Borrasca to make it a cinematic masterpiece in its storytelling.

I thought Minnesota and North Dakota were flat, but then there was Saskatchewan. There were waves of grain and fields of small sunflowers. The horizon was dotted with smatterings of trees and bushes, but the standout structures in this flatland were the eerie silver grain refineries, much like those described in the aforementioned story. They radiated an orange glow from the blood red sun peeking out from behind the haze that had settled on the plains. The oil mills droned and chugged on, with nothing but that vastness of rural, and seemingly infinite Saskatchewan as their backdrop.

Cameron and I had been discussing how we wanted to proceed up through the Rockies. Either up through Edmonton, Albert, or first to Calgary to meet a friend, and then to Banff and Lake Louise. Cameron had thought that detour would take too us too far out of our way and behind schedule, so at first we decided to just head north through Edmonton. But then had learned either earlier that a friend of his that he hadn’t seen in years just so happened to be stationed in a city that was on the way to Calgary. So we drove to Moose Jaw, and enjoyed a little while chatting with Cameron’s friend, and me making plans with my friend in Calgary for the next day. So thanks, Joe, for giving Cameron the excuse to see a friend and let me meet mine!

Sunday, August 12th 2018
Driving to Calgary from Moose Jaw is no easy trip. Well, I mean, it’s flat. But it’s a long drive. We were out the door and at a Tim Horton’s for breakfast by 6:00am. We didn’t have much time to meander. Save for a couple gas fill ups and pee breaks, we were on the road to make a 1pm lunch date with my friend. The gas stations were few and far between, and in the in-betweens there were those great plains and salt flats and mineral mines that filled the air with the subtle but distinct smell of salt that you could almost taste. It was also quite cold, almost a 50 degree difference from the HHH days before.   Just as a side note, much to my delighted surprise Cameron asked me to play Borrasca for him again. I obliged, and we listened again, identifying all the things we discussed the day before as they played out it again real time.   I take after my father in my love of taking pictures with signs, so with one final stop in the last stretch at the border of Alberta, we took a photo with the sign that welcomed us to the Wild Rose Country.

For those who know me, I have made a lot of artist friends online. So whenever I can, I go out of my way to make those online friends “in person” friends. Or you know, just friends. Our lunch destination was a Vietnamese place on the outer reaches of Calgary proper. I was so excited to finally meet my friend Kelly. Kelly is a very talented comic artist, and honestly someone who I attribute a lot of my changes in self esteem to because she’s such a positive individual and role model. She brought her beautiful baby girl with her, and her husband joined us later. She also gave me some signed prints of her comics that I love, though admittedly I asked her for those but I am no less grateful —she’s an incredible artist. Seriously. If you are a the zombie genre and strong female leads, check out her comic Under The Dead Skies. 

  The hours spent with her and her family were wonderful and all too short. We had informed discussions of food (since we’re all foodies!), politics of both countries, travel, and good laughs. I bounced her adorable baby girl on my knee and enjoyed every second. Like I said, it was an all-too-short visit and I really wonder when I’ll be able to see them again. I am so grateful to have opportunities to do things like this road trip that allow me to deepen and strengthen friendships I have, and make new ones if they make themselves known.

After lunch, we made the trek into the Rockies. They appeared before us, blue, stacked, and distant. As we approached, we saw just how enormous they were. They had jagged cliffs, dotted with patches of snow and ice. Sharp and towering over us. It was an awesome sight, and not in the colloquial sense. I was filled with awe at their beauty. I’d never seen anything quite like it, and I gazed at them in wonder as we drove the winding Trans-Canadian highway through the mountains to Lake Louise. Lake Louise was as picturesque as I remember my father describing it to me. Its teal water was surreal. The mountains lining its shores were epic, purple and blue, and as if Mother Nature had painted them with a stippled brush strokes. The glacier at the far end loomed above the lake, and yet it was barely visible through the haze. The air was crisp and clear and smelled of that mountain air that can only be described in just that way. Cameron and I took off our shoes and dipped our feet into that water, feeling its chill. We even sipped its waters. We walked the path for a bit without our shoes, feeling the earth beneath our toes. Even with all the people there on the path, the serenity and silence was still there. It was humbling, and beautiful.

  With the the sun sinking lower into the sky and still a bit of a drive to the next major town ahead of us, it was time to grab food, gas, and hit the road. I rolled the windows down, cranked up some “Rocky Mountain High” by John Denver (because what else can you listen to when in the Rockies but the whimsical romantic songs of that legend?) I sang it out the window, smiling, breathing in the air, and letting my hand ride the wind.

  We found a beautiful vista overlooking Bow Lake. I ventured down a path alone, one I probably shouldn’t have gone down because of my leg, and took pictures of the picturesque landscape before me. Cameron had gone to check out some building somewhere. In retrospect, it wasn’t smart to separate like that, especially I with a bum leg on uneven ground in an unfamiliar area with no cell service, but my goodness was it beautiful.

The road out of the National Park was wound us round more than it did than we came in, and it merged to a two lane highway divided by a double yellow. Now this was the first time I ever actually wanted to strangle my brother. Sorry, Cameron, I’m not trying to be a snitch but I did say I was going to be honest. Remember my anxiety? We were stuck behind someone who was going a bit below the speed limit, and Cameron is a bit of an aggressive driver. He’s usually just a little fast, but I guess something about this driver just irritated him, and Cameron put on his blinker. I told him not to do that and he got irritated at me when I told him to wait for a passing lane. When he did it again and moved into the oncoming traffic lane and crossed the double yellow, I said “NO!” in what he interpreted as a shout and I thought was a nervous objection. He swerved back into our lane. We ended up fighting, and in a fit of defiance said, “So you don’t want me to do this?!” and slalomed in and out of the oncoming traffic lane a few times just to anger me. When I protested, he told me to shut up (with a few vulgarities thrown in). He then drove into the next pull off and demanded I was driving. I did, and we sat in silence for a while. Eventually he apologized, and I cried and explained why I was so upset and asked him not to do that again and to be considerate of my feelings. He agreed, and I forgave him. We went back to our usual driving after that, horror podcasts and all.

We didn’t find a gas station and cafe for probably 30 miles after that. When we did, it was the most outrageously priced chicken salad sandwich and gas I’ve ever seen. I paid 93 dollars for ten gallons of regular gas. We didn’t stay the night there, as the hotel was a resort and couldn’t afford the $350 a night price tag. It was 9pm, and the next town, Jasper, was two hours away. That would put us in a hotel at about the same time we usually got in.    In the rapidly encroaching twilight we drove up and down through the magical mountain roads, admiring every single jutting rockface and orange-sun illuminated crag we passed, Oohing and Aaahing at every opportunity. We were feeding our ears and imaginations and fears with horror stories every mile along the way to Jasper.

We got to the next town, Jasper, Alberta (in Jasper National Park) about two and a half hours later. And every single hotel was booked. Every one. We called every hotel, motel, and hostel we could afford to see if they had a bed, but to no avail. We sat on the side of the road, finally with cell service, looking for the next closest town and discussing if we should just park on the side of the road and sleep, or drive more, despite the obvious exhaustion drooping our eyelids. After all, we had been up and on the go since 5am.

We decided to drive to the town that had an availability. It was a town called Grand Cache, and it was 2.5 hours away. We knew that in our state it would be a long, hard drive. So we made a plan. We gassed up. We got caffeine. We set alarms for every fifteen minutes to switch off as drivers. We put on music we knew we could sing and stay awake too. (Thanks, High School Musical and classic Backstreet Boys). We turned off the heat and opened the windows to let that cold mountain air hit our faces and keep us from dozing at the wheel.    Off we went. We sang. We switched. We stopped. We stretched. And we star-gazed. At a swap point, the sky was as dark as pitch. The arm of the milky way arced above us, and the Perseids tossed streaks of meteors in a stunning display. I, of course, had to stop and take a picture. I hope to get a better Milky Way one in Alaska.

The entire time we drove, inspired by the eerie isolated roads before us and the hours upon hours of horror stories we had been listening to, we kept ourselves awake by plotting a horror story of our own to write. Together. We talked structure. Details. Characters. Plot. Everything one needed to make a successful horror story.

The final hour stretch of our late night drive tossed us a couple curve balls. We were sharing the road with midnight riders on roads that had no road lines. Their blinding lights and massive forms shook us as we slowly passed them but they assertively passed us. There would be times the asphalt would disappear without warning into sunken ditches of under-construction roads, and the car would jerk and clunk and complain, each time the shocks seeming like they would give out at any moment. The clear night air suddenly became hazy and smelled of thick smoke, the headlights of the semis cutting through them and forming identifiable rays of light.    But close to 3am, we made it to Grand Cache. 21 hours after we woke up. I was asleep before my head even hit the pillow, but somehow Cameron managed to say up longer and figured out our route with the desk clerk downstairs so we could avoid dangerous late nights again. What a champ.

Tuesday, August 14th 2018
We slept in. Well, a little. Usually on the road by 8am, we slept in until close to 9, and didn’t get out the door until 10 to eat breakfast at a family restaurant next door. For whatever reason, I woke up at 8:45 and simply couldn’t get to sleep. It was going to be an easy day, as Cameron’s new itinerary allowed. Only 5 hours of driving today. A hotel in Fort St. John, and a day of mostly rest.    The drive was easy, and more straight-forward than the winding roads we had traveled yesterday. The air was thick with smoke carried in from distant wildfires, so much that the visibility was pretty bad. But it wasn’t thick enough that I felt suffocated. As a matter of fact, I rolled the windows down, and inhaled. I love the smell, personally. For five hours, we listened to more horror stories as I drove.

But that was it. We made only three stops in between. One for gas and a bathroom break, one to take a picture with the “Entering British Columbia” sign, and the other to take a picture with a huge beaver.

When we got to the hotel, I plopped down in bed and fell asleep for a couple hours. Cameron somehow didn’t sleep and went to the visitor center to get information while I was asleep. And when I awoke, we got dinner (finally got some authentic Canadian poutine and it was soooo good!). Now I’m here, sitting in bed and partially regretting my nap as the hours tick away and I’m not able to fall asleep despite my exhaustion. But maybe now I can go to sleep, I’ve finished my entry and the Wi-Fi won’t connect to my computer still.

Thank you for reading!

Brother strangle count: 5

No comments