I'm back on Vancouver Island and the road-trip part of my Canadian Adventure is now at an end.
We traveled about 3,000km in all; passing through 2 states and countless towns and cities.
Click on the map below for an interactive version of our route.
Here's a short video of the car that took us approximately 3,000km across British Columbia and Alberta.
The car is almost as old as I am. Unlike me, however, it got a lot of admiring glances during the trip, including:
We're in Osoyoos. It's in the Okanagan Valley, a desert in the middle of the Rockies.
It's rather incongruous that during the few hours it took to get to Osoyoos from our last stop of Nelson, we were passing through cool forest and snow-capped mountain terrain.
At one point I saw a hobo walking along the road with his dog and a shopping trolley. He was in the middle of nowhere (much of Canada is, it seems). I remember wondering why on earth he was there and where he was going.
Digression aside: on reaching the Okanagan Valley, we found ourselves looking at an arid landscape, which reminded me of a hamada. The clouds don't seem to like this valley very much and there are vineyards everywhere.
It was here that we decided to make a two-day stop. We'd done quite a bit of travelling through the Rockies and for once, I was feeling hot. Osoyoos is lovely and warm and set on a beautiful lake.
Soon after throwing our bags into the hotel, we headed out to see what was going on in Osoyoos. I didn't hold out much hope: the receptionist's answer to my question about where the action was, was that it was an hour's drive north.
In any case, we found a bar or two and the usual depressing series of chain "restaurants". I'm both fascinated and horrified by the prevalance of these places. I'm fascinated because I can't understand how one town can possibly justify having a dozen hamburger "restaurants, which all feature essentially the same menu. I'm horrified because I've been eating on the cheap and now have a lot of running and swimming to do when I get home.
Undaunted, we made a base of operations at a local pub in Osoyoos: had a bit of lunch and shot a bit of pool.
Pretty soon, we were playing pool with a Floridian called James. He was passing through for work. He's a cartographer, and his work involves driving around the world and place pyramidal mirrors at selected points so that a special aeroplane can fly over and fire lasers at his mirrors in order to create accurate physical maps.
Several hours in, we were shooting pool with lots of different people from around Osoyoos, and before we knew it, we were holding court at a table surrounded by locals. Even the manageress joined us and started buying us shooters.
But nobody knew what they were letting themselves in for when the Karaoke started.
Nev and I dominated the proceedings: belting out horribly atonal renditions of Bohemian Rhapsody, some Depeche Mode, some Guns and Roses and Dennis Leary's famous crowd-pleaser. I was also dragged up to duet with a gravelly-voiced woman who later gave me her email address. It began, "whackedgranny@…".
The Floridian joined us back at our hotel room after last orders. Unfortunately, so did two other people from the bar, so copious drinking on the balcony overlooking the lake ensued but was marred by having to make a near-herculean effort to drive the gatecrashers out.
The next morning, we headed down to the local Smitty's "family restaurant" (greasy spoon to you and me). We looked awful and felt worse.
Looking across the restaurant, there were several families in their Sunday Best and clearly having a wholesome family meal after church. And here we were, having just got out of bed and suffering for the sin of drink:
"Let there be wine, women, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda-water the day after." - Byron
The food was a stodge-a-thon. I had pancakes with maple syrup and lots of smoked pig. Nev had the same but with potatoes and toast instead of the pancakes. Neither of us could finish our food.
People here seem to have a real obsession with food: every table had a little collection of Trivial Pursuit cards. Perhaps this was in keeping with the "family restaurant" theme. One of the questions on the Trivial Pursuit cards read:
"What was the Boston Chicken chain renamed, after branching out into other entrees?"
Stumbling out of Smitty's, we lurched back to the hotel and passed the hobo we'd seen the day before in the middle of nowhere.
Aside from a very sore head, I've no idea how much that night of boozing cost us. In true Gonzo style, we had bade gladhandedly farewell to all before walking confidently out of the bar, and leaving our tab behind.
Hopefully our sheer charisma was reward enough…
During the past two days, I've travelled about 400km and experienced two different ways of looking at the world.
The first was when Nev and I had just finished climbing Tunnel Mountain, just outside Banff. During the 2.3km climb, we were overtaken by some rather nubile young ladies. "If only We were a bit younger" we thought, referring, of course, to our fitness and ability to keep up with them back in the days when, five years or so ago, we were training hard at full-contact karate.
When I got to the top, I had a good sit down and admired the view (photos to be added later). The girls, however, were far ahead of their teacher, who joined them to give them a little talk at the summit about the beautiful valley they lived in, as well as giving them a bit of a historical perspective on the area. Apparently, Queen Victoria herself had come to the top of the mountain and had sat upon a purpose-built throne, cut into the mountain, to survey her domininon.
At one point, one of the students remarked that one learns something new every day. The teacher responded that it is important to learn something new about oneself every day.
To the cynical British ear, this was a little cheesy, but why should this be the case?
I've spoken to many people who have commented on how refreshing it is to have been to North America (lumping the USA and Canada together here) and have been exposed to the wonderful optimism and "can-do" spirit out there.
I was impressed by the respect and positive attitude of the class on that summit. My inspiration towards perhaps one day becoming a teacher was renewed.
I'm now in Crowsnest Pass. We're now on our Westbound stretch back to Vancouver Island.
Nev and I just had a wonderful rib dinner. What's very, very nice about going out in Canada is that wherever we seem to go, we end up falling into random chats with strangers. This time, we joined a couple at their table.
The couple was an ex-pat from the UK and her Canadian boyfriend of several years. They were charming and wonderful company.
What was interesting, however, was that the expat was probably the most negative person I've spoken to on my trip: everything from the car we were driving, to London living, to the hicksville quality of the locals was subject to some sort of derision.
Is this tendency to play down the good things in life and focus on the bad a peculiarly British phenomenon?
Is my last question yet another self-effacing jab at the British psyche?
Will my questions never cease?
I'm in Jasper in Jasper National Park.
It's a UNESCO World Heritage Site - one of the largest protected areas in the world.
When you drive in here - you need to pass through a toll booth and pay your way in, declaring how long you intend to stay there. The site's enormous, so you have to factor in how long you'll be driving through as well.
In exchange, you get a sticker for your windscreen (like a pay and display ticket) and a guide brochure. Here's what the brochure has to say on the exciting subject of bear attacks:
IF THE BEAR BEHAVIOUR IS DEFENSIVE
You surprise a bear. It may be feeding, protecting its cubs or just unaware of your presence. It sees you as an immediate threat and feels that it must fight. This is the most common attack situation.
- If you have bear spray, use it (according to the manufacturer's instructions)
- If the bear makes contact with you, play dead! Showing submission will probably end the attack.
- Lie on your stomach with your legs apart, so the bear cannot easily flip you over.
- Cover the back of your head with your hands.
- Keep your pack on to protect your back.
Defensive attacks seldom last more than two minutes. If the attack continues, it may have shifted from defensive to predatory.
In this case, fight back!
I don't know about you, but I wouldn't expose my family jewels to a big hungry bear. Nor would I just lie there and allow him or her to claw at me for a full TWO MINUTES before deciding to fight back.
I recently had a pretty cowardly encounter with a bear, whilst on a bicycle. I'm no expert, but I know enough about life to be pretty sure of one thing: I'd soil myself and run like hell!
We're in the Rockies, in Jasper. It took a good few hours, but we cleared almost 500km today…
Jasper's on the other side of the Rockies, in Alberta. It's the first time I've driven across a time zone which hasn't involved going into France. France doesn't really count, since it's the same latitude as most of the UK.
We spent the previous evening in Kamloops, which is a place you go to in order to get to somewhere else. Having said that, it does have a curry house, which is pretty cosmopolitan I suppose. It also has a pretty good bar, which we made sure to thoroughly test before passing out in the grimy, stinking motel we'd found.
A late start this morning began with a quick check of the health of the Beast's engine. The Lincoln Continental has been attracting lots of double-takes, a few positive comments and some requests for photo ops. Even so - it is almost as old as I am and has a load of roof insulation in the engine to hold a loose gasket in place and a fair bit of duct tape on the front bumper.
In the Rockies, there's no radio and no mobile 'phone reception. If your car dies out here, so do you. Thankfully, the Beast saw us right through to Jasper.
We come through some fairly odd places. There was Avola, which advertised a promising-looking diner, but turned out to be a town bereft of people but filled with yapping dogs and empty houses.
There was also Blue River, which had a great grill, but some weird inbred-looking chef. Was that a beefburger or a human burger?
The Rockies are a weird mixture of desolate and beautiful. Sometimes, you're right in the clouds and can see them floating through the trees. It's incredible.
On roadtrips, you get to ponder and contemplate a wide variety of things, but I won't go into those. Sometimes the space to think is welcome. Sometimes it isn't.
I sometimes worry that I take my life a little for granted.
Truly, honestly: what's the point in life? You work, eat sleep and that's about it… I'm not confessing to being suicidal or anything. I'm just conceding that on the cosmic scale, there isn't much point is there?
Being an atheist, I don't see myself as having some important role to play on a giant celestial chessboard, so I don't have that to fall back on when I'm struggling to set myself a new goal or make sense of the world. That's the challenge, I suppose, of the philosophical path I've taken.
But in view of the above, I sometimes fear that I don't have a particularly strong survival instinct. After all, if there's no point, why work hard to stick around?
Thankfully, these fears were put to bed quite firmly today on the slopes of Whistler.
You see, I definitely have a strong survival instinct. Not bowel-looseningly strong, but strong enough to avoid risking my neck in pursuit of greatness.
Nev and I are coming up to the end of week one of a three-week road trip across the Rockies. We had stopped at Whistler to enjoy the resort and see what was going on with the snow and the slopes.
Whistler itself is pretty. Pretty and pretty fake as well. The whole town is clearly geared for the tourists and everything you see in Whistler was built since 1980 in Swiss chalet style. It feels a little like Disneyland, only a little colder.
We decided to do a little offroad mountain biking down the slopes. It's fantastic: you take a chairlift up the slope and ride down. No need to pedal uphill!
We had to hire bikes and were successfully upsold the hire of body armour. I was sceptical at first, but it seems to have been money well spent: I took at least three high-speed tumbles and despite the armour still had some nice little marks to show for it.
And I think a lot of my trouble down the slope was due to my very strong sense of self-preservation. I think If I hadn't been so worried about falling off, I wouldn't have fallen off. I would have committed to the runs a little better. I wouldn't have jammed the brakes quite as much, locking the wheels.
So my self-preservation kept me from a prize: being able to go on the crazy hard runs (I always stuck to the easiest), and being able to brag (but I can always make stuff up later).
Coming down the run, I passed a mother bear and two cubs. They were incredible. My trail took me within 20 feet of them, and I pedalled like crazy to get away. The second run I took, I decided to ready my camera: a bear 20 feet away on camera would be incredible. As it happened, the mother bear was further up the trail now blocking my path. This (6 ft)was the closest I'd ever been to a bear. Not only that, but the bear had her cubs with her. Madness! The Fear took hold and I cycled away down an alternate path. Again: self-preservation got in the way of a great prize.
Thankfully, I have a telephoto lens… 
Just as I was remonstrating with myself, I passed a crossing point, where I could cycle across into another trail of much higher difficulty. This would have meant me doing a 10 foot jump into thin air. Was I crazy? I'd never jumped a bike that high before. Would I end up with a broken femur? Would I lose all my teeth? Would I spend the rest of the holiday in Accident and Emergency?
Too late - I'd missed the crossing. About 40 meters down the trail, however, I saw a young chap getting bandaged up by a first aid patrolman. It looked like a closed fracture of the clavicle. Clearly, his self-preservation instincts were not as developed as mine.
Sometimes, being a wuss has its uses. A friend has promised to teach me to hurl myself out of an aeroplane. That's something I'm just going to have to consider…
I'm in Canada now, visiting my friend Nev on Vancouver Island.
For once, I'm the first one up and doing things, but that's probably more to do with the fact that for me it's past two in the afternoon and for everyone else it's around six am. By "everyone else", I'm referring to Nev and my two new friends in the flat: Nev's cousin Ben (whose flat it is) and his buddy Mike.
I have a feeling that these chaps aren't going to make it up for a spot of early sunday morning ornithology or a bracing run along Vancouver Island's beaches. This could be something to do with the fact that we've been sleeping among the detritus of a fine evening eating pizza, drinking Canadian beer (not as bad as is rumoured, actually) and playing Guitar Hero II.
It was fairly tricky getting here. After 11 hours on a plane from the UK, I landed in Vancouver airport. The airport's on the mainland and I wanted to get to the island. To do this, one can usually take a normal plane, a float plane or a ferry, but since it was so late in the evening, I couldn't take a float plane (something I'd always wanted to do), and the standard plane was $410 for a 20 minute trip. The fare was $410 because the ticket agent knew that I had no time to get to the ferry terminal before the last one for the night set sail, so he could charge whatever he wanted.
In the end, I had the hairiest trip of my life in the back of a cab adorned with little pictures of Guru Nanak. With 2 minutes to spare, and my heart practically bursting through my chest, I made it aboard the ferry for the 90-minute ride to Vancouver Island.
Nev greeted me at the island terminal and we got into "The Beast". Land yacht is about the right description for the car: it's massive, it's white and it floats along the road on generous suspension. I think we've hit gold as far as a roadtrip vehicle goes. The seats are like enormous couches. Sure, it may be more a question of how many gallons to the mile, rather than miles to the gallon, but we'll be comfortable in our guilt.
More importantly, the boot of the car was nice and roomy. This afforded us with the opportunity to carry plentiful supplies of beer for the party we were going to, and when we arrived, we found the police (unimaginatively known by the party guests as "Pigs") and Fire Brigade (more imaginatively known as "Fire Pigs") pulling into the party's driveway, lights flashing.
It was bedlam, a crushed pickup truck sat in the front garden and fire and police crews were running around whilst the party crowd (in excess of 100) in the garden jeered. Beers in hand, and crate under arm, Nev and I picked our way through the crowd to find his cousin, whose birthday it was. Instead we encoutered varied and nefarious locals who made us feel very welcome. Some highlights:
The fire crews got to work and made a very thorough job of irrigating the bonfire. The crowd jeered and people got cold, but continued drinking, laughing, swearing, partying. At some point, the police and fire crew left. Under a full moon, we mixed well with the crowd and were made to feel very welcome. Everybody was very friendly.
A girl of about 5'8" was talking to some chaps and a tiny girl of 5' bounced across the garden towards her, screaming something. Hands went for hair and before you knew it, the bigger girl was bent over getting a good, solid, brutilicious kicking in the face.
Quite a few times, actually.
There was some good wrestling too, when it went to the ground. It was a completely unfair match: It seemed that whilst the tiny girl was about half the weight of the bigger girl, she dominated: "It's not size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog".
Somebody broke up the fight. The little girl complained about getting blood all over her top and went off to get changed, and we did some tequila around a new campfire.
A 5000 mile flight, a sprint for a ferry after a knuckle-whitening Sikh-themed cabride, a party, a police presence, a load of beer and a nifty catfight all washed down with tequila: that's quite some Friday night.
I'm off on a three-week road trip with my good buddy Nev. We're going to cruise around British Columbia in a 1979 Lincoln Continental.
I've no idea what our route will be, where we'll sleep each night or what each day will hold; and I'm not sure I want to know either.
Just the thrill of the open road and the fear of the unknown…
I'm hoping both my body and soul will make it back in one piece, but if they don't I probably won't be aware enough of what's going on to care.
In any case, wish me bon voyage, and I'll try to post blogs as I go or at least regurgitate it all in posts afterwards (in the queue with the dozen or so other blog posts I've only half-written).
I've been growing tomatoes in my garden. Some from seedlings and some germinated from seed. I had about 10 large tomato plants in my garden and another colony at my parents (I couldn't fit all the seedlings in pots in my garden).
Within the past few days, I've lost almost all the plants in my garden to tomato blight, a fungal infestation possibly brought on by the bad run of cloudy, damp weather we've had. My once-proud 8ft plants have turned into a rotten mush.
I spent this afternoon collecting the dead and trying to save the remainder with anti-fungal spray. There was a depressingly large amount of dead stuff to throw out. My garden feels very empty now without the tomatoes in there, so I'm going to have to think of something else to start growing.
Thankfully, Rebecca managed to salvage some of the ripe and unripe fruit from the vines, so we'll see what can be made with them. Rosie also turned up to commiserate (above).
Apparently, this year has been particularly bad in the UK for tomato blight, and farmers are going mad with the sprayers. As if to confirm this, the colony at my parents' house has also died out.
So, in future, I'll be making sure to spray them with anti-fungal chemicals regularly and to look out for the first signs of the rot setting in.
Either that, or emigrate to somewhere with proper summers.
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