I didn’t go to a lot of places growing up. Most of our family vacations were never more than 100 miles from home; Until a family trip to Disneyland when I was sixteen, I’d never left the Pacific Northwest. Coincidentally, it was also the first time I’d set foot on a plane.So when I left Moscow for the Canadian border on August 3rd with a guitar, some food, and $800 Canadian, I was accosted by a strange feeling of anxiety and excitement mixed in a way I’d never quite felt before.
This trip had been a long time coming: months of anticipation and saving leading up to one week driving roughly 1200 miles through western Canada, living out of the back of my little Ford Bronco II and essentially doing nothing; a recharge period that I desperately needed. I’d reached the lakeside town of Coeur D’alene when I realized I’d forgotten my coffee percolator. A shadow of anger came over me almost immediately; a dulled blade running up my spine, tensing each muscle. I took a deep breath and exhaled slow, letting the feeling drift out of me as I sat at a stoplight in the center of town. When the light turned green, I moved forward, normal again.
I hadn’t always had a temper like I did during that trip to our neighbor in the north. It’d developed gradually since starting college, beginning as a series of deep, depressive lows, finally bubbling over into frustration and irritation. It seemed as though problems of general adulthood piled up, my motivation eroded instead of strengthened, and I put myself into a state of inaction, while being too stupid to realize it. I was in a perpetual search for a scapegoat so I wouldn’t have to confront my own shortcomings, and that often desperate search manifested in a quick-flaring temper that I quickly became prone to.
Anger isn’t something to be romanticized or pitied. Lashing out in anger is unacceptable behavior from any person; it was also part of the reason I’d decided to take this trip. I figured that a week of camping and drifting around in Canada would help me to reset myself, work on my newly identified issues, and more than anything relax for the first time since I could remember.
I crossed the border into the first country I’d set foot in other than my own, excitement mounting. It was a smooth transaction with the border guard: several questions about why I was in Canada, a look at my passport and boom, I was international. As I pulled into my first Canadian parking space, however, frustration flared up again as I fiddled with my GPS, trying to set my next destination. After a solid fifteen minutes of messing with every possible function or setting it could have, I came to find out that it did not function outside of the United States, which leads me to a good First Time Travel Tip: MAKE SURE YOUR GUIDE EQUIPMENT WORKS IN YOUR DESIGNATED DESTINATION.
Mumbling more than a few expletives I pulled back onto the road. The air that came through my window was cool and fresh, and I was amused as I realized that my Bronco’s speedometer had both MPH and KPH for easy reference. The country was covered in thick trees, dotted with lakes that seemed to dwarf the ones back home. The anger I’d felt seem to get caught on the wind and drift out the window as I rolled forward. Not having a GPS would be no big deal; I’d hit the nearest major town and grab a map from somewhere.
That town was Cranbrook. I wanted to get moving as fast as possible; the day was getting older, and I had to find a place to sleep. As I passed into the city limits, the first parking lot I saw belonged to a motel/mini golf course. The two women in the cramped office sat chatting amiably with each other about lunch and family matters, and I stood patiently, if a little awkwardly before they realized I was there. The woman only had a map of the surrounding area, but It had enough information that it would work until I reached my first destination: Banff, Alberta. Casually mentioning that I was heading to Banff, however, resulted in another setback: the route I’d originally planned to take was blocked by wildfire. Inquiring further, I learned there was another route I could take, bypassing the fire via the town of Golden, B.C. The good news was that it only added roughly a half hour of travel time to the journey, and would take me through some stunning British Columbia countryside.
It was getting late as I left Cranbrook, and as I came into the small burg of Wasa Lake, I spotted a campground advertising what would come to be the only easy place I’d find to sleep while I visited British Columbia and Alberta: A small campground with spots for fifteen dollars a night. I paid my fee and was led to a cozy little area near the back of the campground, beneath a tree. It was adjacent to a small pond, next to which stood a stone gazebo-type structure. There were planters made of the same kind of stone as the Gazebo, in front of which stood a plaque emblazoned with Max Ehrmann’s “Desiderata.” The campground was a peaceful place, if a little populous; families out for the weekend with their children, old couples on the road after retirement, their large campers and RVs dwarfing my little SUV as I nosed it into my campsite.
Canadian skies stretch on for miles, and when the sun starts going down it casts watercolors over every inch of its blue canvas. As the sunset settled and a train whistle pierced the air from across the road, I discovered that my tent poles were broken. Improvising one from a stick, I managed to set the tent up; still, it was a fragile setup, and I’d be sleeping in the car for the remainder of the trip.
Dinner was chili served from a can heated on a propane stove, a hodge-podge of spices and hot sauce and a five star camp meal if I’ve ever had one. Night fell, and with it came a chill that felt unfamiliar in August; I was thankful that I’d thought to bring two coats and a sweatshirt. All around me, the warm glow of fires began to pop up amongst the campground. This seemed strange with the wildfires in the nearby areas, but I wasn’t going to question it. I gathered wood for a fire, collecting a small pile of sticks and leaves, with a few thicker branches mixed in for good measure. Before too long I had a small but warm blaze crackling merrily in the small fire pit allotted to me. As I sat near it, dozing and lazily strumming a guitar, I noticed at the edge of the fire’s glow that the owner of the campground was hurrying towards me. I had barely uttered a greeting before he asked me what I thought I was doing. When the only answer he received was a confused and slightly offended stare, he pointed to my tiny blaze and filled me in: There was a burn ban in all of British Columbia. The fires around me were being produced by propane fire pits, brought by the campers who were in the know. This leads me to another good traveller’s tip: if you will be camping in an unfamiliar area, make sure that you check for local burn bans.
The owner of the campsite proceeded to lecture me for several minutes on how dangerous being under-informed was, before making a big show of filling a gallon jug of water from the pond several times to dump on the fire pit, which I had already extinguished with my own gallon jug of water. Even after he’d finally accepted one of my ten thousand apologies and left, the event continued to perturb me. If I was so unprepared for this trip that my first night could have resulted in getting arrested for a crime that I didn’t know I had committed, how could I get through an entire week?
The other thing that I had come to Canada to work through finally reared its ugly head: self-doubt. It was something that had plagued me for most of my life, holding me back from so many opportunities that I’d lost count. Now, it was trying to talk me out of following through on this road trip. But that was why I had come up here; the entire journey was vaguely planned, with only two or three destinations hundreds of kilometers apart to be used as waypoints. I’d made no reservations for places to sleep, and I’d brought minimal food, deciding beforehand that I’d only be eating twice a day. I’d gotten an international sim card for my phone, but it was not supposed to be functioning until my third day on the road. This was all in order to put myself into self-reliant situations that would both strengthen my confidence and weaken my anger through self-satisfaction.
The incident with the fire came close to making me forget all of that. The unfamiliarity of the place made it hard to sleep. I stared at the the ceiling of my tent and read through one hundred pages of the novel I’d brought before finally drifting off in the early hours of the morning.
I emerged from my tent at seven in the morning, surprisingly recharged despite not getting more than five hours of sleep. Thin fog crawled its way across the mirrored surface of the pond, and the burning stink of wildfire lent an ashy aftertaste to the crisp morning air. The world around me was a silent place of greens and blues, save for the occasional chirping of the birds, and the chill of the morning felt good in my lungs. I packed up camp quickly, wanting to get back on the road.
The owner of the campground was an early riser as well; he was near the entrance, and we spoke briefly before I left. He seemed bashful of his behavior the night before, and he shook my hand firmly, welcoming me to Canada.
Pulling back onto the road and setting forward, the nagging feeling of wanting to turn around and go back home once again began tugging at the back of my mind. As it did, I came to a stop in the middle of a bridge.The sun was still low in the skies, and below me ran a shallow river, navy blue in the dim morning light. Its waters babbled quietly as it ran under the bridge and forward, tumbling into magnificent scenery that stretched for miles, colliding with the hazy silhouettes of mountains on the horizon. Except for the black thread of highway and the occasional barn or outbuilding, vast distances in Canada seem almost untouched. I truly witnessed this on that bridge for the first time, on my second day driving through the Great White North. In witnessing that strange, freeing kind of distance, the idea of turning back suddenly became foolish. A wave of unfamiliar calm washed over me as I got back into the car and checked my phone; the international card I’d gotten for it was still not functioning. That was fine, no anger. I unfolded my map to make sure I was heading in the right direction, and drove on. I felt good; I was sure of myself. It was a pleasant morning.
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