Riding Solo Part Two: The Mountains are Higher, and the Eggs Taste Different

This is part two of a travel series chronicling a week-long drive through Western Canada. For part one, click here.

Western Canada is dotted with villages, close-knit communities with elegant names like Invermere. Each one has some kind of diner on the edge of town, the parking lots dotted with pick-ups older than me. Their tires know these highway better than anyone, and the quiet, porch-sitting atmospheres of these places give off a kind of quiet familiarity and comfort.

I must have passed through two or three of these little places before I drove into Radium Hot Springs. A resort town, its quaint main street was completely silent in the early morning hours, deserted save for one or two fellow early-birds groggily pacing the sidewalks. I pulled into a parking lot along the main road and popped the hatch of my bronco, wanting to take advantage of the moment to organize my supplies. It was only my second day in Canada, and the interior of my car was already a hodgepodge of camping gear, blankets, and clothes. I’ve never been one for organization personally, which isn’t much of an issue when you’re traveling alone. Even while riding solo, though, organization makes a world of difference when it comes to convenience on the road– one helpful (if ill-used during my trip) tip is to stake out specific spots in the storage area of your vehicle for certain items. For example, my cookstove was always in the back right corner of my car, ready to go with a simple opening of the back hatch.

I finished tidying the back of the car before locking doors all around. Meandering down the street, the town’s vibe was peaceful, almost vintage. The storefronts were colorful and inviting, even while closed, and after a few minutes of looking I came across a cafe that seemed to be the only place open. The first sleepy tremors of hunger rumbled in my stomach, and figuring it was as good a place as any, I stepped inside.

My waitress took my order with a polite smile and her eyes still haggard with sleep before disappearing into the kitchen. I’d been sat in a booth alongside a window, though the cafe offered free WI-FI, the view was more than enough of a distraction. Since I had come across the border, mountains high enough to pierce the sky had been a constant fixture, and the awesomeness of it had yet to fade; the ranges here dwarfed anything else I had ever seen. Radium itself was nestled into the craggy face of British Columbia, surrounded by seas of pine trees.

The food came: Bacon, sausage, eggs, and tater tots. My first Canadian breakfast was delicious; I’d always heard food tasted different in Canada, but the difference in things like eggs and sausage is hardly describable, and can only be experienced. I rode out of Radium Hot Springs with a full stomach and full gas tank, bound for Golden on Highway 95.

The drive to Golden was uneventful, but it was where I discovered something fascinating about British Columbia: people drive fast. Being in a foreign country and not wanting to get pulled over, I consciously stayed as close to the speed limit as possible. Figuring that this would naturally cause  at least a few local people to pass me, but I was not prepared for the sheer ballsiness of Canadian drivers. Nearly every car that came up behind me quickly left me in the dust, really taking to heart the idea that speed limits are “suggestions.” Several times I witnessed cars pass entire columns of drivers, narrowly missing collisions with oncoming traffic. The most mystifying part was the precision that the drivers seemed to possess. I can honestly say that the closest I’ve ever felt to being in a Fast and Furious movie was driving through British Columbia.

Golden is small, with a population hardly cresting 3,000, but it was the biggest place I had come to since coming to Canada. I wasn’t there long, however, only stopping at a grocery store for directions and to sample a Canadian energy drink. For those curious, it was called Beaver Buzz, and it was delicious.

 

Leaving town, I boarded the section of the Trans-Canada highway between Golden and Banff. This aptly named asphalt pour is Canada’s nation-wide highway system, cutting through all ten provinces. Driving along the historic roadway had been a dream of mine for a long time. The 86 miles of it between Golden and Banff had few towns between, which meant few opportunities for gas. The bronco had ¾ of a tank, but I was cautious as I left Golden and merged onto the highway. One thing about driving across largely rural places like British Columbia: There will be vast stretches without a gas station, so make sure to always keep an eye on the gas gauge.

Canada has done a wonderful thing with their highway systems. The roads manage to cut swiftly through gorgeous vistas, wrap around mountainsides, and curl alongside rivers without infringing on the natural beauty of the nature between settlements. For those who are not fans of driving long distances, the views will keep the trip from becoming a slog. For those who love a good romp down the road, such as your humble author, the views make the journey downright entrancing.

It was about halfway between Golden and Banff that my eye started tracking my gas gauge. The drive wasn’t long, but those few miles were filled with  steep climbs, tight turns, and the occasional traffic jam. The bronco was reliable but old, and it was hard not to notice as the needle crept below the half line and before too long began closing in on a quarter. Puttering alongside the glacial blue waters of the Bow river, inching closer and closer to Banff, I spotted a bridge ahead of me that lead to a cluster of homes across the river called Castle Junction. After a quick lap around the community looking for the gas station, I realized I’d driven past tit on the way in.  It doubled as a gift shop and after a short perusing session through their collection of semi-precious stones and t-shirts, I left Castle Junction behind me, eager to eat up the last few miles to Banff.

Rolling into the little mountain town was a crowded affair; the roadways were clogged with cars, and the sidewalks were crowded with tourists. Parking was nearly impossible, and walking down the street was a claustrophobic experience. Yet the town has a rustic charm that felt like stepping back in time. I would spend only a day and a half here; Banff was more of a challenge to adjust to than anything, and it’s a place I’d like to visit again one day so that I could truly experience it. My initial visit was hectic, stressful, and the subject of next week’s Riding Solo article, which you can stop by for next Wednesday. Don’t miss it.