Treking Across Canada

The Fourth Day of A Five Day Bus Trip

You would guess that I want to murder someone by this point, but I don’t.

As we tear across the early morning prairie, chasing the golden orb that hangs so gently and so fully in the sky, I have a moment of clarity. The prize; I once again have a grasp on. The actual prize is not tangible, but what it is, is this moment, this second, this moment. It is stirring my soul into life once again. I need to put pen to paper because I know that I will forget. I will once again become ungrateful of the seconds as they slip by.

We are beginning the fourth day of a five day trip busing from Coast to Coast across this vast and ever-changing continent. The lessons I have relearned, and taught, are lessons that are a part of me like the rings of a tree. I am grateful to have been educated in the true ways of the old, before the floors are coated with the dust of their remains, once again, leaving remnants of the story for new souls to carry.

Winnipeg is at our back. Saskatoon lies ahead. The lines on the highway pulse by. The morning mist comes and goes and what once I imagine was the legendary prize of the pagan peoples, still timelessly hangs in the sky, the sun. Today for me, yes the rising sun is a gift but the truth is that the hard won prize lies amongst the metal carcass hurtling down the highway on 8 slabs of rubber. The communities we are continuously creating.

After spending four days with these people knowing them as individuals and the roles they play in the group; knowing we will only have this silent moment for a fleeting time and then reality will encroach upon us once more. The ever changing reality of what we choose to make of our lives.

What is today will never, ever… be tomorrow.

Tomorrow morning the naturopath will not be on this bus, reminding us through her being, her gentle voice and her actions to be kind to one another. The quiet career traveler from Israel suggesting to our souls that there are mysteries we can never explain; the entertainer, with his undone Mohawk always willing to laugh or dance to the music at the bus depot hoping to elicit a smile, and create love in a world that he knows only too well needs more, the young man unable to resist the lure of the fast easy money and the kaleidoscope of the chaos that comes from the alternative life returning from the R and R of Ontario, to the Oil and Money of Alberta. I cannot and will not forget the 19 year old twins venturing to the Rockies for a summer of lessons and freedom. Although I would like to leave the buffalo of a Nigerian out of the story, every tale needs an antagonist. I know now what type of creatures roam the jungles in the tribes of the Boka Horram. He ventures to Canada bringing and, seeking God only knows what. We cannot love them all, some just are not good.

None of us will be on this bus tomorrow as it bustles through the city streets of Vancouver. It is quiet this morning as this caravan of motley fools enters Saskatoon, legs blocking isles, yawns being stifled, as we travel with the rising sun, the world waking up. As I look up each time I see more heads emerging above the backs of the seats, becoming a part of this sunrise journey. Travelers rubbing eyes shaking off the dreams of the evenings ancestors and reminding themselves that yes on this bus and with these people is where they are supposed to be, if only for a moment.

The lesson for me, the gift, is no matter where I go, there I am. No matter if I am 6000 miles from home, or in the neighborhood that grew me, the story is the same. The same me, being force fed lessons maybe I had not forgotten but that my teachers needed to be reminded of, and in this process learning for the first time how small this great country is and that no matter how we seek the differences among us we are truly the same. Young, old, black, and yes, white. The only thing that makes us different is the motivation of our intentions.

We all want to be accepted right in this moment for exactly who we are. Looking for community whatever that means to each individual. Wherever we are this morning waking up in the great vast land of Canada, be it on a bus, huddled around a grate on a downtown city street corner, in a bungalow in The Rockies, or a sixty year old cabin your grandpa built on the Great Bay of Chaleur off the Gaspe Peninsula, we are The Community. Canada is my community.

That is my prize I give myself this morning. The lesson I felt with such a poignancy that I I propelled myself to write it down. I hope to not forget. All I hope for you is that you noticed the love and respect that I have for all of you.

The Last Day of The Adventure

And the Canadian Adventure continues. Most of my new family disembarked in Calgary and we began the climb of The Great Canadian Rockies. The fresh snow was falling, the headlights slicing through what the next morning would excite visitors and locals alike. Then it happened...

We pull off of the highway at Lac Des Arc, the concrete factory between Kananaskis and Canmore. Not a major deal in mid-summer, but at this time of year when the driver’s side windshield wiper in a heavy snowfall goes on the fritz, it makes for a three hour delay.

One of my travelling companions who had gotten on in early Ontario, the man with the fallen Mohawk, the one who brought joy with his dancing at the Winnipeg airport, amongst the drunken natives, and the stumbling older ladies, was growing restless as he did not have far left to venture. His destination was Golden. I suggested lets catch a cab up to Banff, and have some dinner. And that was just what we did. It was wonderful, to travel with someone, that you just met, but that you have a mutual understanding of and with. We discussed the problems of the Universe, the strife of the homeless, had a small dinner of the liquid variety. The kitchen was closed what else was there to do?

Since my last trip to Banff, a place that I lived in my late teens, early 20’s, I had lost a local friend whom I would consider a kindred spirit, in a road maintenance accident. I was lucky enough to see a mutual acquaintance and pay my respects, which was a gift I did not expect. Accepting this gift with gratitude for the times I spent with Dan. Bammer was what we called him. We were family; I was absolutely devastated when I heard he had fallen to his death off the Sunshine overpass on the Trans Canada.

Then the text came in that the bus was en-route. I bid adieu to my fallen Mohawk friend as his sister had driven up over the pass from the Columbia Valley, and arrived to pick him up at Melissa’s. I said good-bye to the Bar Staff, some of them 20 year acquaintances. By the time I reached the bus stop, coffees in hand, one for me, one for the driver, the bus had arrived. As we pulled out of one of the places spread across Western Canada, that I call home I snuggled in, having two seats to myself, took a little knock out pill and actually had a night of normalish sleep.

Thinking I would wake up in Kamloops around 6 AM, and although I had enjoyed my trip, I cannot tell a fib; I was looking forward to it to be over. Well I woke up at 6 but I was definitely not in Kamloops, Dorothy. As I looked out the bus window I was greeted by a winter scene. Rogers Pass is definitely a winter paradise, and if one needs to be stuck on the highway then I would pick right where we were. It was absolutely gorgeous, trees covered in crystal white marshmallow tufts, snow drifts with clean white virgin snow everywhere.

While I was sleeping there had been a head on collision between two rigs, and then a third rig had run into the back of them. This is what highway crews call, “The splitter”. Little highway traffic accident lingo to add to my vocabulary.

As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes I learned we had not moved in three hours and life really was OK. Four minutes earlier we would have missed all of the excitement and I would have woken up in Kamloops. Four minutes later ½ of my new friends, very likely including myself, could have been dead. Sincerely regardless of the delay, I was grateful for just one more day to keep on trucking.

We have just started moving. It is 7:58 AM and we are rolling again. We are four hours from my final destination, I am warm and dry. I am full. I ate my last 2 hardboiled eggs, a piece of my loaf of bread and my old white cheddar with a few sprigs of Asparagus; washing it all down with fresh Rocky Spring Water. Sounds like a holiday, but truly this is just a well-planned and well deserved life.

The wheels turn.

There are two elderly men sitting behind me that are explaining 'the story" to each other. I shut them out and look up the bus and see the Canadian Culture that built me. The guy next to me wrapped like a mummy in a his hospital blanket still wearing his bracelet, the back of a Blue Jays hat, further up a couple bald heads, unruly wild red curls popping over another seat, and up on the right side a yellow turban sitting next to a blue hijab. This is Canada… a land where we do not need to create chaos, as adventure comes naturally.

And on I plod.