The Lengths You Go To...

Where: Icefields Parkway, Alberta

When: August 2013 (The slow journey home)

What: Refusing to let a downpour get in the way of a good campfire.

Less wild than it seems

Canadian Rockies... a highlight of our 10 months in North America. With a hire car (sorry, 'rental' car) and two weeks to go and do whatever we wanted, the freedom was enticingly good. Too bad the rest of the world have the same idea... but more on that another time.

There are so many awesome options for back country camping in North America. I quickly learnt that back country means walk-in, walk-out and camp basically wherever, not in the regimented allotted sites that national/provincial parks seem to be big on. I also learnt that back country camping is not an option for a couple of backpackers travelling with a year's worth of stuff and a $25 tent.

We reached the Icefields Parkway midway through the road trip. By this time we were used to showering every four days and eating whatever we could cook in our one pot. This campsite didn't actually have a name. Unless 'Overflow' was it's official title. After an entertaining and occasionally awkward conversation with the ranger, we learnt that the campsite was opened to hold all the summer travellers but had been opened this year due to another site further north being completely wiped out by the Alberta flooding. (Didn't hear about it? It was worse than Superstorm Sandy but you know, NYC is very important.)

Nothing like RVs to ruin a great shot

The best part about 'Overflow' was the walk-in section (100m, not 10 kilometres). Finally we got to leave those smug RVs behind! And we could take uninterrupted photos of the *choose your own superlative: stunning/breathtaking/staggering* scenery and pretend we were more wild than we really were. We got a pretty good fire going considering all we had were damp logs and a rule forbidding kindling collection. Thank you hairspray! (It doesn't serve any other purpose on a camping road trip)

I do love making a fire (not in a criminal sense). I especially love the achievement of getting a fire cranking against the odds. Then the rain came.

Why did we even build a fire in summer? Was it particularly cold? Not overly*.  But we'd paid the honesty box $8 and we had marshmallows for dinner. Plus it seems to be the thing to do in North America- it ain't camping unless there's a fire (even if you are wearing singlets and shorts).

I refused to let the rain ruin my hour of poking, blowing and splinters. I took matters into my own hands.

After twenty minutes of getting quite wet, I retreated to the tent, ready to concede defeat. 

If you've sensed there is a fairy tale ending to this story, you won't be disappointed.

Thumbs up!

On the down side, the umbrella was left reeking of smoke. As were all my clothes and everything in the bag the umbrella was later shoved in. 3 months on and after a hose down and being left out in the sun, the brolly is still a scented memento of an interesting road trip.

E.A.

* Apologies for seeming like I'm interviewing myself. I slipped back into the North American style of asking myself a question then answering it.

Set your face for disappointment

May 28, 2013

I had one of those nights last week when everything is left by the wayside (including dinner) because I was sucked into a movie. I’m not a huge movie fan- there’s something about sitting down for two or so hours (unless it’s with a book) that feels like time wasting.

But it was Ghostbusters 2, a childhood favourite that I watched countless times at my grandparents’ house (a VCR was a luxury not afforded to us).

It was fun yelling “We’ve been there!” at the landmarks but it also served to remind us of one of the most underwhelming experiences: New Year’s Eve in Times Square.

The old Times Square ball.

A timeline of NYEs

January 1st, 2011 12 am: drunk in a Paris park watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle no differently to every other hour of the night. “Imagine being in Times Square,” I said. “Let’s do it!” Almost at the end of a UK working holiday, we had vague notions of doing it again in Canada.

January 1^st, 2012 12 am: tipsy on a grassy hill in Marion Bay, Tasmania, watching the Kooks wrap up their set at the Falls Festival. “I wonder where we’ll be next New Year’s Eve,” I said. “Times Square?” Having paid off Europe-laden credit cards, we were beginning to squirrel away again with a less vague notion of Canada.

January 1^st, 2013 12 am: stone cold sober in Times Square watching the confetti sprinkle down six blocks away.

We weren’t going to attempt it. I’d done some research and discovered the fun police rules for a Spartan NYE. You weren’t allowed bags or drinks. But why would you drink when there aren’t any toilets?

The arrogance is quite endearing ­– ‘we know you’re going to come anyway so why should we bother?’

Our other option was to go to a New York ‘party’ at a pub with an open bar and free party favors. Party favors seemed to be the clincher on each ad. What the hell is a party favor?

Can you see? Me neither

On the off chance you didn’t want to hover awkwardly behind people sitting at the bar, tickets for these parties averaged around a couple of hundred dollars. Reminiscent of being a skinny kid at an all-you-can-eat, an open bar is kind of wasted on me. I could picture myself trying to get my money’s worth of grog and the elegant image of singing Auld Lang Syne into the toilet bowl. I’m sure the acoustics are great in the dunny though.

In the end we were sold on the idea of Times Square by the rather kooky guesthouse owner’s fairly logical advice: You’re here, you may as well. A lot of strategic planning went into the night. Following our trip to the laundromat (I was out of clean undies and didn’t want to bring in 2013 wearing swimmers), we cooked a spaghetti bolognaise for linner around 4pm, deliberately dehydrated ourselves and