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.

Photobombing Vintage Style

Where: Navy Pier (Chicago, IL) 
When: June 2013 (extended route back to Toronto after Bonnaroo festival)
What: Possibly the world's first photobomb.

I'll save you the time... according to Wikipedia, Navy Pier is a 3,300 foot pier on the Chicago shoreline of Lake Michigan. Built in 1916,  Navy Pier is Chicago's number one tourist attraction.

Perhaps tourist trap is more fitting but what the hey, it was a beautiful early summer's day on sparkling Lake Michigan. Of course we were going to hang out at the water (particularly as Toronto's waterfront is so cleverly blocked by condos). 

There was quite an interesting historical element to Navy Pier, if you looked hard enough through the overpriced memorabilia. I was particularly taken by the following photograph from 1921.

A few headlines sprang to mind when I saw this picture...

"Woman wins Apathy of the Year Award- Rewarded with bouquet shoved into sash"

"Wind changes during I'm a Little Teapot recital"

"World's first recorded Photobomb"

It's not until you read the caption closely that a whole new level of intrigue arises.

Mayor William Hale Thompson (that's the teapot guy) with Evelyn Slader, Queen of the Stockyard Districts (must be the cardboard cutout on the left), and one of the contestants for Queen of the Pageant of Progress, 1921. Who...? I must have it the wrong way around. Perhaps it's this way:

Or maybe the caption writer was as short changed for time like the content writers at my work who have been known to write "human not included" in a catalogue disclaimer.

E.A.

Tennessee: Twang and Tornadoes

Toronto to Tennessee: the first leg of the 'Fallopian Tube' road trip

When I told my mum I was driving to Tennessee, she casually asked (in that downplayed frantic mother fashion) about tornadoes. "Oh no, it's not a tornado region," I reassured. I wasn't just making her feel better- I really did think tornadoes were only in Tornado Alley.

Down the I65 we cruised, full from a surprisingly decent White Castle meal where after six attempts at saying, "Combo 15" we'd had a nice conversation with the cashier who, like everyone else we met in Kentucky and Tennessee, insisted we all have a good day now. I found the southern niceness pleasantly cliched, but coming from the North-East, I was almost suspicious of such frank friendliness: were they really just making fun of my accent?

We were an hour outside of Nashville when we saw the storm clouds: a huge mass of indigo with white wisps to show just how dark the rest of the clouds were. We marvelled at how we'd driven straight onto the set of Twister. We summoned our best Bill Paxton buffoon voices, "Dorothy's gotta fly!"

"They don't actually get tornadoes down here to do they?"
"Nah, she'll be right."

In Nashville, we checked into one of the crummiest hotels I've ever seen. I'm still chasing the money that they offered to refund because they let somebody else in our room, leaving us locked out at 1am. It seems their idea of a refund is an accidental charge of the refunded amount. Gotta love paying extra for the experience!

Our room was on the ground level of of three storeys. We drew the curtains to hide from the loitering permies * and checked out some local TV. All the stations were crossed to special weather broadcasts, tracking the tornadoes that had touched down where we'd just driven through. "If you know anyone driving on the I65, tell them to get off and seek shelter." We gawked at the TV. Nashville was now on tornado alert for the evening.


What to do when your plans for a birthday bender** in honky tonk bars are looking grim? You sit in your hotel room and drink beer of course. To quell my silly notion that drinking probably wasn't the safest thing to do under the circumstances, we practised hiding in our safe place under the sink (not a typical household bathroom sink). The beers came too.

The threat eased eventually and we made it out where I discovered:

a) honky tonk doesn't mean Jerry Lee Lewis
smashing out on a piano

c) "Burgers and chips" means just that: potato chips, not fries

d) You shouldn't stand on Elvis

E.A.

* permies = people who live permanently at the hotel
** the use of 'bender' is to insinuate that I am somewhat cooler than I am.

A Tale of Two Border Crossings

July 6, 2013

ONE

What were we thinking? I still can’t believe I let us get into the situation we found ourselves in at the border.

Why am I directing the blame onto myself? Because I’m the natural born (and self appointed) organiser of the duo. But on top of getting ready for the two week / eight state road trip, I was also working 40+hr weeks and attempting to finish university for the semester. I also needed to find a birthday present for my sidekick- a low cost present that is still nice for a 30th and practical for travel (i.e. a BBQ was out of the question). Somewhere in that madness, I forgot the wisdom that is looking presentable at a border crossing.

footwear to impress

Into the customs office we trooped; me in a hoodie and green sneakers, my sidekick in a faded lime green footy jersey and thongs. He was also rocking the haven’t-shaved-for-a-week look with hair so far past a cut but still a long way from a trendy ‘roughing it’ style. In our defence, we had left at 7am on a Sunday and we were dressed for comfort to ease the 20 hr trip ahead. It’s safe to say that border officials don’t give a shit about your comfort.

The dude at the tollbooth was probably the best. I want to call him stern, but it’s not the right word. He just didn't smile. I don’t expect border officials to smile but he spoke like a normal person would, just lacking the facial muscles required to alter from a Terminator seriousness.

“Where are you going?”
"Tennessee.”
“What’s down there?”
“A music festival.”
“When does it start?”
“Tuesday.” Sweating, hoping we didn't accidentally mention we were volunteering (read as working).
“Do you have anything to declare? Alcohol?”
“No. What idiot would buy alcohol in Canada?”
“Fruit?”
“We have four apples.”
“You’re going to a music festival with apples and no alcohol?”
“Yes.”
“How much money do you have on you?”
“Twenty bucks.”
“You’re going to a music festival with apples and twenty bucks?”
“Where are you staying tonight?”
“We don’t know yet. You know, travelling free- Jack Kerouac style.”
“Better come up with something before you get in the office.”

The customs building was a like a portable classroom from the 70s: cramped, loud and a lot of slacking off going on. There were way too many officers but it still took an hour to get processed- probably because there were about seventeen steps*.

First, there was confusion about a clipboard and a green form, mostly about the clipboard though and whether or not we had a pen (the ownership of our Royal Bank of Canada pen was questioned as we left). They should give a Fast Pass to people who bring their own pen.

How we appeared.

The main room was full, and as standing/being vertical is aggressive, we had to sit in a bizarre triangular room tacked onto the office. We listened hard for our names above the conversations and testosterone. We thought we heard it so we tripped our way through the chairs. 

Our man, Ginger Meggs, didn’t hesitate to let us know how many times he’d called our name. I apologised. He looked at our form. He chastised us about our address: Motel 6, I65 Nashville. “You need the exact address.” I apologised. He chastised us for not filling out the bottom section under an OFFICE USE ONLY heading. I apologised. He screwed up his baby face and glared at us with such intense derision that I wondered if he would need botox to get the creases out. I was glad that my life’s purpose, to make his day hard, had been fulfilled.

We sat back down in the triangle. We glared at the people making all the noise. I began to panic that without knowing, I’d become a drug dealer and stashed a kilo of coke behind a panel in our rental car.
We were called back. Ginger Meggs flicked through our Canadian work permits. Just touching them was an insult to the bald eagle.

“What do you do for work?”

“I work in admin.”

“But where?!”

I told him.

“What’s that?”

“Commercial real estate.”

“What about you.”

“I’m a store person.”

“A what?”

“A store person.”

“What’s a stope som?

“Yeah, I’d be interested in that answer too,” the officer slouched next to him asked, spitting tobacco into the dust and eyeing us suspiciously from under the rim of his cowboy hat.

“A store-per-son.” We laughed nervously. A red light flashed above our heads, WE HAVE SOMETHING TO HIDE.

“Why didn’t you just say that then?”

“I’m speaking the same language, douche bag.”

We found a seat in the main office. I made mention of penis sizes then worried Ginger Meggs had supersonic hearing. I wondered if they’d discovered the weaponry stashed in the spare tyre. He called us up again, using an exceptionally loud voice for the metre distance. I paid him $12 for his time. I scanned my thumb, four fingers, thumb, four fingers. I looked into the webcam.
Only the thumb of my sidekick was scanned. 
“Are you stupid or something? I said look into the webcam.”
“What about my other fingers?”
“I’m doing it differently ‘cause I want you to feel like an idiot. I got beat up in high school OK and I’m also feeling threatened by your ginger beard. I’m the only ginger in the village.”

We got back in the car and paid a toll (unofficial extra border fee?). “Welcome to America,” I said into the smog of Detroit’s industrial outskirts.


TWO

3am local time.

We had been driving straight since leaving Chicago at 6:30pm. We were the only car at the crossing.

“Hello.” The border official poked his head out the window.

“Hi, how are you?”

“I’m great! I see you have Ontario plates, welcome back!”

“Thanks.”

“Which part of Canada do you folks live in?” He looked briefly at our permits and passports.

“Toronto.”

“Did you buy or sell anything in the states?”

“We bought beer.”

“How many cases you got back there?

“About 15 cans.”

“Oh so only what you couldn’t drink eh?”

“Yeah.” We all laugh. “Pretty sad really.”

“Have a good night guys.”

E.A

*prone to hyperbole.

NB some facts may have been embellished to fit my memory. For the sake of accuracy, I have indicated these in yellow.