|
“The problem with Canada,” I muttered, “is that
it’s a big place but nobody lives there.” That’s also part of its charm, but it
sure makes planning a road trip a challenge.
Many years ago a buddy and I
traveled the United States for three months with only a vague notion of where
we’d land from one day to the next and still covered 44 states with ease. With
fewer than 30 million people spread over a landmass larger than the U.S., you’d
run out of gas and starve up north without a lot more preparation.
So, reluctantly, we abandoned the road warrior
tack and planned one week in Whistler and a second split between Vancouver
(where I had a conference to attend) and Victoria.
Primarily a ski resort, Whistler makes the best
of the area’s other outdoor attractions to keep cash flowing in the summer. As
I write this I am recovering from my chiropractor’s best efforts to undo the
results of those activities; you can batter yourself about any way you please in
Whistler, and we chose several.
The worst beating came on a jet
boat tour over a rough patch of the Green River. A series of backwashes and
eddies created about a four-foot drop which our guide, Captain de Sade, hit
repeatedly until satisfied he had loosened a sufficient number of his
passenger’s teeth. An enterprising chiropractor would have done land office
business right there at the dock.
The next morning we treated
ourselves to a lower-body flogging on horseback, balanced by upper-body canoe
torture in the afternoon. My wife loves horses but would end up riding alone if
the rest of us had our way. The kids whinny worse than the horses and I got my
fill as a boy, but I eventually decided to sacrifice my rump for the good of our
marriage.
It rained all through a white
water raft trip and a fishing excursion, but the former would have soaked us
anyway and I love the latter too much to complain. Whistler Mountain still had
snow, accessible by gondola. Skiing was available nearby as late as August 6, a
smug satisfaction knowing the weather back home was breaking 100 degrees.
Frugal in daily life, we hemorrhage money on
vacation. It doesn’t help that Canadian currency looks like it came out of a
Monopoly set, though it’ll seem real enough when the Visa bill catches up.
Still, I tend to get uncharacteristically frivolous.
I seriously considered buying a Cuban cigar,
banned here but legal in Canada, for no better reason than that they were
there. I don’t smoke, especially not cigars; my last puff six years ago at the
urging of friends served to remind me why my I’d celebrated my son’s arrival
with chocolates rather than the stogies that heralded my daughter. Finally
deciding I could achieve the same general effect for free by rolling in an
ashtray and sticking my finger down my throat, I passed.
In a more impulsive moment we decided to check
out a natural hot spring we heard about while on a drive. Seeking swimwear, we
found a sale on a Technicolor explosion of bad taste you couldn’t match at a
Hawaiian shirt shop. We never got a chance to wear the things thanks to a badly
damaged tire that couldn’t be repaired, possibly God’s way of saying “If I
wanted you to look like that I’d have made you a peacock.”
Three days in Vancouver was about right. It’s
a lovely city but a city just the same to this country boy. Victoria is more to
my liking with its gardens, historical sites, and wharf-front business and
government districts.
The best part of any vacation is coming home,
and it is nice to be back. I wouldn’t mind having a little of that snow about
now, though.
© 1997- 2002 Brent Morrison
|
