I’m checking out Jasper, the bear’s paw, a queue of humans following the trail of crumbs, hunting down cinnamon buns.
Town is too busy for my liking; I need to liberate myself.
My escape car is parked up around the corner, by the station – if only I could remember where I left it.
When I wake up, it’s on the other side of the train tracks, passing the lumber yard in my rental car, heading south on the 93A … the road less travelled, but still with way too many slow-going RVs.
Following the Athabasca River, which is mainly hidden from view, somewhere behind the trees.
We all emerge at Athabasca Falls, conveniently located at the junction with the 93, the Icefields Parkway.
Everyone elbows out, to catch a glimpse of a waterfall I’ve seen before – except for the spiral swirl at the top, that’s new. And pretty damn strange.
1960s concrete underpasses and overpasses, not quite blending in with the surrounding scenery.
Too much, too much.
Even the rare peaks of mountains are saying this, deep in the afternoon gloom of a liquid lunch which is threatening to engulf them.
Further south, as the Columbia Icefield shrinks, the visitor numbers grow.
I bypass the Skywalk, the Visitor Centre, the Brewster sightseers – straight to the glacier for the loop trail.
The only movement visible to the human eye is all of the humans gathered here walking around in circles, chased around by a semi-vicious wind that whips down the valley in surprise gusts.
This is where things Stop Making Sense. A guy in a baseball cap and an oversize jacket, with two associates, gawping at tiny people in the distance, all rushing towards the moving ice floe.
In the 1980s, we might be buried in the ice, right here, pushing up wildflowers with our pick axes.
Today, the assembly line of tourists arrive and depart in rental cars, tour buses and campervans.
Some people pay good money to get a private escorted tour directly onto the glacier itself, and all I’m thinking is … that surely can’t be doing it any good. And what can they see on the glacier that we can’t see from the trail, is my thought.
Looking out towards Mount Andromeda and Mount Athabasca, in the shadow of giants of nature – putting us all firmly in our place.
Mine is back in my rental, and back onto a highway which is slow going, especially when the sight of a bear in the undergrowth creates a two-way traffic jam on either side of the road.
It’s a cub, yet even at a young age already well-trained in terrifying a small crowd – a sudden but well-timed move towards the assembled wildlife rubberneckers eliciting loud shrieks, and for some no doubt requiring a prompt change of underwear.
Onwards to snowcapped viewpoints, clouds drifting in to merge with the peaks from time to time.
Moody skies only serve to increase the drama.
The bad weather occasionally conspires to ruin the view, yet somehow manages to dress it up in a more sinister, gothic outlook.
Green-hued lakes appear from time to time to provide a little colour, further intensity.
At other times, the snow and the clouds melt together into the same atmosphere, so it’s difficult to tell where the landscape ends and the sky begins.
The histrionics of nature, in action, right in front of me.
Both cloud and snow collapsing down the mountainside as one, with the road appearing to to be heading directly into this scenic mess.
When the Icefields Parkway meets the Trans Canada Highway, just north of Lake Louise, I head west.
Following the train line along the valley and alongside Kicking Horse River, eventually dropping down by dual carriageway into the spiral scratch highway, and then sharp left into Golden.
I’m checking in with the dreamcatchers, the full-time loungers, the clique artists, with a view of the mountains.
Throwing on my cowboy boots for a trip to the saloon, where I’m served a butter chicken rice bowl sitting on a stool, right by the pool table; washing it down with a strong IPA and then launching my glass out of the window … as if.
The duel, when it happens, is a non-starter.
A man in a trucker’s cap, drunk, stumbles away from the bar, and over to the pool table, challenging the incumbents to no-one knows what.
Proceeds to place the balls directly into the pockets with his hands, forgetting his cue and the whole point of the game.
For my entertaiment, there is no cover charge.
Shouts a few nonsensical commands to no-one in particular, then gets told some home truths by the barmaid.
This sees him stagger back to his seat at the bar, chastised and learned. But still served another whisky … one for the road.
Outside in the falling light, dogs loitering, wandering – straight into a western scene.
In BC tonight: mustangs, colts; loaded, made equal.
An Outside World 