On the other side of the blinds – on the other side of Mount Heart Attack – life is Golden.
By Kicking Horse River, we cower in the shadow of six National Parks, unsure of how to play this … unsure of how to plan the day.
Doubt circles my car, but doesn’t get in.
I head west along the TCH – one out of one, under falling water, a crying fountain.
Motoring up an apparently famous mountain pass, through monotonous speed restrictions, to Revelstoke National Park (the smallest of the six), and a queue for the rally stage going up to the summit (slowest wins) – the Meadows in the Sky Parkway.
Halfway up, we’re gazing down to the playmat of a toy town, and things which may or may not be happening on the other side of the turquoise river, up the valley.
Heads in the clouds today, dreaming of grizzlies, ghosts, sunlight, flowers.
To get to the lake is to escape the ill-prepared picnic crowds, flailing around in water-soaked skies, shuffling along narrow trails.
This is high altitude spooky business, gasping for air … struggling to stay visible, striving to stay viable.
These are moody scenes which can’t be easily boxed and taken away.
And all around me, unreliable witnesses – those who take the best spots.
Descending through the rainforest trees, a meadow, the forgettables. Everything drenched. Vague impressions of a mountain landscape.
Bringing me out to the unnecessary parking lot and the unmanned gazebo, both of which are classified and catalogued as National Parks artefacts.
Lorded over by sharply-pointed trees, dark green beacons in the murk, high priests of nature’s cool.
I’m glad I only catch sight of the bear alert sign on my way out, rather than on my way in.
Backtracking along Highway 1, a return to Golden life.
A slow trudge through low mist, incessant rain and too-frequent roadworks, on what was sold to me by my guidebook as one of the most stunning mountain pass drives in the world. Not today!
Back in town, a brewery seems to have been built overnight, and all the young dudes are lapping it up.
In wild scenes, folk are lining up with wheelbarrows to cart their growlers away.
I’ve not brought a dolly along with me, so instead take a four-beer sampler on a paddle, a flight, direct from the bar.
This is a kicking horse night out on the town, painting it red.
Refreshed, I head back to the scene of the crime – the raucous saloon – for a large ale and the other rice bowl.
There is no free entertainment this evening, so for kicks I go and check out the longest free-standing timber frame bridge in the whole of the goddamn country.
And it’s a work of art, a monument to the trees – guarded at one end by small groups of local teenagers, and at the other end by gossiping dog-walkers.
I head back to the hostel to find the door open – the horse has bolted.
An Outside World 