21 July

Pick a mountain, any mountain – in Fernie, in the Rockies, they’re all in full view today.

Overseeing the town like sheriffs who’ve ridden in overnight, after a heavy session out west … a curiously aloof authority, which invites investigation.

With the cheerless clouds having moved on to bother other more remote landscapes, today shapes up to be a kind of mountain battle in the bright sunshine and rising summer heat.

Batman mocks us from over there, on the other side of the valley, up on the Lizard Range. Stay cool, Fernie, stay beautiful – way down there, way down where.

On the difficult trail, through the forest, zig-zagging up increasingly steep paths, clambering over thick roots and immovable rocks. The trees sure as hell don’t care.

At an opening in the forest, an improbable meadow, with views of the grid-format town, clinging to the river miles down below.

On a terrace, but still going up and up and getting higher and higher, pulling my deadweight body over boulders and clambering up cliffs and crawling over scree-covered slopes.

This is one of those mountains that’s still being built – a myth, a story, a dream; the one where we’re all continually pushing our lives to a non-existent summit.

Somewhere near there, a bench – wonky, semi-collapsed, a bit like me – with a tree partially blocking the very serious view.

And I have no idea where everyone has gone who was on the trail as I made my way up.

Maybe they’re all hiding on the other side of the peak, on the other side of Mount Heart Attack, lying in wait to take me by surprise, to catch me off-guard.

Suddenly a local appears, literally jogging towards me, with eyes more on his stopwatch than the precarious path or the breathtaking view.

He’s raced up the goddamn mountain, and in personal best time … to which I add – Ha! As have I.

Offers advice on how to continue – along the narrow ridge to the right, or advancing on the path to Windy Pass, which apparently is a gentle hike after the heavy incline and heavier efforts required just to reach this crooked bench.

As the sign indicates the trail is not ended, I opt for a continuation of the struggle. When my head is practically in the clouds, it’s difficult to think straight … nevermind walk straight.

Lunch is down in the pass with no-one else around and the most spectacular outlook … joy of all joys. Complete silence, too.

This is midday isolation in the Rocky Mountains, providing a special kind of perfection, and possibly the best goddamn snack stop ever.

My own private room with a view.

So I’m forced to remain here for a good half hour, if for no other reason than nature has presented the most outrageous picture to me; and possibly for my eyes only, today.

Without transport at the other end, the slow, meandering backtrack.

Hikers loitering at the wobbly bench now, some throwing their hiking boots away – totally wild.

On the initial descent, the path seems to disappear from under me, the mountain gently mocking and questioning my every move. It hits back, leaving me slightly bloodied and decidedly used.

Takes me a further twenty minutes to find the right route.

And then I’m getting in the way of the man, who as always thinks faster on his feet.

Finally below the tree line again, where the other one who is hard of hearing, wants a cold beer, but never quite aware of who exactly is talking to him. Voices will follow him down the mountain.

The path inevitably becomes longer on the way back down, and hotter, and hotter.

When we emerge into level ground, it turns out we’ve parked our same cars in the same place, and none of us are at a pub or a brewery.

Fortunately salvation for me is up the main highway, at Fernie Brewing Co, where it’s like being up north – true north.

It’s Yorkshire on tour as a tourist resort, with bright blue skies and a shitload of bikes.

I sit with Laurie from Detroit, who is busy running her business from here over the summer, while brainstorming in the brewery tap. Where her partner Cameron fits into this is unclear, however I go with it.

We all drink the 60/60 session ale and exchange stories and tall tales and snippets of info which combined with the cold ale in the hot sun make us feel like something approaching cheery.

I retire to downtown for an Alberta beef dip, taking it like a man, on the decking in the middle of the road; listening out for horses hooves and any incoming gunslingers shouting the odds.

Tonight, it’s only the barstaff trotting around, keeping order, minding their PDQs.

Under fading light, in historic downtown, I need a saga.

When nothing presents itself, I wander the streets and find myself back at the Raging Elk, getting friendly in the corner with a craft ale.