24 July

We are all breakfast deserters in a remote log cabin, watched over by a family of grizzlies, on CCTV. Je ne regrette rien.

Breakfast in silence: Carol, departed; Rosa, gone. Jamie, a mute icon – hunched over a tablet and a bowl of porridge, semi-broken.

In the lounge is Peter who never changes, a feather in his cap, going fishing with his electric salmon … which is funny up to the point where I’m wondering if he’s pulling my leg.

Either way, by the time he presents me with the bill for my accommodation, I’m not laughing anymore.

Up the winding road, the Kananaskis village trail which circles the upmarket tourist resort, and the path which goes nowhere.

Offers up some jagged views beyond the pristine golf course.

I do the strand – soaking it all up under the sinking thought that there are angry clouds approaching from the west, looking to submerge us today.

Rain. My favourite game in Highway 40.

Today I’m most definitely going incognito.

Rain, torrential, now blurring out all of the mountains, hiding them from view behind thick veils of fast-moving mist and occasionally violent downpours.

At times, the only thing visible in front of the windscreen is the road immediately in front of the headlights.

Things have changed. I can feel myself moving into a version of Scottish fiction / Scottish friction.

If you’re a bear you could get away with murder up here today, is my thought.

I pull in at the Upper Lake Visitor Centre, to find the entrance to the building partially blocked by discarded umbrellas; and an interactive display full of daytrippers and families escaping the heavy showers, glumly trudging around with water falling off them, leaving puddles on the carpet.

Upper Lake is a reservoir, well-stocked right now.

The few of us who have made it here are dodging the gloomy weather, jumping out of our rental cars when the coast is clear.

And then we run for cover … even though there’s little chance of escape from a comprehensive drenching.

Eventually, I call time. To find a moose down the pass, busy eating the scenery. Can’t be arsed shifting it’s arse out of the ditch.

Chomping away, throwing over comical glances every time a car drives past. Moose are wind-up merchants. Like Peter the fisherman with a feather in his cap.

Through a cloaked landscape, the dull drive to Banff along the Trans Canada Highway, where a Ram has vaulted the barriers, in an attempt to become a part of the backdrop. The police are busy clearing up the mess.

Shortly afterwards, Highway 1 is once again transforming into a mobius strip of road, twisting everyone around at 90kph.

I arrive upside down at Tunnel Mountain; small wonder that I can’t find my hostel.

I end up driving around downtown, mouth ajar, stunned at the unbelievable crowds. Following a Canadream RV, thinking: Cananightmare. Too many people.

And no place to stop and admire the scenery … it may as well not exist and quite possibly it doesn’t in amongst the frequent heavy showers and darkened skies.

Reversing back up the tunnel to a lookout populated by many coach parties … too much, too much.

It’s on this second go-around I find the hostel … drove right past it on the first attempt – presumably distracted by the aspect or the prospect of spending a night in the same place as thousands of other people.

Find myself in an Alpine lodge for rootless explorers, a laundry opportunity, and a very small very expensive single bedroom – a closet existence, barely any room to swing a cat.

When I’m done with that, I’m rolling down the mountain as a pedestrian with no purpose, no objective, other than to command a beer and a plate of hot food.

The tourist crowds have not thinned.

We spend a good part of the evening waiting at pedestrian crossings, staring at nowhere in particular.

Everyone is very patient … to be an ambler gambler here is to be sneered at, to be held in contempt.

I’m wandering semi-aimlessly, going around in circles in straight lines, which should not be possible. I blame Escher for this, but then he’s not landed in Banff searching for alcoholic respite / refreshment.

Which somewhat unsurprisingly can be found in a 1970s shopping mall (upstairs).

Roam if you want to – roam around the CBD. Roam if you want to – without beers, without wings. In a Microbus.

In the brewery co, surrounded by TV screens and wildlife, some of which is being eaten.

I take an elk pie and a large ale – a Show Pony. And, bizarrely, lots of cheese, and some token shrubbery.

Surrounding me, ice hockey games and branded merchandise.

Outside, the hordes are dispersing, albeit very slowly.

On a sidestreet, in a shop window display … ‘Look like a girl, act like a lady, think like a man, work like a boss’.

Which is equal parts creepy, unlikely, baffling, nonsensical.

Plus, it doesn’t help me cross the road any quicker.

I return to my hostel, for a beer in the basement bar, puzzling over how to think like a damn man.

I send a postcard home in the hope of receiving some answers back.