Cold Mountain: Banff or Bust .. part 2

The highway is hardly wide enough for my car, the shoulder doesn't exist, the curb is high. At one time this may have been a good place to hitch a ride, toady in the midst of construction and detours its probably the worst. I slam on the breaks and bring my heavily loaded stead to a halt in front of a construction barricade. He slings his pack over one shoulder, folds his cardboard sign under his arm and runs, awkward and off balance, towards his ride.

The car is full with exception to the front seat and a small section in the back that allows me to see out my rear window. I pop the door open from the inside, as the tall lanky Frenchman pokes his head in. "you going to Banff?" he asks with a smile thicker than his accent. We cram his pack in the back, blocking my only rear view. The pack fits perfectly, as if it had been designed to squeeze between milk crates and duffel bags.

The front seat was brought fully forward prior to my departure, this provides ample room in the rear for my mess of gear. Conversely the forward facing seat robs legroom from my passenger. He is well over 6ft tall, his body folded in half, knees in his face and shins against the dash. Its a tight fit, but the right fit, I am going to Banff.

We shake hands and introduce our selves before I pull back onto the highway. He is wearing a large black bob Marley T, and loose fitting hemp pants. Around his neck he sports a classic row of hemp and large wood beads covered partly by a loose scarf. The car smells like its french. The odour is not overwhelming nor disgusting, its more of a European travelers musk. Later my new friend confessed he has been without bath since Montreal, no doubt his dread locks, musty and rat-nested atop his head, add to the aroma.

Initially I thought he was Quebecois. The francos have a strange fascination with western Canada. Several summers ago I was immersed in french Canadian culture, invited to St. Jean Baptist day celebration in the outskirts of Canmore. No one at the party celebrates Canada day I am told, this is it, Quebec day. But my new friend, Marc, is not Quebecois at all he is truly french... from France even.

He has spent the last few weeks in Montreal and started hitching west just days ago. We exchange small talk, as he struggles with his English (which was rather good) I struggle through his accent. Scanning radio stations we conclude that everyone in Calgary must be a cowboy. Country music is off both of our radar. Marc Pulls a mini disk player from his pocket and asks if I like reggae.Before long Damian Marley is singing us out of Calgary, smooth beats drive us into the foot hills. Its Banff or Bust.