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.

Banff or Bust... part 1

If any city needs a by-pass it has to be Calgary. If Kenora can have a by-pass why this city can not is beyond logic. Rolling into the city on the heavily traveled hwy 1 I bring my cruising speed down a considerable amount. If feels Like I am crawling. I am hardly moving, the city is congested with traffic made worse by the vast amounts of construction that dominate the city scape.

Before I left home I removed a large duffel from the car and placed it in my parents living room. "Can you ship this out to me in a month?" I ask. My parents eagerly agree, blissfully unaware that I have ample room for the bag. I cleared out the bag and compressed a few items in order to keep the passenger seat clear. For the first two days of my voyage the empty seat provided a stable platform for Cd's snacks and a slew of books and journals.

my motives for keeping the seat clear were far more complex, almost sinister and indeed self serving. I kept the seat vacant to allow for the possibility of a passenger. I am a voyeur and I desired deep down to fill the seat with a vagabonding voyager. I want to interact, to converse to learn. Every hitchhiker has a story, a reason, an excuse as to why they have the their thumb out and back to the wind.

I hitched many rides during my previous exploits in the western provinces and every trip was an enriching experience for my self. You learn about lives and hear stories, life lessons are taught and beliefs and values are shared. Sitting beside a stranger for hours on end leads even the most introverted individual on a journey of self exploration.

I scored a ride from Canmore to golden once. It was a tiny blue hatchback, the driver in his thirty's was tall and thin, his hair prematurely grey. We talked about life, his ex wife and further strife. We were both on the same stretch of road but for very different reasons. Above all I remember the other passenger in the vehicle that day. With his back seat full, a hatchback fully packed. I rode shotgun with a rotweiler puppy, only a few weeks old, with a full set of teeth. The little guy gnawed at my hands, my feet, my leg and occasionally to shots at my groin. New teeth razor sharp easily penetrated my denim leggings and took chunks from my leather boots. The discomfort added to the ambiance. The scene was set in a way I couldn't have dreamed off. The trip was real, it was interesting and invigorating.

My subconscious desired to recreate this scene, not exactly not to the letter, more of a sequel than remix. The subconscious desire for discomfort and discovery, this is what drove me to leave my front seat empty. This is dreamy desire lead me to Calgary, it lead my Chrysler Concord to the side of HWY 1,  and  above all it lead Marc from the side of the road into my car.

Coffee to Calgary

After a cold night under the stars in Medicine Hat I am craving coffee. I pack my tent and sleeping bag into the car without care. My last night on the road behind me combining with a cool Alberta breeze are potent motivators. As I pull out of the tiny treed refuge on the parries the vastness is over whelming. Wide sky's, long horizons, dotted with distant train cars, hay bails and never ending telephone lines. I pull over on a small dirt road and snap a few shots for posterity. Its 630 all I really want is coffee.

Driving down the highway I drift off into a hazy, creamy coffee dream. I think of how good the truck stop coffee will be. Memories of road moves with the military bring warm memories of thick coffee and chemically softened, prepackaged danishes.

"Shit" The car swerves rapidly into the other lane without my attention. I am not falling asleep and drifting off the road as I had feared. My subconscious is a better driver than I had realized. In the midst of my caffeine dream my body took control from my brain and avoided the cattle truck that carelessly pulled out in front of my speeding concord.

With death nearly averted I refocus my attention to the road. Panning the horizon from right to left, I am alert, am awake, I really need this coffee. They say scanning the horizon from right to left allows you to notice things better. It has something to do with how we read, your eyes are accustom to moving from left to right. By reversing the process your brain is forced to pay greater attention to the environment. I am not sure how truthful this statement is, but within moments I had spotted my objective. Peeking over the distant horizon, the bright read maple leaf of Petro Canada advertised gasoline at 91 cents per liter. The sign, the beacon, my guiding light also implicitly advertised coffee.

I patently wait as two truck drivers debate who will by this round off coffee. They fill their cups and move to the cream counter. In true western fashion the large cup is larger than any extra large or venti coffee I have ever seen, I doubt the extra large styrofoam cup will even fit in my cup holder. Turning around to sweeten my bean water I wait again. The men discuss the merits of different routs as the dump ungodly amounts of sugar into their gigantic tubs of coffee. Finally the move over and allow me access to what I have been dreaming of, cream, Flavored cream. and then disappointment set in.  I was overwhelmed, the coffee smelt so good, so warm, so awakening. But I had dreamed of flavored cream for the past 97 kilometers of highway.

The truckers move off to admire the NASCAR jackets hanging on the back wall. I reluctantly load up on regular cream, to make up for the loss of flavor I utilize the 18%. As I turn toward the counter in disappointment, I notice the men donning jackets in the back of the store. Their faces as long as mine when the DeWalt NASCAR jacket they have pawing over proves to small for either of them. We quietly wait in line to pay for our addiction, the air is filled with disappointment and the smell of cow manure. Pulling out of the truck stop we head in opposite directions down highway 1, my next stop will be Calgary perhaps some flavor will find me there.

Backgammon

Despite rules made in my name, my backgammon skills tend to be bellow par. Hours and hours of Internet backgammon charge me with of self confidence and false hope. There was a time when I questioned if I was playing against a person or computer. I have come to conclude that I have been playing against a consortium of inept Internet users, and backgammon "nubes".

Internet versions of the game prove to be nothing more than waste of time, a time waster. When I sit up at night with the curtains drawn and the door closed, gazing into the ever-bright light of my LCD screen, I think I am improving my play. In fact I am doing nothing but waiting, killing time, killing my skill ....and kill my vision.

James has been a worthy adversary. His bare handed rolls and long slow pulls of hookah smoke bring an enchanting romance to the table. Hitting the hookah for a moment to think, to pause, to play; boardgames and mind games. James and I have battled, tit for tat, for years. He wins, I win, he wins I win. These matches boost confidence in ways beyond the Internet . During virtual play my greatest accomplishments are victories over "expert" players in "Arabic" languages.

James has sought the teachings of great Arabic players. Spending many nights in crowded coffee shops. The combination of thick, dirty, coffee and the sweet hookah smoke tunes your brain. Caffeine and nicotine combine in nearly lethal doses, your mind shuts down..you become the dice, the board, the checkers,  you are the back. During each engagement I feel James, his power being channeled through stimulants and smoke.

I lite up the hookah, charging it with a few heavy pulls. The tobacco is from India, James smuggled it into the country in a brick of hash ... or perhaps the hash came in side the tobacco, regardless. The hookah is unstable, ashes float off into the air and settle in the corners of the board. The games is intense we are tied 2-2 in a  five game match. Its down to the wire, suddenly there is a drastic shift in my favor. James is on the back, several checkers are  teetering on the back. Backgammon seems so far away, I require back to back doubles.

The hookah smoke filling the room excites me. My hand feels light, the dice are enchanted. Doubles followed by Doubles. James falls victim to the Backgammon, for the first time (out side of the digital realm). We sit back , James in shock, I in awe  too busy to realize that I have won, the outcome is so amazing ,so unexpected, so devastating.

In The Cold Cold Ground

In December of 2004 James Empringham left his home at High St and returned to the streets of Port Cred(it). While James slept all warm in his bed, visions of visions danced in our heads. Shortly after we buried a small tin. "Repeater Tobacco" was barley legible on the side of the battered, tattered tin, found in the basement just days ago. The tin, the capsule, the vesicle of salvation would not, could not be (safe) within our reach.

In the ground, under a tree a the... three, 9 , 6. High, st soon will be occupied and the tin will repeat.

Understand? Watch the Video

Hey! Ho! Lets GO!

An Open Letter to my Friends,

I am packed. Everything I need, everything I don't, is stuffed into the Chrysler. The trunk requires physical motivation to engage, the back passenger door functions only with the assistance of my hip. Despite warnings and scoldings ( from those in my life authorized to deliver them) the front seat is empty. Riding shot gun with me west will be a few books and my camera. The tripod is perched alongside the passenger seat, falling neatly into the groves left by my grandfathers cane. The potential for a passengers is present, time to repay the karmic pot. 

My blog frequently changes names, the layout is manipulated, colors are swapped out. From time to time I ignore the Blog...locked in the attic like a red headed stepchild. I have said it before and I will say it again; I WILL keep the page up to date.

I don't plan on returning home any time soon. The possibility of a January trip is on the horizon, a post Christmas visit. I welcome everyone, all of you ... even those I do not know ... I invite the voyeuristic blogger linked accidentally, I invite the individual that stumbled upon the site as a result of poor Google ability, I invite you, my friends to come ..to visit .. to live. My door (once I get one) is open.

Peace and Much love Thunder Bay.

Chris Crawford

Fixator Fixation

August 25th seemed like a happy day until August 25th arrived. No anesthetic, no bedside manor, no "OK this is going to hurt". The titanium bar holding bone fragments together and its accompanying pins were ripped out with tools from the garage.  Writing does the deed little justice, the videos are attached.

Video 1     Video 2    Video 3     Video 4    Video 5     Video 6

HWY 1 Revisited

I have traveled west as many times as I have traveled east. I have been to Alberta and BC more times than I can count; I have been to Quebec once (the Maritimes not at all). 

 

The journey begins in 2 days. CAA plainly describes the voyage as “30 Hours Driving Time”, the comment appears in bold face text on the last page of my ‘trip tick’. At the end of the journey for CAA is accumulated driving time, I hope to find more.

The trek takes me cross-country not for leisure not for pleasure, but for life. I have traveled the road by car and by bus, I have seen it from the air, and dreamt of it in my sleep. Never have I been excited for the voyage, long days over flat land, burning into endless horizons. This trip is different, this trip is directional, functional, purposefully planned over 4 days to extend … my self.

I have no agenda, maps remain wrapped. The clean cellophane package preserves their integrity, no directions will be lost. I will leave on Sunday morning, there will be cold wet dew covering my car. I will have to use the heater for the first few hours. My car, the concord, flying at the speed of sound from Mecca to Mecca, is filled with everything I own. I will spend the nights out side, under the stars.

Success of my journey will not be measured in miles, or minutes. Results will result as the result of reading, writing, and worship. Book finished, journal full , mind in tranquility I will arrive. I will start a new book, write in a new journal, and begin life as my self.