chapter 74: Uncharted waters

"Burning every bridge that I cross,
To find some beautiful place to get lost."
"Let's Get Lost" - Elliott Smith

Working the rat race can really make you misplace your perspective, and sometimes the only way to find it again is to get lost. And my much-anticipated first visit to the comparatively small Maritime provinces offered ample opportunity to do that.

I slashed my way into New Brunswick on Friday, August 13th, ironically leaving my horrifying French behind. I've made a point of avoiding cities, except where I have friends to reconnect with. At the risk of becoming a cliche, the land and the open road have really become my companions. It's as close to a spiritual experience as I come.

I'm not a great tourist as far as seeing specific landmarks; I prefer to watch people and check out the landscape to really get a feel for what that place is like. I've always believed going without a plan is the best way to get somewhere you've never been.

I dutifully checked out Hopewell Rocks along the Bay of Fundy, home to the world's most active tides. A hundred billion tonnes of water flows in and out every day, a differential of four stories.

At low tide you can walk on the muddy ocean floor and see fossils, and hours later the tides erase any evidence you were ever there. It's a pretty amazing sight, but you do fight the crowds.

After leaving, I drove around aimlessly for a while, checking out this dirt road or that viewpoint, and this where I started to see the true Maritime character. Most of the time, when you tell people you're lost, they'll help - but you have to ask. Not here.

A typical exchange:
"Are you lost?" a friendly local inquires.
"I'm trying to be," I grin.
"Oh. Okay." They smile, and back away slowly.

It sounds silly, but this is how I've been able to see some amazing, secluded spots that aren't on a map. I drove down an unmarked gravel road, and came upon a beautiful private beach.

Unlike much of the country, I wasn't warned about the risk of prosecution for trespassing. A sign simply said "Enjoy our beach, but please, take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints."

And that's the kind of thing a tour company can't sell.

Chapter 73: Escape from Montreal

After a week of debauchery in Montreal, I made it out alive and headed to Quebec City. If the former is stylish, sexy, and slightly tacky, the latter is the wise matriarch of French Canada.

Beautiful, but older, and much classier. Inside the walls of 400 year-old Vieux Quebec, you still get the same feeling of protection from an attack that might come from outside. She's a beautiful sight all lit up at night, and unlike Montreal, still looks good in the morning.

The history is amazing, and once you've been there, it's impossible not to understand how Quebec could be its own country, and why we should continue to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening.

After Quebec, I spent a day driving around the Gaspe Peninsula. It's rural, struggling economically and very Francophone. If you live here, you speak French first, last and always. There were vineyards, for sale signs and little fromageries everywhere. Despite economic hardships, they aren't giving up on the old standards.

I spoke to one woman who was so serious about her cheese, the fromagerie had actually funded research at the University of Laval to engineer cultures that are not only delicious, but also help your digestive tract. I made a lame attempt at a 'cultural' double entendre. She didn't laugh. Apparently, good taste also applies to humour.

Signposts:

-Kilometres driven: 16,000+

-free cheese samples eaten: 4

-French phrases butchered: countless

chapter 72: the greg johnson reality tour

1)Saskatchewan, reunion with friends, and a less scary picture of Regina than the one painted by Macleans magazine? Check.
2)Manitoba and a beery visit with former GN colleagues in Winnipeg? Check.
3)Ontario, long distances, speeding ticket (no longer down with OPP), expensive camping at Lake Superior, Toronto friends and business connections? Check.

I rolled into Canada's coolest city last Tuesday feeling pretty good. After picking up my pal Greg in Toronto, we jumped in Silken and made for la Belle Province and Montreal, leapfrogging the 13,000 kilometre barrier in the process. I hadn't been there in 20 years, and to fully OD on Montreal's cool, it helps to have a knowledgeable tour guide. Greg spent six years in Montreal going broke while partying too much and working too little, so he seemed like the perfect man for this challenging job.

I started calling it the Greg Johnson reality tour, and it's been as disgustingly, delighfully, drunkenly debaucherous as I could have hoped.

The living situation has been interesting to say the least. We stayed one night in a half-room in a tiny apartment while the regular tenant slept on a mattress in the living room. We've been at an empty fraternity house the rest of the time. And my bike got stolen. But I've seen a few of Montreal's hottest spots, basically been drunk and smoking (bad!) for five days straight, while eating things like poutine and huge smoked meat sandwiches. The city is what a doctor would prescribe for a patient with square-itis.

It's a whole different world than healthy-image conscious, rule obsessed, no fun Vancouver. You can buy beer at a corner store here. People eat poutine and fast food regularly. They go out practically every night. They drink way too much. They defiantly continue to disregard all sensible reasons to stop smoking. They litter. They park almost anywhere they want, and drivers will run you over if you step into the street without due care. They don't substitute work for having a life.

Nightlife is practically a career for a lot of people here. The streets are alive with good-looking, fashionable people from different age and income groups who stay out all night at stylish clubs. Then they go to the same cheap diners for all-day breakfast the next morning, looking much less stylish, much more haggard, and determined to do it all again. Montreal is like a sexy stranger who keeps you up and makes you wanna take chances with your health, rather than do the sensible thing and miss a night out.

After that, making the sensible choice doesn't seem to make much sense at all, does it?

Places I have slept:

-sandy beaches

-my tent at various camgrounds

-my car at a rest stop

-a hostel

-a gravelly driveway

-a luxury hotel

-a University dorm

-a mattress sized bedroom

-a frat house

chapter 71: The prairies: so flat you can see the future...or are they?

Honestly, the prairie provinces were the part of this trip I was least looking forward to. Okay, Edmonton sucks (sorry) but the rest of Alberta and Saskatchewan has been better than expected. From the ice fields to the badlands, to a virtual desert in the middle of farmer's fields, there is some breathtaking and unexpected mad scientist shit going on.

Driving north of Calgary, you go through flat, bright yellow canola fields, until suddenly a huge Arizona-like canyon opens up in front of you, which by the way, you can climb down into and get lost and sweaty for a couple hours. Ahem. Anyway, it's the start of the area of Alberta where more species of dinosaur fossils have been found than anywhere in the world.

Then, driving into Saskatchewan, the same thing happens, only this time it's sand hills where nothing really grows - think Saudi Arabia. A small piece of Saudi Arabian desert. But fewer sheikhs.

Les nombres:
-nights in hotel: 2
-with family/friends: 8
-nights camping: 10
-buffalo spotted: 4
-pairs of eyeglasses recovered: 1!
-kilometres traveled: 9,424

chapter 70: Dawson City time warp

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold
“The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service, Dawson City Poet

Northern BC is beautiful, but there is something both romantic and unsettling about the Yukon. The tourism slogan is “Larger than life”. It's vast and empty, but breathtaking. Comforting, yet unsettling, and stuck in a time warp in more ways than one.

I spent my first full day at the beautiful Tombstone Territorial Park. Even though I
knew about it, the midnight sun still took me by surprise. We time our lives to the setting of the sun subconsciously. I set up camp, went hiking, built a fire, and didn't even realize I was hungry until it was 10:30pm. Dusk came around 1am, then a couple hours of light grey, then the sun came out again. Weird.
The first casualty of the trip came on the amazing but treacherous Dempster Highway. The rutted gravel road that runs all the way to Inuvik, Northwest Territories ripped one of my tires to shreds, and cut short my bid for the arctic circle and the 'other' territory. After putting on a temporary tire, I decided the travel gods didn't want me there, and headed for Dawson City.

The Dawson City Music Festival is renowned for its lively vibe and friendly crowd. It's a strange feeling to party under perpetual daylight alongside refugees from the 70's. Long haired burnouts do their freaky dances beside bohemian girls in flower dresses, while packs of scruffy teenagers roam around hiding their beer and looking at girls. It's like the cast of “Dazed and Confused”, but it's not the 70's or the 90's.

Meanwhile, the rest of the city is stuck in the early 1900's. Old-timey facades have been re-created advertising an era long past, alongside new businesses disguised in turn of the century clothes. Everything looks new, but is supposed to be old. Nothing is real. Dawson City became the centre of the Canadian gold rush in the late 1800's, and a city sprung up almost overnight. Without tourism, nobody would be here, and the city would die almost as fast. So everyone lives in the past, and invites visitors to do the same – more information available on the internet of course! But that's not in the pamphlets.

By the numbers:
-kilometres traveled: 4,268
-bears sighted: 4
-police sirens heard: 0
-eyeglasses lost: 1
-flat tires: 1

chapter 69: the long road north

Day 6.

After having spent a couple beach days in Tofino-Ucluelet and then a couple more at my Dad's, Silken and I are tearing ass north. After leaving Parksville on Monday morning, I've spent the last two days driving nearly 1,500 kilometres, 8-10 hours on the road each day. I have to do about 1,800 more to get to Dawson city by Friday for the start of the music festival. I know, life is so hard. I never want to get out of the car, because the roads are empty and I can motor through while rocking out to a random selection of every album I've ever liked. Suh-weet.

Yesterday, I drove through the Stein Valley to Lillooet, and then today the Bulkley Valley and Smithers. I hiked to where two glacier-fed waterfalls converge and make an icy river. I stupidly waded in of course, and immediately froze.

There are so many amazing parks in BC, so camping has been a lot of fun. After a long day of driving, there's nothing better than taking some time to unwind, then staring at a campfire for a couple hours. Trust me, it's fun. Some more fun facts:
Kilometres traveled: 2,069
Animals killed: One bird (hit windshield)
Sunglasses lost: 1
Wrong turns taken: 2
Dirty looks from hitchhikers after I drove by: 7, or 8 if you count the guy I drove by twice after making a wrong turn

Minor bitches:
-when camping, everything, including the camper, is guaranteed to get smoky, plus wet or dirty or both.
-I am too lazy to duct tape the fabric on the car ceiling. The hole in it exposes me to a shower of fossilized adhesive particles every time I open the sunroof. Probably not too healthy. Fix this tomorrow, or if not possible tomorrow, at some point in the not-too-worried-about-it-future.

chapter 68: the Canada chronicles

I've done it. In just three weeks, I've redefined my existence (again). I've gleefully gotten rid of almost everything I own. I've irresponsibly left a good job. I've willfully disappointed some family, friends and colleagues. But in so doing, I've overthrown that fascist dictator we call “life”. And It's easier than you might think to spontaneously throw it all away. New slogan: Impatience – it's worth the wait.

Thursday, I threw my now-meagre possessions into my 1989 Volvo, my Swedish traveling companion, hereafter referred to as Silken. Silken is a boxy throwback with some mileage on her, but she's a chanp. And she's never been accused of cheating. First stop: Tofino.

This will be a truly epic journey. Canada is a hugely gifted, diverse, and of course, immense expanse of land. The distances are mind boggling. I've always thought of it as a travel buzzkill. Canadians have to go further than almost anyone else on the planet to reach exotic climes, especially Westerners.

But distance can be your friend. It's 2400 kilometres to Dawson City alone. That will be just a prelude of what's to come.

Silken and I will take our chances on bumpy logging roads through towering rainforests. We'll try to avoid gravel road showers under eerie constant daylight in the far north. We'll follow the ribbon of the Trans-Canada Highway on the backs of immigrant slaves, through wild mountains, and blood-red prairie sunsets We'll cruise gaudy, riotous cities in eight lane comfort. And we'll trace the rocky coastline that welcomed the first visitors to Canada.

I'm making playlists for the road as we speak.