Alberta, Part 2

We arrived as Lake Louise at 4:30 pm. It’s a beautiful hotel in a beautiful valley. I’d seen pictures of it my whole life, but this was the first time I’d ever set eyes on it. The icefield at the far end of the lake bathed in brilliant sunlight. The lake itself was glowing seafoam green, the colour of all glacial lakes in Alberta, as far as I’d seen. Some were brighter than others, but they all carried that distinct colour of the rock flour suspended within. It was a picture postcard.

We walked the shore after checking in and making dinner arrangements, following the stone walkway to and onto the boardwalk where we rented a canoe for a half hour. I can’t say we were any good at guiding the canoe, then. We’re much better now, but we fought against it and each other the whole time we were on the lake, going round and round in circles, never once keeping the damned thing straight. I lost my temper. Not a good thing. Totally uncool of me.

We showered and changed and I indulged in a wine and cheese platter before taking a late dinner at the Italian restaurant at the hotel.

We stepped out for some air, afterwards. Too much food. Too rich. Too much wine. Damn holidays. Oscar Wilde had it right when he said, “I can resist anything but temptation.”

The mountain face was a black wall, devoid of stars or any detail, for that matter. It disoriented me. It made me slightly nauseous to look at it. “Where’s the sky?” my equilibrium screamed. This was not the first time I’d felt that soulful bewilderment, but it was by far the worst, the forested rock wall so close and so tall. It closed in on me and felt like it was crushing me.

I looked up to relieve the sensation. The stars glittered brightly up there in that far too limited expanse of cloudless sky. There was no moon. Had there been a moon, we would have been bathed in its glow and seen…something. But its absence left me bathed in black, the void only broken by the flood lights of the hotel.

The next day we climbed to the Fairview Lookout. It took about twenty minutes. It was steep. Very steep. Steep enough to cramp the calves if we took it too fast and in one go. Mostly duff underfoot, a few roots reached out and grasped across the path here and there, tripping up the unwary. More than a few wooden stairs were constructed along the way to help us up the steepest bits. Even so, the climb necessitated a few breaks. Luckily, maybe not so luckily, there were benches and lookout points along the way. They learned that most people might need a rest break while climbing up there decades earlier. We certainly used them, and we weren’t the only ones to use them, either. We passed a few climbers along the way and were in turn passed by others, waving and saying hello to those on their way down, stepping off the path to give them the right of way in a display of politeness that may have been a break in disguise. But we made it, greeted by a song bird at the lookout rail. It was a great view, well worth the exhausting climb. It was a bit of a concern coming back down, though.

We ate at the Walliser Stube restaurant and wine bar that evening, attended by another sommelier for another perfect pairing of course to wine, with the expected results. How anyone can drink four or five glass of wine with a meal is beyond me. It’s a wonder that I did not require support to make it back to our room.

We bought sandwiches and snacks the next morning for the trip to Banff. We needed them. It was a long haul. Moraine Lake, the Icefields parkway, and another harrowing switchback traverse to another glacial falls. It was a wet excursion, raining for most of the day, the spray from the falls adding to the experience.

Banff was bright when we arrived. Thankfully. We required a bit of a dry off.

Where most of our fellow Brewster companions were shuttled off to the Banff Springs Hotel, we were deposited outside the Delta in the heart of the city, which was fine with us. We had dinner at the hotel before making our way to the main street, browsing up one side and down the other, the mountain down the road in full view the whole time. It’s a lively place, compared with the Lake Louise Chateau, where there was nowhere to go and nothing to do that was not put on by the Fairmont. There were people in restaurants, people in pubs, people buying this or that, usually fleece or camping gear or provisions for their lengthy trek on the trails. There were backpacks everywhere, tall, heavy looking things that looked like should their bearer topple over, he might never get back up again.

We had the better deal. So said those few Brewster companions we talked to, afterwards, comparing our accommodations with theirs. Theirs carried a grand old affair of past opulence. Ours was cheaper. Ours was far more spacious than the stately old rooms they’d been shoehorned into, their bathroom door rapping up against their footboard whenever one of them tootled off to the bath, their pipes rattling and groaning after decades of use.

The next day we explored Banff and the springs. We lined up for the first ride up the Gondola to the mountain top, up there long enough to begin in morning haze and watch the clouds burn off, giving us a most spectacular view of the lands around its feet. We visited another moraine lake and another falls, this time following the course of the river as it carved its way deeper and deeper into the rock, the rush of the water deafening us with a roar that rolled up between the tight channels of smooth rock, as it dropped from this level to that, making it almost impossible for us to hear one another speak.

We visited the Hoodoos. It was more of a walk than a hike, and we didn’t actually walk right down to the towers of rock, halting far enough away to get a good photo, but that was all. According to folklore, those monoliths—sometimes called “fairy chimneys”—were human beings until a witch turned them to stone. Other legends tell of travellers witnessing the hoodoos reveal themselves to be wizards, offering a helping hand by pointing them in the right direction. All hokum. They’re just columns of limestone that were a little harder than the rocks around them. Unless you like to believe in fairies and wizards and magic. And I’m all for fairies and wizards and magic.

The next day we were deposited back at the Jasper Inn. We lost touch with those Brewster couples we’d shared the last few days with, only getting to know them in the waning days of our time together. Too bad. They were great people and I wish we’d connected with them sooner; and judging from their response to us, I think they wish they’d connected with us sooner, too. But I’d come to realize that older people aren’t as open to meeting new people as younger ones are. Youth blends instantly, we older ones take a little more time.

I realized then that the lion’s share of my Euro pal experiences might be behind me. Or maybe it was just the choice of holiday, or the type of Tour Company. Did they treat their clients as a group to gather or as separate entities sharing a common experience? Were there meet and greets? Cocktail gatherings? If not, I gathered that I needed to work harder at meeting those people I stumbled across than I had.

But it was easier then. Easier by far.

No matter. Done was done. We still had a couple days in Jasper before boarding the Canadian and crossing the country, riding the rails as people did in days or yore.

Alberta

We boarded the Canadian at 8 pm, about a half hour after coach seating and departed a half hour after that. Slowly at first, with some jostling of cars, the clack of the rails still noticeable and not yet faded into the back of the mind. The city pulled away, the buildings shorter, shrinking, growing sparse, as were the dense collection of criss-crossing rail lines and the graffiti that was splashed across industrial space and bridge and overpass supports.

There was free champagne in the club car at the far end of the train, conversation with fellow passengers we would shortly never see again and a little music by our musician-in-residence, Kaysha. We retired a couple hours later, sleeping soundly after we grew accustomed to the rolling motion and the periodic jolt of rail contacts.

Our cabin was in Thompson Manor (our car’s name): 221E, midway between the activity car (two forward) and the rear club car (two aft). We did not spend much time in our cabin. It was not large, but we didn’t expect large, having seen more than a few YouTube videos of what our accommodation would be like. I suppose it was spacious enough. When the bunks were tilted up, there were two reclining chairs within that could shift about, not being anchored to the floor. All in all, it was a good leg stretch in depth. We had a private toilet with a door, a sink in the main space, an outside door that locked on the inside, a picture window with a blind. All the comforts of home. Most of the space disappeared when the bunk beds rolled down and the ladder to the top bunk was put in place, the chairs neatly folded and tucked under the lower berth. They were actually quite comfortable, the chairs, the beds.

I woke to a narrow band of light filtering through the crack left open by our blind. It was sunny, or would be once the sun had fully risen above the layered mountains behind us. We were not moving. I peeked through the gap and discovered that we were in Kamloops, still in British Columbia. Top of the world, so to speak. It was all downhill from there. It looked dry out there, the vegetation thin, the ground more rocky than soil and scrub. Trees were sparse, widely spaced. Wisps of cloud danced about the slopes at eye level.

I bathed in the communal shower down the hall from our room. We had our own shower (right over our private toilet, what I would call a nautical head, as they were much the same as those I’d had on ships), but never tested it. We saw no reason to raise the humidity in our room or risk lapping pools around our toilet even if it did work. We queued up for breakfast and spent the day in the club car, watching our descent. We signed up for second seating for lunch, all tables shared and filled to capacity, then whiled away the afternoon in the club car again, passing from Pacific to Mountain time about the same time as we passed Pyramid Falls.

Kaysha, our musician from the Eastern Townships in Quebec, joined us soon after to perform one of her obligatory daily three shows. Banjo, guitar and kazoo. Leggings, plaid shirt, denim jacket and black peaked cap. She played by ear, apologetically admitting to not being able to read music, after hearing that I was taking music lessons, despite her attending a songwriter’s workshop in BC. “It can make it difficult for me to communicate with other musicians,” she said.

Dinner in Jasper before disembarking. We were in Alberta. We’d be there for a week before hopping back on the train again. Our adventure had begun. Or should I say the focal point of our vacation. Our adventure had already begun.

We spent the night at the Jasper Inn. We could have stayed at the Fairmont Jasper Park Lodge, but we decided to not high-end it this trip, opting to forgo two of the four possible Fairmonts for less opulent hotels in the cities, instead. I think it was a good choice. The rooms were fine; good, in fact; and we were within a short stroll of the city centers, something we would not have been treated to had we taken the more luxurious and far more expensive Fairmonts.

Jasper National Park

Breakfast at the hotel before we hopped on the Brewster’s coach for an eight-hour Rocky Mountain discovery tour. Our driver was Dustin. He was a lively lad, with an abundance of historical and allegorical tales, some short, some long, most tall, some about as implausible as any you’ve heard. They were recycled by just about every other tour operator we were to listen to throughout our time in Alberta. Like this one: “See that peak there?” he said, directing our attention to said peak, “It’s the Tri-continental Divide, where water dropped on its peak will drain to the Arctic, Pacific and Atlantic Oceans.” He didn’t say water. It was a story about a young boy who asked if he could go up there and pee on the peak. I think that’s called colour. Either way, the stories passed the time. Most of them were even funny.

We stopped at a spectacular falls before arriving at the main attraction of the tour, the Columbia Icefield. We climbed a switchback until unloading and hiking a long trail in what we thought was the rain but turned out to be the icy spray from what seemed an impossibly high falls. Rain gear was required. Pants and boots, too, but we didn’t have them, so we didn’t get as close to the foot of the falls as we might have. We were going to stand on a glacier in a little while, after all.

We backed down a long stretch of the switchback, a rather harrowing experience, I might add, and hit the road again, arriving at the Columbia Icefield visitor center. It was cold there, too, despite the now clear sky and brilliant sunshine, the wind sweeping across the ice and whipping past the parking lot without a tree to slow it down.

Off one coach and onto another that took us to the more specialized six-wheel drive vehicle with very wide wheels that traversed the moraine and the icefield. It was quite a ride, a drop steeper than any ramp we were legally allowed to excavate in the Mine, one requiring a death grip on the handles of the seat in front of us as we descended to the glacial floe. Down the groomed path to the ice, through the deep pool of muddy melt and back up onto the glaringly white field, we were one of three of the enormous “buses” in a row to mount the ice. We got out and walked on the glacier. First time ever. It was far brighter than I imagined it would be. I’d always thought glaciers dirty on the surface. There were runnels of stone and dirt, but this one was clean and bright, for the most part. It was very much like walking on an icy road, which it actually was. But it wasn’t what I’d call solid. Not everywhere, anyways. Three people plunged knee or crotch deep through the ice and came back up soaked to the depth they’d plunged to. It was funny. Everyone laughed. Or did until they too took a step too close to the manicured edge, or atop a thin glaze of crust and went through, themselves. Luckily neither Bev nor I did.

There were a few other stops. Spectacular views. I’ll say that a lot. Because they were. High, tall, majestic, awe-inspiring, spectacular; take your pick. All are applicable.

Eight or so hours after leaving Jasper, we pulled into Lake Louise. Its view paled most everything we’d seen up to then. It was that beautiful.

Mountains rose up steeply to either side, boxing in its lake of such remarkable colour. Like all glacial lakes it was a glowing seafoam green, quite opaque, so thick with the glacial silt that gave it its colour that when I dipped my hand within it, it faded from view by the time my elbow was wet.

Cross Country

I’ve always loved trains. That may be due to all those old films I watched in which trains played such a large part: Casablanca, Some Like It Hot, The Lady Vanishes. There are too many to list here. There were trains in song, too: Take the A-Train, Midnight Train to Georgia, Casey Jones. Trains were everywhere. They were part of our lives. Until they weren’t. The car and the Jet Age had whittled away at their place in our culture, until they became nothing more than a curiosity.

Few people consider the train when travelling. Unless they’re terrified of flying, that is. North America is not Europe in that regard, where they understand that any trip under 400 kms is quicker by train than by air. But they don’t have our vast distances between destinations. And they have dedicated passenger lines, unlike in America where freight owns the tracks and cargo is king.

We decided to do something different. We were going to time travel and experience what it was like to travel before the airplane and the car took over our lives. We’d take the Canadian cross country, stopping in Alberta for a week to spend time in the Rockies. We approached this cautiously, at first. What was it like to spend four days on a train? YouTube answered that question. People post just about everything on YouTube these days. We saw posts of the train coming into and leaving stations, of people boarding, of people walking the narrow passage along the length of the train, of people sleeping in their chairs, and of curtained booths and doored cabins. There were videos of lounge cars and observation decks and the dining car. There were videos of musicians performing aboard the train. Armed with this knowledge, we booked passage.

Thanks to our neighbours, we had vouchers for the Maple Leaf Lounge in Pearson. The space was handsome. Spacious, comfortable, leather chairs instead of the contoured plastic throughout the rest of the airport. There was free food, free magazines, marbled washrooms. Maybe not free; everything was paid for in the voucher cost. I took a copy of just about every magazine available for the trip. Why not? They were there to take, after all. Bev fell asleep in her chair, needing to be roused to catch our flight.
We flew. We landed. We checked in at the Fairmont. We spent the day in Gastown and on Granville Island. It was Labour Day weekend and the streets were teeming with people, the passages clogged by those hundreds of people gathered about buskers and musicians plying their trade. We found a Keg for supper. We ran out of steam while we ate, at about 7 pm, just as we had the year before. Time Zones. They wear on a body.

We had breakfast at a little café on Water Street and took a walk through Chinatown afterwards. There was a street market on Albert Street where homeless people tried to sell odds and ends they’ve rescued from wherever. One of them tried to sell me a ‘57 Royal typewriter. It was beautiful. Pastel, compact with case. With stuck keys. It weighed a ton. Not something I was inclined to buy, let alone carry across country with me. Maybe if I were in Toronto, and it had been serviced, workable, spruced up, maybe then I’d have bought it. But that would have been an impulse buy. A potentially pointless buy. Pretentious. Nostalgic. A curiosity.

We spotted a Garden Museum a block over. It was authentically Chinese, constructed using traditional methods and tools, all the plants imported from China. Even the pebbles were from China. It was a peaceful place. Quiet. Trees reached out overhead, bushes walled in private, shaded nooks. Water babbling. Fountains gurgling. The paths and bridges never struck a straight path; they curved and turned sharply, sure to confuse what demons that might have snuck in with us.

Before boarding the Canadian at 8 pm, we completed our day at the Bellagio, the same restaurant we had breakfast at the year before. We watched the city wind down and rush to leave then, as we had watched it wake and wind up the year before. Then we were off to the train station where we were entertained on the platform by the musician-in-residence. We were to be accompanied by her as she made her way home to Quebec (when I say we, I mean the train; we would be disembarking in Jasper the next day). If you’re lucky, there’ll be one travelling across the country with you, should you ever travel cross country on the Canadian. It’s a sweet deal for them. They get a single cabin and pay less than coach seating and all they have to do is perform three times a day, once in each of the lounge cars.
There was a menagerie of folk on the platform with us. Asians, Americans, British, Canadians. The young carried coach tickets, destined to curl up in their seats for however long they remained onboard. The middle-aged and elderly carried cabin berths in hand. I might have been able to handle coach when I was younger. I could sleep anywhere, then. Not now. I’ve joined the ranks of the middle-aged and I like a little luxury. I like to stretch out. And my back would never have survived the ordeal. I watched those youths with envy, though. I saw army surplus and cargo pants. Denim. I saw backpacks. I saw dreadlocks and Doc Martens and wildly coloured print leggings. I saw nose rings and ear hoops, too. I didn’t envy those.

Regardless our age and tickets, we all carried small bags. Coach was given a little more wiggle room, in that regard; so long as they could shove it into the overhead compartment or under their feet, they were good. But if you had a cabin, you carried a small bag. You’d better, too, if you’ve a mind to take the train. If your carry-on wasn’t exactly 28” x 18” x 9” you’d have to check it and you wouldn’t see it again until you departed the train. I discovered that mine was a couple inches too wide and too thick. Fool. I’d read the specifications and checked the carry-ons I owned. One was perfect, I thought, just a little off the specs. I didn’t think it would make a difference, but it obviously did. Cabins were small, the space limited, and the bags need be exactly as mentioned to fit in the storage bin in the cabin. Thank god we were only staying onboard one night. I rifled through my pack, adding a few essentials to Bev’s before handing my carry-on over.

I realized that I’d have to buy another carry-on while in Alberta. Or do without. That wasn’t going to happen. Four days without clean clothes was not something I wished to experience. I might as well have bought coach, then.

I wasn’t young anymore. I wasn’t a backpacker anymore.

Mine Design, Part 2

I had high hopes for Gordon as a boss. He talked the talk. He believed in standardization, or so he said. He believed in treating his employees fairly and the same, or so he said. He said that he would not rush his group and that if a print was not ready, we would not send it underground.

If only that were true. Gordon did not live up to expectations. He had temper tantrums. He had pets. He had unreasonable expectations. If Operations said that they needed something, we were to deliver it, regardless of the time constraints. But don’t fuck up. Don’t make a mistake. He’d call us into the office if Operations called up to point one out.

I was no exception. One day, shortly after I returned from holiday, Gordon sent me a message: Come to my office, please. He had a print with my name on it on his desk. He leafed through it until he came to the drill tables.

“This went down underground like this,” he said. He pointed at the page.

I leaned over the print and saw that the drill directions were reversed. Oh my, I thought. That could create a world of problems.

But I could not, for the life of me, remember putting out that print. I took the print and skipped back to the beginning. Yup, there was my name. I was perplexed. I looked at the date.

“I didn’t do this,” I said.

“Your name is on it,” he said.

“I was on holidays when this went out,” I said, pointing at the date.

Gordon remained silent. He fumed. He brooded. He pouted. I left his office without another word.
Gordon was not that organized, either. He messed up people’s holidays. You can do that if you don’t actually do your own time. And he didn’t do his own timesheets. He, like all the department heads before him, farmed that out to my partner, Larry, with me as the alternate when Larry was on holidays or off sick. As a matter of fact, none of the other department heads ever did their own timesheets, not so far back as I can remember. Gordon was no exception. So Gordon wasn’t that good at keeping track of when his employees were off on holidays.

He allowed too many people off at the same time, too. Especially at Christmas. You’d think it would be easy to keep track of who’d requested what when you’re the one approving holidays. It’s easy. Keep a calendar. Write names down on the weeks each employee has requested. Use a highlighter. Once a week is filled, don’t approve employee’s requests for that week anymore. Easy. How hard is that? It’s how we did it in Oreflow, and we had greater restrictions. Small groups of people who were qualified to do specific jobs, with restrictions on how many people of that small group could be off at any given time. That required more than one calendar to keep and to highlight. Gordon had only one group of seven designers. I ask you, how hard could that be to juggle? Too hard, apparently.

One Christmas, I was preparing to go on holidays. I decided to bring Guy up to speed on my stopes so that he could see what had been pre-prepared and what to expect for the coming two weeks. Guy freaked.

“You’re off?” he asked. I was. For two weeks. I’d just said so.

“”Hang on,” he said, "Larry’s off, Miro’s off, you’re off, Andre’s off and Mousapha is off. I’m the only one working.”

Guy went to raise his concerns with Gordon. That’s a nice way to put it. He raised his concerns. Gordon called an emergency meeting, the long and short of it being that he was cancelling my holidays so we’d have coverage.

“No,” I said. “I have more seniority than Andre and Mous. Cancel their holidays.”

Andre and Mous did not took too happy at the prospect. But such is life, such is seniority. I’d lived with those rules for decades. So could they.

“Who is travelling home for Christmas?” Gordon asked. Andre and Mous raised their hands. “I think we should give preference to people who have to travel,” Gordon decided.

“No,” I said, “I have seniority. You’ve allowed three guys off at a time and I’m third on the list. You approved my holidays. I’m taking them.

“Well, “Gordon said, “why don’t we walk down to Tom’s office and you can explain why we can’t deliver any prints over the holidays.” Tom was the Mine Manager.

“Let’s,” I said. If we did that, Tom would have to side with me. I like to think that he would, anyways. Seniority is seniority, and there are hard fast policies about such things. That sucked for Andre and Mous, in my books. That would have sucked for Gordon, too. He’d be left explaining to Tom why he couldn’t manage his own crew. Gordon backed down from his bluff.

I left the meeting. Gordon tried to threaten me, further. I stood my ground. Larry and Miro caved. The two guys with the highest seniority. Each of them came in the next week for a couple days. I wouldn’t have bailed Gordon out like that. I’d have let Gordon fall on his sword.

Why? Because Gordon was a cruel asshole.

I had a few face offs with Gordon. He treated us like slaves, just as he, himself, was treated like a slave by Operations. If Ops said jump, Gordon not only jumped, he begged to be allowed to jump again.
I was of a different mind. I didn’t like working for nothing. I didn’t like producing prints that would never be used. So, when I was instructed to produce a print where we’d be drilling from a drift that I knew we’d blasted the shoulders out of, I informed Gordon and our Blast Specialist, Dale, that we should not give them a drill print for that stope until the drift had been inspected.

Gordon yelled at me, out in the open, for all ears to hear. “If Ops says they want a print, you will fucking well give them that print. Do your fucking job!”

I thought I was doing my job. Thinking, planning, was not part of it, apparently. I began the print, knowing full well that it would never be used. That is not hubris. I’d been in this gig for almost thirty years and I already knew what to expect. And remember, I’d just spent four years in Ground Control. So yes, I already knew that the walls would be blown out, even if I had not seen the drift with my own eyes.

Dale took it upon himself to ask Ground Control if they’d inspected the drift in question since the blast that I suspected had damaged it had gone off. They hadn’t. They said they’d inspect it that very morning and get back to us with their findings.

The drift had been destroyed. We could not drill from it without extensive rehab. The print I had misgivings about, but had worked on and completed, the print that was being signed just then would not be needed. It would never be needed. Ground Control refused to send anyone into that drift.

Gordon did not come to my desk to inform me that the print wasn’t needed. That would entail him having to tell me that I was right.

He sent Dale, instead.

Alaska, Part 2

Alaska

We made landfall three times while in Alaska, at Hoonah, at Juneau, and at Ketchikan.

We didn’t actually make landfall at Hoonah. There was no pier; in fact, there was not enough depth within the Icy Strait to actually get too close to the town. We were shuttled into town. It’s a small settlement, mostly Native, and not particularly developed, either. It’s only about six streets deep. But it does sport a world class zip line.

We didn’t do much in Hoonah. Bev was still green, just happy to have two feet on solid ground. We strolled about town and along its rocky shore and went to the museum and bought a couple trinkets. We had lunch. I’d like to say that I wished I’d rode the zip line, and in a way, I wish I had; but I’m probably more happy that I didn’t. I’m a wuss at heights and would have probably needed a slight shove to have launched.

The Hubbard Glacier

Our approach to the Hubbard Glacier the next day was far more exciting. It was grey. It was grim. An icy sleet swept across the deck. Floes drifted past as we approached. Penguins and seals rode them, lolling about and watching us as we steamed past, a curiosity they must see a few times a week. The crackle of calving burgs rolled across the water like snaps of thunder, the sloughed off sheets and chunks of ice throwing plumes of spray into the air as the hit the water.

Juneau was busier still. The fog burned off over breakfast, a phenomenon we’d come to expect every morning while in Alaska. It was not a common occurrence at that time of year; indeed, rain was far more common. Rain was expected. It had been raining for two weeks prior to our arrival, in fact, only breaking as we arrived. Had we arrived the week before, we’d have not even seen the Hubbard glacier at all; we’d have been treated to a deluge instead.

Our Guide was waiting for us as we disembarked. She was young by all accounts, just twenty-three. And not a native Alaskan. Most people we met were not native Alaskans. Most were transplants from the Lower Forty-eight. Robina was no exception, being from New York State. Rick, our bus driver was from Miami. This is not surprising. Alaska is not densely populated. Most Alaskans are not terribly interested in tourism. They are fisher folk. They are lumberjacks. They are Sarah Palin. Those people working in tourism are students in summer employ. Tourism is seasonal, after all. Alaskans prefer year-round employment.

We boarded a coach that took us to the “Sounder.” Bald eagles sat on shore, watching us leave. There were orcas galore at sea, although we never got that close to them. Whenever we cruised closer to wherever we’d seen them surfacing, we’d discover them surfacing where we’d just left. Terrible rude of them. Herds of sea lions and walruses lay about on the rocks of the coves, groaning and growling amongst themselves, hardly taking notice of us as we passed.

Tongas National Rainforest

On returning, we set about exploring Tongas National Rainforest and the Mendenhall Glacier. The glacier was much depleted. All glaciers are much depleted. But it was still shockingly blue. Chunks of dense ice littered the shore where we stood, across the inlet from the wall. An eagle flew past overhead, no farther than ten feet from where I stood.
We expected to see brown bears. We crossed a bog and lined up, high above the river bank and peeled our eyes, scanning the forest’s edge for their arrival. The river was choked with salmon. It seemed only a matter of time. We waited in vain. The bears had gorged themselves on the spawning salmon already. The salmon had spawned and lay dying as we watched them roll and splash about on the rocks. They were not fit to eat, Robina told us. The bears were elsewhere, she said.

They were. They were back at the visitor’s center and parking lot. We’d begun to pay no attention to our surroundings. We were chatting, making Euro pals, or Alaskan pals as it were. But Bev was still watching.

“Excuse me,” she said to the oblivious. “There’s a bear.”

Many pictures were taken after much embarrassed laughter.

The Ketchikan Rain Gauge

Ketchikan was wet. It rained buckets. As it should at that time of year. The coast was a rainforest, after all. There was a meter in the town showing the amount of rain that had already fallen by that time. Seventy-six inches had been measured by then.

Trade was catered to tourists looking for a deal. I’d never seen so many jewelry stores in my life. I’d never seen so many Cartier watches, either. But I was disinclined to pay $10,000 for a watch. A young woman approached me as I was leaned over the glass display, gawking at the array of timepieces I’d never buy.

“Can I help you,” she asked. Her Russian accent was perfect. Every shopkeeper and every clerk I’d came face to face with in Ketchikan was Russian. That never seemed to cease to amaze me.

“No,” I said, too shocked at the price of everything I’d seen to say “thank you.”

Her head inched back. Her eyes snapped wide. She laughed. It burst forth from her in a surprised bark.
I finally did say, “Thank you,” but I decided to be on my way and not bother to step into another jewelry store. There was no point.

We had a snack at the Burger Queen. It’s a greasy spoon that all the Ketchikan travel websites said was a must do. There was a bit of a line-up. It was certainly busy. But it was just a greasy spoon, as tattered and worn as one would expect. But it was a change from all the decadent food we’d been eating aboard the ship. Burger and fries. Catsup. Lots of onions. As good as any barbeque. I’m not sure it was worth the somewhat lengthy walk we had to endure there and back in the rain, though. That said, I’d probably go there again, given the chance.

The Beaver

We boarded a Beaver. It was an expensive excursion, but I wanted to fly in a sea plane. We taxied out into the center of the sound and picked up speed, skimming and jumping over the chop, leaping into the air, climbing up and over the surrounding peaks, weaving between the still higher ones. Then we turned about and dove, banking hard as we descended into a steep fiord. We didn’t seem to slow as we raced toward the high treed wall ahead. Our waked splashed high and wide about us. Then we settled and slowed and turned, nestled up against the mountainously high shore that jut up from the sea and reached up into the sky. The pilot cut the engine. We donned life-vests and stepped out onto the pontoon floats. The engine off, it was quiet. Water lapped against the pontoons. Unseen birds called. Other birds glided past us as our eyes surveyed the rocky treed heights about us.

I was seated beside the pilot on the return flight. He was telling me about how he came to Alaska and what he liked about it.

Northern Ontario

“It’s an odd place to live, he said. “It’s a modern town. But within an hour, you can be deep in the bush, standing where no one else has ever stood before.”

He also said, “You gotta like to hunt and fish to live here. You gotta like the bush.”

I looked out the window, taking in the rivers and lakes and pine trees. The undeveloped expanse that stretched on and on and on. Green. Blue. Rain streaking the glass.

“Oh my god,” I thought. “I’ve just spent $10,000 to come home on vacation.”

Alaska was exactly like Northern Ontario.

It was just a little taller.