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.