There's a line out there, a line that matters and I'd like to know for sure where it is. Because I've developed a powerful suspicion it isn't anywhere near where it should be.
I'm talking about the line that's crossed when cops stop treating a citizen like one of the people they work for, the people they protect, and start treating him or her like part of the fucking problem.
Yesterday evening on my way home from work I found myself on the side of the road because some silly bitch in a uniform and the little weiner beside her took exception to the trailer hitch ball on the back bumper of my truck.
These wee laws are arbitrary things, apparently, as I've been pulled over in the same truck at least half a dozen times with no mention of the offending ball.
This time it was all about the ball. Which, on this special occasion, was such a menace to the motoring public that the silly bitch wanted me to remove it on the spot. While she ran my licence to see what else I was guilty of.
What? Oh. Because it made it a little hard to read my rear licence plate.
I didn't actually catch her directive at first and when I realized what she'd asked me to do I hopped out to tell her that it wasn't possible without tools. And almost got myself TASERed for my pains. Her sidekick erupted from the passenger side of the cruiser to deal with this new crisis. She'd failed to mention that I'd been given permission, ordered in fact, to wander freely about outside.
"Sir, I'm going to ask you to please remain in your vehicle."
The formal language was in blatant, frankly disgusting, contrast to his bearing, which was: Now or fucking else.
So she explained to him that these were special circumstances, while I explained to her that de-balling did not, in fact, simply involve "a little pin" as she'd suggested it might. And all the while the part of my brain that governs the uneasy relationship between how things should be and how things are was screaming an angry what the fuck.
Because I'm allowed to get out of my vehicle. It's a little item on the very long list of things I'm allowed to do. Just about anything, in fact, other than some really fucking obvious things. Unless there's a very compelling reason for that to change. The fact that it's a little hard to peek by my trailer ball and take in my licence plate does not qualify.
(Okay, there are a few minor things that I'm ridiculously not allowed to do but I'll take my own chances and pay my own dues to quote Kris on those, and it's a different discussion.)
In this post-Dziekanski, post-Ian Bush, post-APEC, post-Frank Paul, post G-20, post-fucking et cetera Canada of ours I hope someone is seriously giving a shit about why we've lost so much respect for those who enforce our laws. I had it. And I'm not an especially respectful guy. And a lot of mine is gone.
And after yesterday I have some beside-the-headlines thoughts on why. Just some small observations. I'll leave the big shit to the big shits and I seriously hope they're on it. Because it matters.
So I feel another song quote coming on. Bruce Cockburn: young man marching, helmet shining in the sun, polished and precise like the brain behind the gun.
It's a nice comparison of a young feller who's been honed into just another piece of equipment with a specific task to perfom and, well, just another piece of equipment with a specific task to perform. Up there on his highly specialized and presumably not terribly imaginative head.
I think it's being implied, and I'm gonna agree, that what's been done to him is a really bad idea. And just the sort of thing I thought we didn't do. Up here.
But after yesterday I'm really curious about the training these folks are given. And if it includes any discussion of a concept called context.
My ferverent hope is that I've just met the two dumbest cops on the planet, cause if not, something is amiss.
Back to the side of the road for a minute, a little further back than previously. To when this dim twit, who could have been my daughter except that neither of my daughters is a dim twit, presented herself at my window and explained about my ball.
"Oh," I responded, tired, a touch impatient, and babbly as ever, "what an unfortunate way to build a vehicle."
Cause it came like that. I didn't do it.
Her face went completely blank. From mostly. Then it got suspicous. And alert for the sort of danger that lurks when some small thing is unexpected or a little out of the ordinary. Cause this wasn't two humans talking. It wasn't an exchange. It was processing a... dammit, I've forgotten the code for a tired, sweaty guy with a trailer ball.
Whatever the code is it sits many miles to the west of the line where cops in my country start treating a citizen of it like anything other than a citizen of it with a trailer hitch blocking a little chunk of his fucking licence plate.
And if the training of these poor people is so defficient that the minute your situation has a code, it is instantly laden with all the sinister potential of every other situation with a code, then they shouldn't be allowed to talk to us until their training gets fixed.
My hunch is that their training is kinda like that. That it is actually pretty bad. But I've dealt with and worked with enough impressive cops to know that if I'm right, the smart ones can get right past it and put a few simple things into perspective when circumstances call on them to do it it.
So another hunch is that recruitment criteria are also a pretty big problem. I'm left to wonder if those impressive individuals somehow sneak in in spite of themselves. And have to figure out for themselves that only a fucking idiot treats a 10-trailer ball guy exactly the same as a 10-rampaging fucking murderer guy.
I'm left wondering, then, if that academy of theirs is not actively seeking those sorts of complex, unpredictable philosophers.
She apologized when she came back with my licence, which had apparently checked out as clean. I never feel confident of this outcome, and, as always, was a touch relieved. It's just such a question of who cared how much about what.
She got the apology wrong, too, though. Didn't apologize for mistaking her silly-ass self for my new boss/god/queen for a few minutes along Kalamalka road. Nope. For forgetting to tell my other little master that she'd decided I was allowed, this time, to get out of my truck and stand on my own two feet.
And for almost almost getting me fucked up in the process.
My trailer hitch ball? Still there. Even though I promised. It'll give me something to think about the next time they're running my licence.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Monday, July 5, 2010
Shit happens fast
"Uh-oh."
She was talking about the deer, not the bike.
I was monitoring the motorcycle in the mirror as he prepared to pass. Didn't see the deer coming out of the underbrush and onto the road. Just like she didn't see the bike. Until a fraction of a second before they met. Bike and deer. Spectacularly. About 30 feet past us, right about on the the centre line.
A quick explosion and then disaster or not cause I had no time or room to avoid anything.
No disaster, except for the deer. Somehow the guy kept his bike going down the road. Momentum, mostly. I'd been poking along at 100 km/h, enjoying the morning sun over Arrow Lake, between Burton and Nakusp. He went most of the way by like I wasn't moving at all. The deer slowed him down.
It was all about legs for both of them. The deer lost one at the main joint. Spinning through the space between me and the impact like a lost baton. The biker kept shaking his left one out. He'd taken a whack, but it looked more like shaking his head. It looked like what the fuck.
That was through the windshield, and the deer in the mirror now. Talk about what the fuck.
One dead deer that doesn't know it yet or anything else anymore. Getting off the road for the last time ever and for the very first time on three legs.
We follow the biker, though, cause he's one of us and cause I'm secretly relieved I don't have to hit the ditch with the camping hatchet and try to put a quick stop to this.
We pull over a few kilometres up the road and talk while he pisses about distractedly with his bike, which looks completely undamaged. He asks if we know if there's cell service that way. Gestures toward Nakusp. The way he was headed. Nope. Guess I'm going that way then. Gestures back.
Rembember pay phones?
We forget to tell him there's no cell service that way either till you're fucking near in Lumby. One ferry, one mountain range and a little over a hundred kilometres away.
Well thanks for stopping. Cause there's really not much more to chat about.
Back on the road.
Could have gone back, I guess. Still wonder how long it took the deer to die.
She was talking about the deer, not the bike.
I was monitoring the motorcycle in the mirror as he prepared to pass. Didn't see the deer coming out of the underbrush and onto the road. Just like she didn't see the bike. Until a fraction of a second before they met. Bike and deer. Spectacularly. About 30 feet past us, right about on the the centre line.
A quick explosion and then disaster or not cause I had no time or room to avoid anything.
No disaster, except for the deer. Somehow the guy kept his bike going down the road. Momentum, mostly. I'd been poking along at 100 km/h, enjoying the morning sun over Arrow Lake, between Burton and Nakusp. He went most of the way by like I wasn't moving at all. The deer slowed him down.
It was all about legs for both of them. The deer lost one at the main joint. Spinning through the space between me and the impact like a lost baton. The biker kept shaking his left one out. He'd taken a whack, but it looked more like shaking his head. It looked like what the fuck.
That was through the windshield, and the deer in the mirror now. Talk about what the fuck.
One dead deer that doesn't know it yet or anything else anymore. Getting off the road for the last time ever and for the very first time on three legs.
We follow the biker, though, cause he's one of us and cause I'm secretly relieved I don't have to hit the ditch with the camping hatchet and try to put a quick stop to this.
We pull over a few kilometres up the road and talk while he pisses about distractedly with his bike, which looks completely undamaged. He asks if we know if there's cell service that way. Gestures toward Nakusp. The way he was headed. Nope. Guess I'm going that way then. Gestures back.
Rembember pay phones?
We forget to tell him there's no cell service that way either till you're fucking near in Lumby. One ferry, one mountain range and a little over a hundred kilometres away.
Well thanks for stopping. Cause there's really not much more to chat about.
Back on the road.
Could have gone back, I guess. Still wonder how long it took the deer to die.
Might have to get the weasel piss
Nakusp or nothing in the short doomed search for used tire. No luck here and we hit the gravel with four round tires and a can of foam. Spare tire in a can. And optimism. Mostly that.
The temptation was powerful to just get the can and go. Like we're gonna find a used tire in Nakusp. Tammy said zero. The chance of that. I lobbied for a little more positivity and she upped it to two per cent.
We had a fine breakfast on a rough wooden patio where you order inside and they pass your food through a window if you want to sit in the morning sun. Wandered the main street, the local take on a farmers market off one side, through a couple stores. We forgot about the tire for an hour and a half. Completely forgot about the bookstore. The other reason we came to town.
So, the search began at Kal Tire - where we assumed it would also end - confirming what we'd already taken for granted. Nakusp is a shitty place to find a used tire. For a decent price. Cause they had one, actually. Eighty bucks. Nearly new. Plus mounting and balancing, of course. No thanks.
But. "There's another guy. just up the road on the right."
Thanks. So this can't be over quite yet? Got motions to go through. Or it won't be a legitimate foam can. So we drove up the road to Excel Tire Centres.
235 R75 15? Memorized that a long time ago.
"Nope. But check out O'Brien's next door. He should be able to help you out."
Auto wrecker. Follow him out back and we dig through a pile of tires. There's one that's close. Close enough, O'Brien figures.
"Best if you put it on the front."
How much is that worth? Twenty bucks. Things are looking up.
But wait. This is going to be a thorough search, including tires still holding up bashed-in vehicles.
"There's some, but they're bald and they're all flat. Wonder why he wiped out."
We move on.
The last vehicle is a Nissan Pathfinder with four nice-looking 235 R75 15s. All round but one. The one that's flat on the bottom is also the tire that's easiest to access in the crowded little compound though, and for this excellent reason, O'Brien, if that is in fact who I'm hanging out with, isn't prepared to give up on it quite so easily. A man after my own heart.
O'Brien doesn't mount tires of course. I'm expecting this (I've bought a lot of used tires). Auto wreckers never do.
"It's just a bead leak. Take it back over to Excel and have him check it out. If it's no good, come back and we'll get another one off."
This tire is exactly the right size, not just close. And it's a better tire than the last one. And O'Brien is going to have to take it off the Nissan. And I'm here in the first place cause I'm cheap. How much is this one worth?
"Oh, I guess that'd be 20 bucks too."
Cool. I help him take it off. Help with the last lug nut, that is. It won't turn, O'Brien says, because it's not "capsulated." Or maybe because it is capsulated, I can't remember. So I bounce my weight on the other end of the wheel wrench, accomplishes nothing for a while.
"Might have to get get the weasel piss," O'Brien observes.
WD40, I guess. I bounce harder. It goes.
It's late morning now. Sun hot on my back. We should be hiking but right now we're buyin' tires.
There's a back door from O'Brien's yard into the Excel shop.
"Just go around the front of the tent." One of those tarp-and-pole portable carport things.
I pack the crumpled, muddy tire in through the the back and the tire guy sets to busting it off the rim while I move the truck back around from O'Brien's. By the time I return he's identified that the tire does indeed have a hole in it. He's fixed it in fact. I can hear the cash register racking up. Once it's pressured up, though, he decides he can't, in good concscience, let me take the tire. Too cracked. Actually, he doesn't write it off immediately but asks if I'm planning on only using it as a spare. Nope. That's one of my tires. No good then. Back I go.
O'Brien responds to the bad news with two words. "Of course." I'm not sure what that means but he still seems to be in a good mood.
No capsulation issues this time and he jacks the Pathfinder back up with the homemade forklift. Good tire for sure this time. Thanks again. I can roll this one over to Excel. It's round.
"Do you want that balanced?"
Yep. I want to spend more money. But tires are supposed to be balanced. And finally. Do I want him to throw that on for me. What the hell. I'd planned to do it myself, but now I just want to get going.
It's on in minutes and I'm in the tiny office waiting for the final damage. Installed, balanced, changed out for the spare. Oh, and don't forget fixing the hole in the first crap tire. Somebody's gonna have to pay for that.
Very faux formal. Jolly guy.
"That will be 13 dollars and 37 cents, sir."
We're driving toward the Arrow Park Ferry and the Saddle Mountain trailhead beyond. All balanced and mounted and just generally fucking equipped. For 33 dollars and 37 cents.
Among it's many other charms, never doubt that Nakusp is one damn fine place to pick up a used tire.
The temptation was powerful to just get the can and go. Like we're gonna find a used tire in Nakusp. Tammy said zero. The chance of that. I lobbied for a little more positivity and she upped it to two per cent.
We had a fine breakfast on a rough wooden patio where you order inside and they pass your food through a window if you want to sit in the morning sun. Wandered the main street, the local take on a farmers market off one side, through a couple stores. We forgot about the tire for an hour and a half. Completely forgot about the bookstore. The other reason we came to town.
So, the search began at Kal Tire - where we assumed it would also end - confirming what we'd already taken for granted. Nakusp is a shitty place to find a used tire. For a decent price. Cause they had one, actually. Eighty bucks. Nearly new. Plus mounting and balancing, of course. No thanks.
But. "There's another guy. just up the road on the right."
Thanks. So this can't be over quite yet? Got motions to go through. Or it won't be a legitimate foam can. So we drove up the road to Excel Tire Centres.
235 R75 15? Memorized that a long time ago.
"Nope. But check out O'Brien's next door. He should be able to help you out."
Auto wrecker. Follow him out back and we dig through a pile of tires. There's one that's close. Close enough, O'Brien figures.
"Best if you put it on the front."
How much is that worth? Twenty bucks. Things are looking up.
But wait. This is going to be a thorough search, including tires still holding up bashed-in vehicles.
"There's some, but they're bald and they're all flat. Wonder why he wiped out."
We move on.
The last vehicle is a Nissan Pathfinder with four nice-looking 235 R75 15s. All round but one. The one that's flat on the bottom is also the tire that's easiest to access in the crowded little compound though, and for this excellent reason, O'Brien, if that is in fact who I'm hanging out with, isn't prepared to give up on it quite so easily. A man after my own heart.
O'Brien doesn't mount tires of course. I'm expecting this (I've bought a lot of used tires). Auto wreckers never do.
"It's just a bead leak. Take it back over to Excel and have him check it out. If it's no good, come back and we'll get another one off."
This tire is exactly the right size, not just close. And it's a better tire than the last one. And O'Brien is going to have to take it off the Nissan. And I'm here in the first place cause I'm cheap. How much is this one worth?
"Oh, I guess that'd be 20 bucks too."
Cool. I help him take it off. Help with the last lug nut, that is. It won't turn, O'Brien says, because it's not "capsulated." Or maybe because it is capsulated, I can't remember. So I bounce my weight on the other end of the wheel wrench, accomplishes nothing for a while.
"Might have to get get the weasel piss," O'Brien observes.
WD40, I guess. I bounce harder. It goes.
It's late morning now. Sun hot on my back. We should be hiking but right now we're buyin' tires.
There's a back door from O'Brien's yard into the Excel shop.
"Just go around the front of the tent." One of those tarp-and-pole portable carport things.
I pack the crumpled, muddy tire in through the the back and the tire guy sets to busting it off the rim while I move the truck back around from O'Brien's. By the time I return he's identified that the tire does indeed have a hole in it. He's fixed it in fact. I can hear the cash register racking up. Once it's pressured up, though, he decides he can't, in good concscience, let me take the tire. Too cracked. Actually, he doesn't write it off immediately but asks if I'm planning on only using it as a spare. Nope. That's one of my tires. No good then. Back I go.
O'Brien responds to the bad news with two words. "Of course." I'm not sure what that means but he still seems to be in a good mood.
No capsulation issues this time and he jacks the Pathfinder back up with the homemade forklift. Good tire for sure this time. Thanks again. I can roll this one over to Excel. It's round.
"Do you want that balanced?"
Yep. I want to spend more money. But tires are supposed to be balanced. And finally. Do I want him to throw that on for me. What the hell. I'd planned to do it myself, but now I just want to get going.
It's on in minutes and I'm in the tiny office waiting for the final damage. Installed, balanced, changed out for the spare. Oh, and don't forget fixing the hole in the first crap tire. Somebody's gonna have to pay for that.
Very faux formal. Jolly guy.
"That will be 13 dollars and 37 cents, sir."
We're driving toward the Arrow Park Ferry and the Saddle Mountain trailhead beyond. All balanced and mounted and just generally fucking equipped. For 33 dollars and 37 cents.
Among it's many other charms, never doubt that Nakusp is one damn fine place to pick up a used tire.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Does a bear give a shit?
Does a bear give a shit if you're in the woods when there's a herd of cattle going by?
If a crap fell in the forest, would you ever have known the bear was there to hear?
Why didn't the bear cross the road? Because the truck, the people, the dog and the herd of cattle were betwen him and the creek on the other side.
Yep. It was the place to be that morning. A forest service road on the side of Highway 6 at the point where it wanders down out of the Monashees and makes for the Needles ferry terminal.
First it was just us and the dog. Me making coffee on the tailgate of the truck. We were in our seats, having those glory first sips when the cattle started showing up. Drifting up the road in the dusty sunshine of a summer morning. A few at first, gradually thickening into a herd. I jumped out and tied the dog in the back, hopped back in the cab just before we were surrounded.
Cows are actually kinda cool. Philosophical faces even when forced into an early morning walk. If there are enough of them stepping rythmicaly by, they actually take on a kind of a migrational cachet. Part of the great order of things. seasonal. Tidal. Pushed along, ultimately, by an old cowboy guy in a battered Ford Explorer. With two bored-looking teenagers in the back.
The cows kept looking over their left shoulders at us, rather more skittishly, I thought, than our presence justified. Hesitant to pass, then going by in a fully committed little rush before sinking back into their funky amble on the other side.
We'd parked for the night right across a mossed over, defunct old road where it joined the main gravel track. I'd almost backed into it to get completely clear of the main road but I was tired and the wide spot created by the obsolete intersection was deemed pullout enough.
Something about the overreaction of the cattle, though, now got me shoulder checking away from them, down the old road. As the cowboy in the Explorer just about brought the rear up abreast of us. And sure enough, none of us were alone.
A huge, healthy, beautiful black bear was standing calmly in the middle of the old road. Watching it all go down between him and his morning drink of water on the other side of the main route.
We pointed him out, eyebrows went up, the cattle went by, the bear ran away cause if you're gonna, like, notice. The cowdude told us some bear stories that his kids were too cool for. A quick chat and they were on their way.
"You know what's funny?" Tammy said.
Just before the cows came along she'd been about to hit the bush to answer a serious natural call. Right about where the bear appeared.
Which, after a moment or two, she did.
The bear didn't give a shit whether she knew about his presence. He went the other way and got a drink somewhere else.
If a crap fell in the forest, would you ever have known the bear was there to hear?
Why didn't the bear cross the road? Because the truck, the people, the dog and the herd of cattle were betwen him and the creek on the other side.
Yep. It was the place to be that morning. A forest service road on the side of Highway 6 at the point where it wanders down out of the Monashees and makes for the Needles ferry terminal.
First it was just us and the dog. Me making coffee on the tailgate of the truck. We were in our seats, having those glory first sips when the cattle started showing up. Drifting up the road in the dusty sunshine of a summer morning. A few at first, gradually thickening into a herd. I jumped out and tied the dog in the back, hopped back in the cab just before we were surrounded.
Cows are actually kinda cool. Philosophical faces even when forced into an early morning walk. If there are enough of them stepping rythmicaly by, they actually take on a kind of a migrational cachet. Part of the great order of things. seasonal. Tidal. Pushed along, ultimately, by an old cowboy guy in a battered Ford Explorer. With two bored-looking teenagers in the back.
The cows kept looking over their left shoulders at us, rather more skittishly, I thought, than our presence justified. Hesitant to pass, then going by in a fully committed little rush before sinking back into their funky amble on the other side.
We'd parked for the night right across a mossed over, defunct old road where it joined the main gravel track. I'd almost backed into it to get completely clear of the main road but I was tired and the wide spot created by the obsolete intersection was deemed pullout enough.
Something about the overreaction of the cattle, though, now got me shoulder checking away from them, down the old road. As the cowboy in the Explorer just about brought the rear up abreast of us. And sure enough, none of us were alone.
A huge, healthy, beautiful black bear was standing calmly in the middle of the old road. Watching it all go down between him and his morning drink of water on the other side of the main route.
We pointed him out, eyebrows went up, the cattle went by, the bear ran away cause if you're gonna, like, notice. The cowdude told us some bear stories that his kids were too cool for. A quick chat and they were on their way.
"You know what's funny?" Tammy said.
Just before the cows came along she'd been about to hit the bush to answer a serious natural call. Right about where the bear appeared.
Which, after a moment or two, she did.
The bear didn't give a shit whether she knew about his presence. He went the other way and got a drink somewhere else.
Driving (almost) up to Granby
Camping shit spread all over the carpet. Tammy stretched out on the couch asleep. If this one's happening it'll be because I make it so. One motherin' long, hard week at work. And, oh, P90X. If that catchy little bit of code means nothing to you, well, it means we've been working out lately. Hard.
We got started packing late, what with work and hunting for a new spare tire. But that's okay. Just gotta get to the trailhead, tip back the seats and sleep like babies. Like we've done at rest stops all over the continent. Some of the best sleeps of my life. Hit the trail first thing in the morning.
The search for a spare was a failure by the way. Cause I'm cheap and will only buy used tires unless it's my annual-ish set of new snow tires for the great Canadian winter. Nobody had a used one in our size in the time we could spare for the search. Fuck it. Buy a can. The magic foamy shit that blows up your flat and fixes it at the same time.
I only get flat tires when I'm prepared for them anyway. Drove from Vernon to Lethbridge over the Rocky Mountains cold on one of those temporary-use-only, do-not-exceed-80 km/h little fake donut spares once. Without incident. Incidents weren't in the plan. Turns out I made it so it was a fucking good plan. There will always be a triumphant angle if your angled that way.
Packing for the trail is always a process of hauling out the GSAR (ground search and rescue, we're both certified volunteers) ready packs and swapping out what's gonna go - compasses, fire kits, first aid, bear spray, etc. - into the big backpacks, then throwing in all the other stuff. One day we'll have doubles of everything and this will be a much tidier process.
I got it done amid much Heineken and classic rock from the cable radio station of the same name.
I got the driving done in a similar fashion while she slept on the seat beside me. Out through Lumby and the ever wilder hills of Cherryville and up into the mysterious Monashee mountains. Dodging deer and willing away the unlikely interference of cops.
Finally turn off on Bench Creek forest service road, which immediately commences the dual processes of climbing and deteriorating. After 20 or so kilometres we take a right turn onto Scaia Road and the processes accelerate alarmingly.
Especially since we never did get around to picking up the can of foam. Saying fuck it is way easier the second time and once we abandoned the search for a real tire, well, damning the torpedoes had become a theme. A late, tired theme, Heineken enhanced. And not such an unfamiliar one.
But now, in the dark, flogging our old truck up a road that resembles nothing as much as a dried up creek bed, one where the water ran fast, the torpedoes themselves seem to be acquiring an increasing power to damn.
We're both awake now, and by the time the the question "should we turn around?" has made it out loud it's really more a question of whether we're going to be able to find a spot to do so on this seriously vertical line of bombed out rubble. Before the ever more inevitable exploded tire leaves us suddenly sitting silently in the chilly darkness a long fucking way from anywhere.
We do. On the way down we realize the road was even worse than it looked going up.
We're sorry. Okay? We're fucking sorry. Let us make it out and we promise we won't do it again till next time.
We triumph. Tip back the seats just before the highway. Fine. We'll bring a spare next time. Two maybe. Whatever were we thinking?
We're just a few kilometres from the Needles ferry. There's a lot of Kootenay on the other side of that fake lake.
Tomorrow calls for a fine new plan.
We got started packing late, what with work and hunting for a new spare tire. But that's okay. Just gotta get to the trailhead, tip back the seats and sleep like babies. Like we've done at rest stops all over the continent. Some of the best sleeps of my life. Hit the trail first thing in the morning.
The search for a spare was a failure by the way. Cause I'm cheap and will only buy used tires unless it's my annual-ish set of new snow tires for the great Canadian winter. Nobody had a used one in our size in the time we could spare for the search. Fuck it. Buy a can. The magic foamy shit that blows up your flat and fixes it at the same time.
I only get flat tires when I'm prepared for them anyway. Drove from Vernon to Lethbridge over the Rocky Mountains cold on one of those temporary-use-only, do-not-exceed-80 km/h little fake donut spares once. Without incident. Incidents weren't in the plan. Turns out I made it so it was a fucking good plan. There will always be a triumphant angle if your angled that way.
Packing for the trail is always a process of hauling out the GSAR (ground search and rescue, we're both certified volunteers) ready packs and swapping out what's gonna go - compasses, fire kits, first aid, bear spray, etc. - into the big backpacks, then throwing in all the other stuff. One day we'll have doubles of everything and this will be a much tidier process.
I got it done amid much Heineken and classic rock from the cable radio station of the same name.
I got the driving done in a similar fashion while she slept on the seat beside me. Out through Lumby and the ever wilder hills of Cherryville and up into the mysterious Monashee mountains. Dodging deer and willing away the unlikely interference of cops.
Finally turn off on Bench Creek forest service road, which immediately commences the dual processes of climbing and deteriorating. After 20 or so kilometres we take a right turn onto Scaia Road and the processes accelerate alarmingly.
Especially since we never did get around to picking up the can of foam. Saying fuck it is way easier the second time and once we abandoned the search for a real tire, well, damning the torpedoes had become a theme. A late, tired theme, Heineken enhanced. And not such an unfamiliar one.
But now, in the dark, flogging our old truck up a road that resembles nothing as much as a dried up creek bed, one where the water ran fast, the torpedoes themselves seem to be acquiring an increasing power to damn.
We're both awake now, and by the time the the question "should we turn around?" has made it out loud it's really more a question of whether we're going to be able to find a spot to do so on this seriously vertical line of bombed out rubble. Before the ever more inevitable exploded tire leaves us suddenly sitting silently in the chilly darkness a long fucking way from anywhere.
We do. On the way down we realize the road was even worse than it looked going up.
We're sorry. Okay? We're fucking sorry. Let us make it out and we promise we won't do it again till next time.
We triumph. Tip back the seats just before the highway. Fine. We'll bring a spare next time. Two maybe. Whatever were we thinking?
We're just a few kilometres from the Needles ferry. There's a lot of Kootenay on the other side of that fake lake.
Tomorrow calls for a fine new plan.
You just go
"Are you working this weekend?"
I asked James.
"Yeah."
Yeah, he is.
"Good. I'm not."
He gives me the Igor look.
Have you ever watched Restaurant Makeover? My oldest kid looks a lot like the long-suffering head carpenter in charge of the renovations. Thinks a lot like him, too. Which is to say he's often thinking things like: "What the fuck are you thinking and how did you ever get stupid enough to think like that?"
I know what else he's thinking. That Doug's house is only half done, the first phase of Jon's renovation is done and could be starting up again any day, there's a house for Constructive starting within a few weeks way the hell out at La Casa, one for Richard in Armstrong and three, count 'em, three houses for Devco in the Foothills starting within the next couple weeks. Not to mention Matt's windows, the trim job in Stepping Stones and any odds and ends that have been forgotten until the phone rings.
"Why not?" The face still classic Igor. Like when the custom-ordered granite bar arrives and it's a foot longer than the room it's supposed to be installed in. Or whatever. Like he'd like to believe in me. Like to be believe there's an answer I could give that would adequately explain an unexplainable situation. But like he doubts it.
"Cause we're going hiking in Granby this weekend."
The Igor deepens.Various distasteful suspicions are confirmed. Like that he was born more responsible than I'll ever be. That at 18 years to my 45 he's now really left me in the dust.
But that's his problem.
Cause here's the thing. If you waited to do everything you want to do until there was nothing else you should probably be doing instead, you'd never do anything. Me, that is. Maybe you're different. Good for you.
I've so far done and seen a tiny fraction of what I want to in my life. Did I mention that, somehow, I'm already 45? The travels and trails that I have managed to embark on have all happened in spite of a lot of good solid reasons why they shouldn't. And they've all cost me because of it. In obligations unmet and in the approval of the sort of people who have their shit together. The massive list of things I haven't done is massive because goodness and solidity win out way too often.
Not this weekend, though. Never yet hiked in Granby. Ridiculous. It's in our backyard. To hell with the list.
Sometimes, at least, you just fucking go.
I asked James.
"Yeah."
Yeah, he is.
"Good. I'm not."
He gives me the Igor look.
Have you ever watched Restaurant Makeover? My oldest kid looks a lot like the long-suffering head carpenter in charge of the renovations. Thinks a lot like him, too. Which is to say he's often thinking things like: "What the fuck are you thinking and how did you ever get stupid enough to think like that?"
I know what else he's thinking. That Doug's house is only half done, the first phase of Jon's renovation is done and could be starting up again any day, there's a house for Constructive starting within a few weeks way the hell out at La Casa, one for Richard in Armstrong and three, count 'em, three houses for Devco in the Foothills starting within the next couple weeks. Not to mention Matt's windows, the trim job in Stepping Stones and any odds and ends that have been forgotten until the phone rings.
"Why not?" The face still classic Igor. Like when the custom-ordered granite bar arrives and it's a foot longer than the room it's supposed to be installed in. Or whatever. Like he'd like to believe in me. Like to be believe there's an answer I could give that would adequately explain an unexplainable situation. But like he doubts it.
"Cause we're going hiking in Granby this weekend."
The Igor deepens.Various distasteful suspicions are confirmed. Like that he was born more responsible than I'll ever be. That at 18 years to my 45 he's now really left me in the dust.
But that's his problem.
Cause here's the thing. If you waited to do everything you want to do until there was nothing else you should probably be doing instead, you'd never do anything. Me, that is. Maybe you're different. Good for you.
I've so far done and seen a tiny fraction of what I want to in my life. Did I mention that, somehow, I'm already 45? The travels and trails that I have managed to embark on have all happened in spite of a lot of good solid reasons why they shouldn't. And they've all cost me because of it. In obligations unmet and in the approval of the sort of people who have their shit together. The massive list of things I haven't done is massive because goodness and solidity win out way too often.
Not this weekend, though. Never yet hiked in Granby. Ridiculous. It's in our backyard. To hell with the list.
Sometimes, at least, you just fucking go.
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