September 20, 2019
Wyona, Greg, Tonia and I drove the Trans-Canada highway again, from Calgary to Sicamous. I began the trip, thinking again about how many times I might have made that trip: at the very least a round trip once a year for 60 years, but there are many years when gone back and forth four or five times in a year. It is always with great pleasure that I get in the car for that 6 hour drive, wondering what it is I will see that I have never seen before.
We didn’t leave until about 5 pm, which is an unusual time to make a start on the highway. Tonia had to finish teaching school on Friday and then we headed west, always into the sun but as soon as we got to Canmore the mountains hide the horizon of the setting sun and so we get the beauty of the light behind the mountains as the sun goes down. I love that time of the evening when colour goes away and it seems as though I have moved into a black and white film, everything now in silhouette – sometimes gray, sometimes even grainy.
When we stopped at Field, Tonia got out and looked toward the mountain where the Burgess Shale lies, talking about going on one of the summer expeditions that takes people up there. I was thinking about it in terms of a sign at the visitors centre that told people to leave their campers in the campgrounds and take a bus tour around that area. I have never seen that sign before and thought to myself that it might be a really wonderful trip.
We didn’t have to stop the car for road repairs until we were just on the east side of Sicamous, a strange place to stop because at that point everyone in our car felt as though we were already home. The person controlling the traffic was dressed in a large yellow outfit to keep out the rain. The legs and the arms of the body of her work clothes were ballooning around her. She had large choppy arm movements with that stop sign – pointing out to cars and trucks that they should stay on the paved outside lane. The stop sign started far about her head, chopped down to her ear level, then to her shoulder level, scooting cars out of lanes that aren’t ready to carry heavy traffic yet, one woman controlling so many 18-wheelers. A modern day miracle.
The best part about the trip is that winding country road that leads to home.
“Country road, take me home, to that place, I belong ….”
Arta
We didn’t leave until about 5 pm, which is an unusual time to make a start on the highway. Tonia had to finish teaching school on Friday and then we headed west, always into the sun but as soon as we got to Canmore the mountains hide the horizon of the setting sun and so we get the beauty of the light behind the mountains as the sun goes down. I love that time of the evening when colour goes away and it seems as though I have moved into a black and white film, everything now in silhouette – sometimes gray, sometimes even grainy.
When we stopped at Field, Tonia got out and looked toward the mountain where the Burgess Shale lies, talking about going on one of the summer expeditions that takes people up there. I was thinking about it in terms of a sign at the visitors centre that told people to leave their campers in the campgrounds and take a bus tour around that area. I have never seen that sign before and thought to myself that it might be a really wonderful trip.
We didn’t have to stop the car for road repairs until we were just on the east side of Sicamous, a strange place to stop because at that point everyone in our car felt as though we were already home. The person controlling the traffic was dressed in a large yellow outfit to keep out the rain. The legs and the arms of the body of her work clothes were ballooning around her. She had large choppy arm movements with that stop sign – pointing out to cars and trucks that they should stay on the paved outside lane. The stop sign started far about her head, chopped down to her ear level, then to her shoulder level, scooting cars out of lanes that aren’t ready to carry heavy traffic yet, one woman controlling so many 18-wheelers. A modern day miracle.
The best part about the trip is that winding country road that leads to home.
“Country road, take me home, to that place, I belong ….”
Arta
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