I believe in mercy killings.

Day 4, Great Falls to Banff

Whoever it was, they were lying through their nasty teeth.

We woke at 7:30 to the alarm clock. 7:30??!! Screw that, right in the ear. Several snoozeslaps later and we finally crawl out of bed. We headed down to our free breakfast. Biscuits and gravy! Even if it’s not great gravy, it’s still pretty hard to screw up.

Then I headed to the business center for internet access. I had some, err, business to attend to, having to do with that close encounter of the LEO kind when coming back from the Dragon in June. After reading emails, taking care of business, etc, it was time to pack and head out. As a result of my electronic distractability (ooooooh, shiney!) we got a late start, headed out around 11:00.

After the last day of riding through a variety of elevations with the temps ranging from the 50’s to the 80’s, I expected another comfy day—my mistake! Our route on I-15 took us back into the plains, heading straight north from Great Falls into Alberta. Prior to our trip I had chatted with Rocky Mayer a bit (the guy who made our seat); he warned me that this route was a windy and unpleasant ride from the border to Calgary, and suggested we go into the foothills or mountains and work our way up into Canada. We considered this route, but it would’ve added a couple hundred miles and several hours to the trip, so given the late start we opted for speed. As a result, we baked in the oven.

The scenery here is very reminiscent of New Mexico: flat, brown, hot, windy, and dry. Low scrub plants cover the ground like pilling on an old blanket. The landscape might be a bit more green than New Mexico, but it’s surprising how similar landscapes are. We hit the border, and customs. Shit, why didn’t I go to the foothills???? We spent about an hour roasting in the sun. No shade, and the wind picked that moment to die. We crept along in the line of RV’s and cars; fortunately they had the sense to route the semi’s to a different line. Unfortunately, they lacked the sense to open more than three gates (including the one semi gate), when they had 8 that could be running. After half an hour of crawling we passed an “authorized vehicles only” turn-around point. I briefly considered whether they would actually pursue me if I flipped a shitty and made a break for US-2, a scant 30 miles south, so as to cross to the foothills and a smaller checkpoint. I decided they might, so kept in line, cursing all they way. After answering the requisite questions we were on our way.

Just north of the border we had a fright; the highway was two-lane, with blind curves and lots of no-passing zones. Some guy in a Honda sedan with California plates starting driving like a complete retard; he was in the left lane, next to a fully loaded flatbed semi, even in the blind corners and on the hills. WTF was this guy doing??? We finally reached the divided highway, and as he was in the left lane he was being directed into the oncoming traffic lanes when he realized his mistake. Dude, this is Canada, not England—they drive on the right here! He hopped onto the dirt median and cut over to the right two lanes as we approached another hill, just as a motorcycle crested heading south toward the border. That biker was far luckier than he could possibly imagine. Now in the correct lane, Mr. Honda continued to drive like an asshat. 10mph under the speed limit, in the passing lane, and not very good at going straight. WTF??? Was he drunk?? Finally as we passed him, I saw the problem—he had a serious condition that impaired his driving ability. ADS. Asian Driver Syndrome. No offense, but stereotypes do exist for a reason.

It seemed strange that the farther north we went, the hotter it got. We stopped in Lethbridge for lunch, and found an A&W. Mmmmmmm a root-beer float was just the ticket to cool my innards while we scoped out alternate routes. Just before the trip we finally got around to watching The Long Way ‘Round, and the two accidents in Calgary were in the back of our minds. After baking in near 100 degree temps, we decided Rocky was right, and changed course; instead of heading north on the 4-lane divided, we went west to get into the foothills and hopefully cooler climes. Good plan, but now we were headed into the wind, and it was like driving in a hairdryer. At least the traffic kept me entertained. We were now back on a two-lane road, Highway 3, which is the main east-west highway in lower western Canada. Had we gone east, we would have merged with the Trans-Canadian Highway, gone through Thunder Bay, Sudbury, Montréal, and been on the same route we did two years ago coming from Bar Harbor, Maine. The next east-west road was 100 miles north of here; thus, this road was packed. Jam packed. Passing became a game, and despite being fully loaded, the FJR performed like Emmitt freaking Smith. When there were only a few cars to get around, I could just blip the throttle at 3K and get around them like they were doing 20. When there was a long chain, stepping down a gear and hitting 5K shot us past like they weren’t moving at all. I’m looking for a name for the bike, but Ol’ Stinky Fingers just doesn’t have the ring I’m looking for. I know his stats are worse, but Sweetness just sounds better. WB will understand. Anyway, as I played my passing game, I could see the cagers getting pissed off. Some would try to keep us from passing, especially the hairy rednecks in their giant pickups and SUV’s. I almost felt sad for them. Almost.

Two hours of this was fun, but the hairdryer was killing my contacts. By the time we stopped for gas, my eyes felt like they had shriveled to raisins, and I looked stoned. We took a long break, drank a gallon of water, and waited for my eyes to rehydrate. We watched several mangy dogs with rope collars trot through the street; we could’ve been in Taos. When I could see again, we got back on the road; in twenty minutes reached our northbound road, and for a while we were back in bike nirvana. Being in the foothills, the roads were frequently twisty, hilly, and traffic was light—at first. Around half an hour into the ride we slammed on the brakes as we hit a line of traffic that stretched on as far as I could see, moving at 20-30mph. The speed limit here was 90km/h, or 56mph. Sometimes we would crest a rise where we could see several hilltops in a row for several miles, all covered with cars. We hadn’t passed an accident, and traffic continued to move, so I figured an RV or something was holding us up. Time to play the passing game! I couldn’t understand why no one was passing; I even passed a Gixxer 600 who was being a good boy and waiting in line. What the hell is wrong with people??? It was like being in Bizzarro World. The line was full of cars, trucks, RV’s, trailers, and the occasional motorcycle; I would jump past 5-15 of them in a shot, and pull in a gap between two cars at the next no-passing zone. BTW, this was when I could tell Canada was a one-time part of the British Empire—they may not drive on the wrong side of the road, but they still do some things bass-ackwards. In this case, it was the way they structure their passing zones on hills. In the states, cars moving downhill get the dashed line; in Canada, they save the passing zone for cars going uphill, at least until you get close to the crest. I think the idea is that the uphill traffic would have greater need, and an easier time, passing anything that got bogged down. After dodging oncoming traffic and pissing off what seemed like half of Alberta, I finally came within sight of the bottleneck—a gravel truck that couldn’t seem to get above 15mph uphill, and 45mph downhill. Despite the passing zones, the 5 cars behind simply would not pass, even when they had ample opportunity. Cars were having to pass the truck and the 5 boat anchors, and as I played the passing game I nestled in behind a guy on a V-Star that had worked his way up the chain too. We dropped into staggered formation, and I was planning my next pass I glanced in my rear-view mirror, where I got another fright—one of those pissed off rednecks (with three redneck passengers) decided to not only pass and squeeze in behind us, but wanted to show me his rage by placing the engine of his shitty truck right next to us in the lane. Fucking asshole threatened us with his truck. I backed off from the V-Star, and the truck backed off with me; I then blipped the throttle, shot up near the Star and moved out of stagger, now in front of the truck. I blipped the brake lights a couple of times, and the redneck who had been crawling up our tailpipe finally backed off. As soon as we crested the V-Star and I made our move, and as he returned to his lane I shot by him as well. Suddenly, freedom! So few people had passed that I could easily skip by those that had, and get back to enjoying this beautiful road.

And my word, this road is beautiful! New Mexico was still in the forefront of my thoughts: This road was so like the Turquoise Trail on the east side of the Sandias that I half expected to come ‘round a corner and see the Mine Shaft in Madrid, with 100 Hardley’s parked out front. I was losing myself in the road, and the zone felt great. Alas, nothing lasts forever. I realized that Nirvana comes in fits and starts as we hit another miles-long row of traffic. This time, I was ready. The passing game had a new element—avoid the crazy rednecks. “Redneck Rampage” came to mind.

We worked our way past this line much easier than the last, and were soon back in Nirvana. We had to pass a lot of RV traffic on this road; I’m assuming everyone was headed to Banff by way of Calgary, which appeared the most developed route. However, the trusty GPS showed us a way to Banff that might be somewhat longer, but appeared much more beautiful, and most importantly, paved. At Longview we turned west on Highway 541 while all the cagers went straight, and the road less traveled was nothing short of amazing. No traffic. No asshats. No rednecks, no gravel trucks, no rage. As we entered the mountains, my helmet became three sizes too small—my cheeks were pushed aside by the biggest grin I’ve had in some time. It seemed that we jumped from New Mexico into Idaho in the space of 20 miles. Rocky streams, the clean smell of pine and fir, the bugs smearing across my visor; oh how I’ve missed the mountains. We wound through several Provincial parks, following creeks and streams, and passed at least three ski resorts. The highway climbed up and up and up, and the cooling air leached a day full of hot and sweaty and tired from every last corner of me. We rolled through a mountain pass before heading north to another mountain pass. We followed several long, crystal lakes, and as the sun set over the mountains we spied flies kayaking and canoeing on liquid light. Why do we live in St. Louis????

After an hour and a half we passed through all the passes and reached Highway 1, the TransCanada Highway. From here, it was back to superslabbing to Banff, but the air was cool and the scenery was still inspiring. We paid our hefty entrance fee ($90 for 5 days, OUCH!) and got off the highway at Banff. We stopped for gas and looked for a sandwich shop; the GPS showed a Subway in the main ped-mall, but we couldn’t find it. We had a backpacking meal with us but after a long day didn’t really feel like cooking, so we were looking for something ready made that wasn’t a burger. We gave up in short order, though, and got back on the highway to find our campsite.

4km from Banff we reached our exit, but it would be another twenty-or-so miles before we arrived at the campground. We saw our first notable wildlife—three elk (two does and a buck) munching grass on the side of the road. Strangely, there was only one car stopped taking photos, and no one else in sight. Five or six miles after this we came upon a temporary orange warning sign, like those put up for road work: Caution, Wildlife on Road. Rounding the corner brought us to a large group of people massed on the road, looking into the woods with binoculars and cameras. As we wound through the people who refused to get out of our way, we slowed and looked but there was nothing to see. I thought back to last year’s trip through Yellowstone, riding through herds of bison, when I realized that the sign was right, and that we were in grave danger; we were in the middle of a herd of Retardus vulgaris. A docile, cow-eyed creature, pathetic in isolation but unpredictable in large numbers, given to easy manipulation and wild and rapid changes in mood, they become increasingly stupid as their numbers grow. How I hate them.

We finally came to the campground, which was the only one in the park that was first-come-first-served and had showers and water available. Good thing we got here on a Monday; they apparently had some holiday this weekend, and it was a long weekend (though no native I spoke with could actually inform me what the holiday was called), so the campground had been full, but just cleared out today. We had to buy a fire permit on top of the camping fee ($31 total, sheesh!) but at least the permit allowed unlimited access to pre-cut and split wood, stacked in piles throughout the camp. Nice! We cooked up our backpacking dinner (Mountain House Chili Mac totally rocks!! I have to remember that one), set a roaring fire, and relaxed. Tomorrow we plan on taking it easy, hiking a bit, and as I’m down to my last pair of clean undies, do laundry.