Merry Christmas!

Merry Christmas to one and all.

Ride safe, and have a wonderful Christmas and a great New Year!

David

The Gathering Gloom

*** continued from previous post ***

Funny thing about what Sweet Alice is showing me. It looks like this road, a very major road by Canadian standards, it about to end. Abruptly. In about 5 miles. (Or about 9 kilometers in hippie-speak.) Directly into a huge lake. I blink, thinking I've seen wrong. No, there is no mistake, the road just ends.

I lean back in the seat, and motion for Mom to raise her visor. "Hey, get a load of this. The road just ends. It runs into a lake."

"Really?" Mom says. "Well, is there another road we can take?"

"Funny thing, that," I answer, trying to mask the panic in my voice, "No. According to the GPS, this is the only road. For like . . . miles."

"Oh," Mom says, with no surprise in her voice. "Is there a bridge?"

I consult the oracle of Sweet Alice. "Ummm . . . no."

I zoom out on the map. There is a dotted line across the lake labeled "Ferry".

"It says we have to take a ferry," I tell her, just as we pass a sign that says "Shelter Bay - Galena Bay Ferry 10 km."

"Cool!" Mom replies and settles back in her seat. She loves Ferries.

"Yeah," I agree, and pull down my face-shield.

I'm thinking that a Ferry ride is going to be a nice little break. And how pretty is this going to be? I mean we are in the middle of INCREDIBLE scenery. There's no wind. The sun is. . . hey . . . where did the sun go? I hadn't noticed that. Ah well, it is still warm.

So there are a few clouds. Big deal. We may get a sprinkle or two. Just a passing summer storm. I'm a Northwest boy. I can take it.

I mean. . . how bad can it get?

Right?

* * *

 
September 23, 2008

Dear Amber,

I hope you enjoyed these installments on what has turned out to be quite a trip. Buckle up - we haven't even reached the good stuff yet.

Oh! I watched “An Officer and a Gentleman” last night. If they try and give you the call sign ‘Goose’, run and don’t look back.

Love you,
Daddio

PS. Your car was stolen and set afire last night. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.



*** the journey continues after the New Year with Chapter 4 - Ferry of the Damned! ***

Nothing Says Love Like A Shared Toad Moment

*** continued from previous post ***

Schedule or no schedule, the hand writing was on the wall. I'm no genius, but I can see that if we don't leave soon, this has the potential to cast a pall over the vacation. I don't want this to be remembered in my later years as "Frog Kill Trip", (Or toads . . whatever). I put an arm around Mom, share a toad moment with her, then casually pull her towards the bike. A couple of other cars have pulled into the Rest Stop as I steered Mom towards the Vision. Latte-slupin' hippie-girl is now cornering other travelers, going over the same story with each visitor. Some feign interest. Others are truly disturbed. One group of tall blond men, possibly a group of quintuplets, ignored her completely.

In a flash that sears my brain I realize that this girl is not a hippie. No, she is something far worse . . . she's an Emo-toadie. I can hear the plaintive wails of her song as she strums her guitar, bringing her gut-wrenching experiences to the dozen or so people that are either near death and unable to escape the coffee-shop couch, or, and this is a worst-case scenario, supportive of her art.

"I'm so sad for my toadie friends. Nobody loves them. Nobobdy loves them. Just like meeeeeeeeee....oh just like meeeeeeeeee. We all wind up as paste on the road of lifeeeeeee."

I swear to all that is holy, I'd hurl a day-old cruller at her head if I were to hear that song then burst my eardrums with a pencil for good measure.

Anyway, I manage to get Mom back on the bike, and with a wave and a hearty roll of the throttle I weave our way through Frog Fest 2008, (or Toad Fest . . . whatever), and manage to make it to the highway with nary a crunch neath our tires.

It takes us a few minutes to find our rhythm. But eventually, I clear my head of toads. I can feel mom behind me, cocooned in warty-green thoughts, relaxed and smiling. The air is clear, the sky is blue - although, it seems to be clouding up a bit to the north. Nothing to worry about I assure myself. Relaxed, refreshed, and rejuvenated the road rolls out before us like the tongue of a giant dog on a hot, hot day. But without the terrible smell. Or the spit.

So maybe not exactly like a giant, hot, dog-tongue but you get the picture.

I glance down at my new compadre, Sweet Alice, cradled on the dashboard of the Vision. Never tell your Mom - but my love for her grew by leaps and bounds as the miles ticked away. I love her. I love her so hard. Even if we have our little spats now and then, she fulfills my needs like no map ever could. Techno-lust pure and simple. What? Again with the 'I've never heard of 'techno-lust'? There's a complete page with references and annotations on Wikipedia. You can look it up. Wait . . . . . wait a second . . . . okay. There's one there now. Go educate yourself for goodness sakes.

Ah . . . good times . . . good times.

*** the journey continues tomorrow. Commenters will be forced to have a sex change procedure. ***

Amphibiana - Goddess of the Frog. Or toad. Whatever.

*** continued from previous post ***

Mom is now wandering around the grounds, lost in a euphoric trance celebrating the natural splendor of thousands of tiny frogs. Or toads. Whatever. There is a twinkle in her eye. A faraway look that comes from deep concentration. I know that look, and it scares the Bee-Jeebus out of me. She's thinking that we need to find someplace to buy a couple of tons of bugs to feed these little darlings.

I must get her out of here. Time is short. I've lost her to the squirrels. I've become second banana to the birds. I'll be damned if these froggy-toads are going to replace me in her heart. I turn to talk to her and she's gone. She's all over the place. How can she move so fast? One minute she's down by the lake's edge. Next I see her over by a concrete curb that separates the parking area from the grass, squealing with delight. It's quite obvious. She's been possessed by Amphibiana - Goddess of the Frog. Or toad. Whatever.

"Aren't these the cutest things you've ever seen?"

I must admit, although not aloud, and not to her, that while not the cutest thing I've ever seen, they are certainly right up there on the scale of adorablility.

"They are amazing", I agree. But you know sweetie, it's getting late. We've got about 300 miles to go. Probably should be heading back on the road."

Thoroughly enchanted, Mom feigns deafness.

Another car comes into the rest area. Vegan folk-singer-latte-sipper girl makes a run to get the car to stop but too late - another hippity of toads has met it's fate. Don't look at me that way, a 'hippity of toads' is an actual term describing a grouping of toads. Or frogs. Whatever. It's like a 'herd of elephants', or a 'murder of crows', or a 'retch of Republicans'.

What . . . you doubt me? Look it up on Wikipedia.

Wait . . . give me a minute . . . . . . . . and done.

It's on Wikipedia now so you know it's real.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

A Love of all Things Croaky

*** continued from previous post ***

Mom kneels down next to the girl and motions me over with a frantic wave of her hand. "Hey! David! Look at this!"

I look to where the two kneeling women are pointing, and realize that it's not magical hopping gravel at all, but a tiny, tiny little frog. Or Toad. Whatever. These things at their biggest are about the size of a dime, and literally ALL OVER THE FRICKIN' PLACE! Really!

How could I have not seen them before? There must be thousands and thousands of these little buggers! They are all over the road, all over the grass, all over the shore of the lake. It kind of gives me the willies. I mean, just how fat was her boyfriend?

This is not a good development. I would have to tread carefully here. You know how your Mom feels about amphibians. It's a close race between frogs and squirrels and birds and raccoons and stray cats in Mom's bestiary of love. She was enthralled - nay smitten even - and began to take numerous pictures and copious amounts of video of this miracle of nature. I feared, now that Mom was held in a toady-spell, that we may never leave this parking lot.

Regrettably, another car pulls into the rest-stop at this time. I can hear the 'crunch crunch' of tiny lives coming to an abrupt end underneath tires. Now, fully engaged in the National Geographic moment, all I want to do is save the frogs. Or toads. Whatever. Your Mother has infected me with the spirit of nature. I want to wave the car off, but really - there is nothing I can do. It is the balance of natural world. If by balance you mean tiny dime-sized frogs in fierce battle with car tires for their niche in nature. Or toads. Whatever.

The girl, enthusiastically friendly now that Mom and her share a love of all things croaky, explain to us that this is an annual migration. That the frogs, (or Toads - although they look like frogs to me - and I've seen many frogs in my day. I can tell by the color and the eyes and the hoppity-hop-hop motions), come down the hillside across the road, make their way to the lake, and then party like it's 1999 in Toadville. She recounts, in graphic detail, how they had to install a 'Toad Bypass' underneath the road, and into the parking lot because in years past, and I quote, "After a few hours, the road would become very, very slick with dead toads and it was causing many, many horrible accidents."

Yeah. Hitting, what I can only visualize as a 'smear' of toads at speeds just below the sound barrier on a slight corner would be a bit tricky. In fact, it would probably be like hitting an ice-sheet in the middle of a Tokyo Drift. (See, I'm hip...I'm with it.) Oh sure, it would be all laughs for a split second, then WHAM. Who wants that in their Obit? "Henry was driving like a typical Canadian maniac and bought it on Toad Smear Curve."

Wait a minute. On second thought . . . that would be an AWESOME Obit!


*** the journey continues Monday ***

Some Enchanted Evening, You May Meet A Toadie . . .

*** continued from previous post ***


With all my heart and soul I hope to see a toad, just so I can put her at ease. Validate her reality, if you know what I mean. But nada. Zip. The big EL Zero on the toad front.

Yet obviously, the girl is sensing something. In a rush of metal activity I ponder many things: Are invisible Canadian Toads poisonous? Is this what the border guard was trying to warn us about? Is the girl insane? On some really, really good drugs?

Or is she the victim of some enchantment. Maybe she and her boyfriend were just sitting there, enjoying the view of the lake and the mountains, when an evil Witch pulled up in an old beat-up Chevy Nova with rust spots and a "Kill the Vegans" bumper sticker, flipped them off (presumably because they looked like they might be Vegans, or know Vegans, or just have a fondness for vegetables), and turned said boyfriend into a swarm of invisible Toads? It happens you know. Random curses like this occur far more frequently than anyone cares to mention. The Gummit just doesn't like to admit it because really, what are you gonnajavascript:void(0) do to protect yourself against something like that?

Maybe the girl is simply mistaken. Maybe later her boyfriend will show up, after a leisurely stroll around the lake and she will beat him within an inch of his life for making her worry. It's the feminine way.

"They're so tiny," the girl says to Mom, and kneels down on the pavement to point at what I think is a piece of gravel, but turns out to be a hopping piece of gravel that motates quite quickly towards the water several feet away. Funny behavior for gravel, I think, but hell - this IS Canada. Stranger things have happened. As evidenced by the girl having her boyfriend turned into an invisible swarm of toads by an evil, vegan-hating witch not more than an hour before our arrival.

Mom kneels down next to the girl and motions me over with a frantic wave of her hand. "Hey! David! Look at this!"


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Unless I get a better offer. ***

The Ever Elusive Canadian Hawk-Toad

*** continued from previous post ***


Mom and I walk down to the edge of the lake and the girl, with some alarm in her voice, yells, "Watch out for the toads!"

Mom and I look at each other, scan the parking area, and then look at each other again. I see no toads. Mom sees no toads. There ain't no stinkin' toads around here.

"They're all over the place!", the girl remarks with more than a bit of agitation as she makes a broad sweeping gesture of the parking area, the lake, and the grass beyond, "I don't want any more to die."

Now that's a curious statement, I think to myself. I look again for toads. I even look in the trees. Maybe this is the nesting place of the elusive Canadian Hawk-Toad that I have read so much about in journals of lesser credibility. But no, nary a Hawk-Toad to be seen. However, I have my wits about me, and decide that a gentle approach to this delusional female is the correct response rather than, "WTF are you talking about?".

"Well of course not," I answer gently, ever so gently, and begin to back away slowly, ever so slowly. "Who would?" Still, I see nothing. Nary a toad, nor toad like thing anywhere. Mom looks at me questioningly. I shrug my shoulders, and nod towards the bike intimating it may be time to depart, stage left.

"I don't know what to do, it just makes me so sad.", the girl says.

"And who can blame you?", I say, in what I hope are non-judgmental tones as I tug at Mom's arm, smiling but careful not to show too many teeth in case she interpreters my smile as an act of aggression and strangles me right there in front of God and everybody with her Ipod cord while the last words I hear on this earth are Dave Mathew's singing, 'Everybody asks me how she’s doing, Has she really lost her mind? I said, I couldn’t tell you I’ve lost mine.'

And as we both know, that just ain't right. That's not a warrior's death.

Now believe me, and all kidding aside, (I KNOW there are no Hawk-Toads. That's just a slogan to sell T-Shirts to the tourists), I'm still looking for the toads. I want to believe her. This girl is VERY concerned - very genuine in her dismay, but despite my best efforts I'm seeing nothing. With all my heart and soul I hope to see a toad, just so I can put her at ease. Validate her reality, if you know what I mean. But nada. Zip. The big EL Zero on the toad front.


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Commenters will be eaten. ***

The Ballad of Toad-Splat Curve

*** continued from previous post ***

Where was I?

Oh! The rest stop!

Okay, so we come to the rest stop beside this absolutely GORGEOUS blue-sparkled lake nestled at the base of a particularly spectacular mountain. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, at least I think they are. Canadians like to drive fast. I mean FAST. No, even faster than that! So I can't really hear too much other than an occasional sonic-boom as yet another SUV blows by.

There are two driving speeds in Canada: One; so slow you want to tear your face off, and two; so fast you want to tear their face off. It's like the 'Fast and the Furious' without the 'Furious'. More like the 'Fast and Extremely Cordial'. But I'm from "THE STATES", so, I'm a rebel - an 'Merican. I go any damn speed I want. I shift out of Warp 3, slow, make the turn, and glide down the gently sloping parking lot to the edge of the lake, do a quick "swoosh" of a u-turn, and then point the bike uphill for an easy egress.

There is one other car here, with a young woman that casts furtive and concerned glances in our direction, but relaxes as we de-gear and she hears us talk to each other in loving tones. It would have been great fun if Mom would have jumped off the bike, ripped off her helmet, and back-handed me as she screamed, "Why you stop the bike bitch? Did I TELL you to stop the bike?". But alas, she does not, so we are immediately cast as 'the-cute-older-couple-on-the-motorcycle-that-are-obviously-in-love-and-having-a-great-time-and-will-probably-not-stab-me-in-the-heart'.

I know, it's a curse, but someone has to bear the burden of giving the world hope - might as well be us. The point being, I watched her visibly relax. A little. Although, somehow I had a feeling this girl was in a constant state of flummox.

She is in her twenties. Are all women in Canada in a perpetual state of mid-20s? Probably. Although, on second glance this young lady might have been a bit older. Not more than 35 anyway. Slender, but not with the 'I-just-ate-a-sandwich-and-I'll-be-full-for-a-week-unless-I-throw up' kind of look, but rather a 'I'm-very-active-and-I-like-to-hike-and-listen-to-Dave Mathews-on-my-Ipod-and-I've-had-lattes-named-after-me-in-the-coffee-shop-where-I-play-my-guitar-on-Saturday-afternoons-so-I'm-more-hip-than-you-are' look. More than likely a Vegan. She doesn't have the look of meat about her, if you know what I mean.

Mom and I walk down to the edge of the lake and the girl, with some alarm in her voice, yells, "Watch out for the toads!"



*** the journey continues tomorrow. Those who comment will be eaten. ***

No Rest for the Wicket

*** continued from previous post ***


You ever notice how things look closer on a map?

Again we are sailing along a chain of lakes, drinking in the scenery like . . . like someone thirsty for scenery. No traffic, just miles of winding roads, forests and mountains. Picture perfect. It is a repeat of our early morning minus the primal hunger. The bike is running like a dream, Mom is relaxed on the back, and I'm shredding the corners. Life is good.

This is the vacation we sought. True, I'm a tad sleepy as my stomach tries to decide whether to digest my breakfast, or to shoot it straight out of my mouth, but all is well. I vowed to keep my ill-gotten sausage down. Not to brag, but I can handle my meats.

I notice a sign for a rest stop - thank you Ceiling Cat! - just as I had promised your Mom.

Did I tell you Canada is lousy with rest stops? All very nice, and very clean, and usually centered around some geographic or historic curiosity. Although I wonder if this is less a community service than an attempt to mask the notoriously weak Canadian bladder. It might be a government mandate. Are Canadians, by law, forced to urinate every 50 miles? Is there a compulsory hydration program of which we are unaware? Will I be questioned about my bathroom habits when I cross back into the US? ("Okay Mr. Moore, says here that you consumed 50 liters of beverages on your vacation, but we were only able to account for 42 liters. You'll have to park over there until Canada gets all of her moisture back.") How did they manage to make everything so convenient? Did someone get a grant? Was there an elected official with a potty obsession? Just what are the oversights of these bureaucrats? These things keep me up at night.

Where was I? I'm old and my mind tends to wander. And suddenly I have to pee.


*** the journey continues tomorrow ***

This Here is Bat Country!

Okay kids, a little longer snippet to keep you occupied over the weekend. Umm . . . this next part . . . well, some things we can't take back. Amirite? I would ask that you don't think ill of me, but hell, if I were in your shoes reading this drivel I certainly would. Anyway, enjoy!


*** continued from previous post ***


While I appreciated all of these fine Canadian meats, the one that I fell in love with was the sage pork sausage. Yum. No, double yum. I polished off the remaining bits of ham, the lone survivor if you will, the General Custer of my breakfast, and stood to brave another round. I knew that I would be sorry yet I cared not. I was an animal. An animal bulking up for a long winter to come.

Mom glanced up from the remains of her Belgian waffle and her eyes said 'Really?'

"Can I get you something while I'm up tiger?"

"No," she said, wiping a glossy strawberry glaze from her lips, "I'm stuffed." She leaned back in the booth with a contented sigh. "Are you really going back?"

"Watch me," I said as I walked back to what I know referred to as 'meat heaven'. It's just like regular heaven, only a tad greasier, and much more delicious.

I walked through the double-doors into the atrium and spotted trouble immediately. There were three men there, probably mid-fifties. What struck me is that all of them were unnaturally tall. One lanky and the other two a bit on the rotund side, all wearing cowboy hats and bolo ties. Ah, so that's the subject of this convention! It obviously was one big dress-up party. I only wish I'd been here on 'Dorothy Gale' day instead of 'Cowboy Bob' day. The skinny dude would have looked stunning in pigtails.

No matter. As much as I would have enjoyed seeing a herd of Canadian cross-dressers, these men were now nothing but an obstacle to my goal of clogged veins. There they stood, blocking access to the delicious, delicious meats. Pattering on about cattle and fences and veterinarian bills and how much they disliked sheep farmers, but agreeing they were preferable to hippies. I was astounded by their attention to detail. These guys took their 'dress up' days quite seriously. Kudos to them. You have to commit to something like that to really carry it off.

I was more than happy to wait patiently as they laughed and joked their way down the table, taking a little here, a little there. Perfectly happy that is until I realized that there were only eight sage sausages left. Eight lonely little sausages. But still, that was okay. Plenty for all.

The small guy passed by these tubes of deliciousness completely. The second guy - oh oh - took two. Panic began to swirl about my carnivorous soul. I had to act quickly lest disaster strike. I maneuvered, quite deftly I thought, to a spot near the sausage. Think man! Think! Time was precious. The guys gave me a cursory glance, but went on with their conversation. I could see the last man eying the sausage. This may call for drastic measures.

Drastic measures indeed.

I did the only thing I could. I'm not terribly proud of what I am going to tell you, but it was sausage after all. You understand.

I began bobbing my head, ducking and weaving my body. "Bat!" I screamed. "Dear God it’s a bat!"

Ha. That brought them up short. Their eyes widened as they scanned the hall and the vegetation therein, half ducking in anticipation of death from a dive-bombing winged rodent.

"There!" I shouted, and pointed at an imaginary spot across the atrium, and fairly high in the air. "Oh Lord, here he comes! It's HUGE!!!"

I put a hand to my mouth and made “thwup-thwup-thwup” noises in a very realistic impression of bat wings.

Whereupon the guys scattered like chickens in a thunderstorm, running behind the table for cover. "Watch out for your hair!" I screamed. "For the love of God, don't let it get in your hair!"

This seemed to be the universal signal for complete panic. As they ran, hither and yon, ducking, bobbing and weaving, I took the opportunity to shove the remaining six sausages in my mouth. So delicious. For added measure I took the two off the guy's plate as well. Don't get that look on your face - I'd earned them.

Adding a final 'Here it comes again!' shouted, semi garbled, through my mouth full of greasy sausage, I then beat a hasty retreat back to the safety of your Mom where she sat in the booth, half wondering, half dreading, whatever, or whomever, was causing all the commotion. I grabbed my coffee, and gulped it dry, washing the spicy, wondrous evidence down my throat. An unexpected and hearty burp passed over my teeth. "Excuse me dear." I patted my bulging stomach. "Ummm . . . Not to alarm you, but it might be a good time to take our leave."

"Oh no David . . . what did you do?"

"You know," I said with a touch of reproach, "some wives don't automatically assume their husbands guilty. Why would you think I had something to do with the b. . .", I caught myself, "with whatever was going on in there?"

"Stop it. I heard you fake-screaming like a little girl. Plus, you had a sausage sticking out of your mouth when you ran inside."

Curse you delicious meats, you have undone me again.

"There may be a small, flying-rodent problem in the atrium. Doesn't matter," I said, slapping enough cash on the table to cover our bill plus a hefty tip. "Come on come on come on! Time to hit the old road!" I tapped my cane on the floor. "Daylight's burning." I glanced at my wrist to an imaginary watch, "Tad behind schedule here."

Mom followed me as I hobble-sprinted (Damn you cane! I should have brought my crutches. I am on Olympic runner with crutches), but there wasn't much enthusiasm in her effort. "I need to use the restroom on the way out," she said.

"Oh, no time dear. We'll stop at the first rest area we come across. We really need to leave." She looked at me blankly. "Trust me," I added. I had no interest in exploring the local jail, branded as a 'sausage thief'. Too many misunderstandings packed into that moniker to be doing time - Canada or not.

As we power-walked through the lobby to the parking lot, I note the staff arming themselves with fishing nets and brooms and what I think might have been a can of insecticide, running full-tilt towards the restaurant. They didn't give us a first glance, let alone a second. HA! Once again my carefully calculated ruses had saved us.

We opened the double glass doors to walk outside, and I noticed a printed white piece of paper hastily taped to the door that brought me up short. In fact, not one but 3 pieces of paper. I was sure the flyers were advertising some local festival or event, but upon closer inspection the paper read:

"WARNING. You are in Bear Country!! Be Bear Aware!" Above the text they had printed a large, clip-art bear paw.

As we passed I point the signs out to Mom. "Well, that's a little odd, isn't it?"

"Yeah. I saw those on the way in. Do you think it's a Bear Festival of some sort? Or a Band?"

"Either that," I say, holding the door open for her, "or something to give the tourists a thrill."

We laughed it off and made our escape. Yet as we drove back to the highway I pondered if the Zombie-vibe I felt earlier was really a bear vibe. Or, worse than that - bear Zombies. You can keep your Bear Calvary, bear Zombies would rule the earth. I decide not to share this tidbit with your Mother as she spooks quite easily and I didn't need her to be sitting on the back contemplating death by bear Zombies for the next few hours.

Back on the highway with full stomachs, full petrol tanks (oh no . . . I had been infected with kanuckadoodle slang), and our head full of dreams of the ride to come, we journeyed henceforth into the complex tapestry that is Canada. A bit greasier to be sure, but anxious for the marvels to come.

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a few clouds drifting over the peaks surrounding the town, but don't give them another thought. Nothing is going to spoil this day. Nothing. I smile, drop the hammer, and we rocket into the mountains.

Literally.


*** the journey continues Monday. Commenters will be prosecuted. ***

I'll Have the 'Heart Attack' to Go, Please.

*** continued from previous post ***

I swear, we sprinted to the long table of food faster than a pack of feral German Sheppards chasing a pair of late-spring Mormons.

Mom dove for the waffle maker, but not before saying with that same evil grin, "but what if we DO want waffles?"

Your Mother can be quite funny. This wasn't one of those times.

As for myself, I was in meat Nirvana. There were chafing dishes overflowing with ham, maple smoked ham, thick-sliced bacon, thin-sliced bacon, pepper bacon, sausage patties, sausage links, venison sausage, drifter sausage (WTF? Well that would explain the lack of hobos and transients in this neck of the woods.), scrapple (sausage mixed with cornmeal then fried - I KNOW! It made my knees go weak.), polish sausage, and finally turkey bacon.

Considering the meaty spread, I thought the turkey bacon an interloper and refused to give it any real estate on my plate. In the end it didn't matter. I promised myself that I wasn't going to go overboard, but wound up with a plateful of meat that would have gagged an emaciated hyena.

Mom had long since returned to our booth. With a cane in one hand, and the contents of a well stocked butcher shop carefully balanced in the other, I weaved my way through the stares and slack-jaws and took my place across from your Mother.

"So," she said, looking over my plate, "should I get the defibrillator, or do you think you'll be able to navigate to the hospital on your own?"

"Funny woman. Such a funny, funny woman." I looked at her plate. I suppose that there might be a waffle under there but it was hard to imagine through the strawberries and - I mean this in all sincerity - a Matterhorn sized pile of whipped cream. "Just sweets for you this morning babe?"

"Oh hush and eat your cardiac arrest," she grinned.

Nary a word passed between us for the next 15 minutes. I hadn't realized just HOW hungry we were. If anyone had tried to take our plates, they would have come away with a reduction of digits.

Ummm . . . phylanges. Those would have been delicious.



*** the journey continues tomorrow. Curses issued to those who comment ***

Yes, I Ate My Napkin. Deal With It.

*** continued from previous post ***


"What are you going to get babe?", I say, and turn the page of the menu to the 'specials' section.

"One of everything.", Mom says from behind her menu.

"Get two of everything - we'll share."

That made her smile. I love watching your Mom smile, her blue eyes twinkle and her entire face brightens. After all these years the sight still catches my heart. "Look here," I point to the "Good Morning!" special. "They have a breakfast buffet!"

Your mother, as a general rule, hates buffets. She's lacking the 'glutton gene'. It's a huge drawback in our relationship, but one I'm willing to overlook primarily because I get to finish her steaks.

"You know, that actually sounds good this morning. If they have waffles I think I'll give that a try. I've been craving waffles," she says, with an evil little grin blossoming. "You know, we could have had hot, toasty waffles earlier this morning, but you'll remember - we had to pack light."

For some reason this made a lump grow in my throat. Why would this make me so emotional? As I began to black out I realized that in a hunger-induced stupor I had eaten my napkin. Again. A nice glass of water fixed that.

Our waitress floated over to our table with coffee for me and a steaming hot tea for your Mother.

"Are you folks ready to order?" she asked, setting our drinks on the table from the tray she carried.

"How is your breakfast buffet?"

"Oh," she said refilling our water glasses, "very popular and very good. All of the usual breakfast stuff, a wide array of breakfast meats plus some very nice freshly baked cinnamon rolls, danish, and some wonderfully fresh locally grown fruit."

"By any chance do you have waffles?" I ask on behalf of your Mother. As for me I'd already decided. She had me at "meats".

"We do! We have a waffle maker, and some delicious strawberries and whipped cream if you want."

I think I actually saw your Mom drool. "We'll both have the buffet," Mom added quickly, as if the waffles were going to evaporate before she could get the sentence out of her mouth.

"Okay," Denise - for that was the name stitched on her prison uniform - said, taking our menus. "Plates are out there," she pointed to the atrium, "help yourself when you're ready."


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Commenters will be prosecuted. ***

I Think Our Waitress is on the Lam

*** continued from previous post ***


There are pizza places, Greek restaurants, Pubs galore. There are Delis. There are Steak Houses, Italian restaurants, and a couple of Seafood Joints. GAH! What is it with the Canadian gustatorial scene? Oh Canukistan, you are nothing but a restaurant tease, you hussy! Sliding quickly back to despair, a lump grows in my throat when I notice a listing for a hotel with a restaurant! Eureka! Breakfast! I pull up the address, look at the directions. Mom peers over my shoulder, "Hey, that's right next to the gas station where we filled up!"

Well of course. Of course it was. Why would it not be?

"Hey," Mom says, "Everything for a reason."

I can't argue with this logic. If it were not for the detour, we would have never found the 'Tomb of the Drunken-Monkey Translators'.

"Let's just get something to eat," I say and fire the bike. "I could use a rest and I could eat almost anything. Except beer-battered scrambled fish eggs."

We meander back through deserted streets that is Stonekeep. This is so bizarre. Where the HELL are the people? We've passed like 4 cars all morning. I suspect the Zombie infestation has crossed the river. As soon as it gets dark, the streets will be filled with Canadian Zombies, wandering and feasting in a very orderly and polite manner. Hopefully we will be long gone by then, but I'm not taking any bets. Speculation could wait. We needed food of our own. So, we retrace our steps and sure enough, right next to the gas station that we had stopped at 40 MINUTES AGO was a hotel. Akin to a slightly upscale chain hotel, nice, familiar, generic, and most importantly serving breakfast.

Without any trouble at all we find the hotel, park the bike and de-gear. We dash into the restaurant, and the wonderful aroma of real food wafts gently over the tables to smack into our nostrils like the push at Normandy. Minus all the death and carnage. And Nazis. I hear your Mom's stomach growl with anticipation. Well said dear lady, well said.

The hostess - I assume she's the hostess but could be a very aggressive prep-cook - comes over and gives us a smile. After we establish that it is just the two of us, she guides us over to a large booth that looks out into the hotel's central atrium. This was a bit of a surprise because you couldn't see this architectural marvel from the outside. Ah the wonders of this modern life. I'm in Canada, wayyyyy up north, gazing into a tropical oasis. The atrium was the core of the hotel, stretching six stories high to a green-glass domed ceiling. It was lovely with the morning sun lighting the flora, outlining the leaves and fronds of a tropic paradise. Again, a thorough examination of the biological splendor could wait until our stomachs were full.

Our waitress is young, probably mid-20's and wearing, what I can only describe as a black and white stripped frock. The outfit, although I am no fashion critic, is not flattering. She looks like a prison waitress. Once again, I lay no claim to expertise in this area but I don't think they have waitresses in prison. Oh sure, there are a few fellas that would be happy to fill the role, but no females. Unless it's a women's prison. Come to think of it, I may have seen an after-school special concerning that very topic. No matter. This goddess of the feast hands us a menu, then takes our drink order, and disappears.

There are a few other couples in the restaurant, some small groups of businessmen and women hunched over tables, conferring quietly. No doubt planning some revolutionary activity for they are very much 'on task' if you know what I mean. I deduce that there must be a convention taking place at the hotel. I wonder what type? Real Estate? Dentistry? Used Moose dealers? People cast curious glances at us. Not unfriendly mind you, just curious. I smile when we make eye contact. I hope I don't look demented from hunger.


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Please don't comment on the story or you'll explode. Thanks. ***

Please Pass the Shrimp Flavored Pancakes

*** continued from previous post ***

Anyway, we were tail lights. I navigated down the steep gravel road. Carefully. Painstakingly. At the bottom of the lane, ever hopeful that maybe they've built a IHOP while we were at the Tomb of the Alcoholic Simians, I stop the bike and ask Mom, "Hey, forgot to ask but did you see any place to get breakfast? I mean, before we went to Zombie-ville. Am I missing something?"

"No. Not really," she replies, somewhat cryptically.

"Yeah, me either."

As I search the clutter that is my mind for a solution to our current dilemma something tickles the recesses of my brain. I ponder Mom's phrasing. "What do you mean 'not really'?"

"Well, there was one place back where we filled up with gas. It was a seafood place I think, but the sign said 'Seafood and Pancakes".

Sure that I mis-heard her, I asked, a tad more abruptly than I had intended, "What the hell? Seafood AND Pancakes?"

She squeezed her new friend, Mr. Rock, a little too hard for my comfort. "It was that fast-food looking place across from the gas station."

My stare must have said it all. Somewhat, although not fully apologetic she said, "There was a motorcycle out front." As if this solved everything. As if since there was another person on a bike willing to gamble on what I could only imagine were shrimp-flavored pancakes, then since we were on a bike, it should be good enough for us as well.

My eyes narrowed. I believe that my stare is a laser, piercing, cutting. I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in her helmet. I look like I've had a minor stroke.

"Seafood and Pancakes?", I snort, "I'm not that hungry." I eyed her suspiciously. What was her game? Had an empty stomach and a long trip put her in a place where SHE was willing to try a 'Seafood and Pancake' place? Where was my wife? Oh Canada, what have you wrought? What madness have you visited upon my bride?

"Well, we always have crackers." She shrugged. A calculated pause and then, "We would have had more, but you packed light."

Touche', good lady. Touche'. I am suspect that we are seeing the birth of a recurring theme. Trying to nip this in the bud I say, "I understand that I may have cut back on the food items a bit too much. My apologies."

"Maybe a little. Too late now though."

I was plunged into the depths of despair, sure that I was about to experience the 'French Toast Calamari', or 'Cold Oyster Cereal' or the horror of 'Scrambled Fish Eggs'. Then - inspiration!!! "Hey! Sweet Alice will show us where we can find a restaurant! I completely forgot that she'll list all the local amenities!" I was giddy. Mom was relieved. Technology was once again our savior!

"Oh, so you and Sweet Alice have made up?"

I pause. "We've come to an agreement. An understanding if you will."

"Well, I'm happy for you both. Send me a card when you announce your engagement."

Deciding that this is a conversation best left for a time when my blood sugar was not in the basement, I pulled up the menu on the GPS, punched some info into menu and sure enough, Sweet Alice's screen spit out a list of places to eat.


*** the journey continues tomorrow. Comments are always welcome. ***

At Least the Zombie Hordes are Polite

*** continued from previous post ***

We could peer through the fence and speculate on what we weren't able to see. It looked fascinating and very Zombie-ish at the same time. I mean who hasn't seen countless movies wherein a nice couple on a huge, futuristic motorcycle accidentally wanders up the side of a mountain to an elaborate tomb only to be eaten in the next scene? Amiright? It was just so utterly cliche' it made my fillings hurt.

This is possibly the very definition of the phrase “ high-strangeness”. My Dr. Hunter S Thomps-o-meter pegged off the scale.

Then there is this; the icing on the cake. Or Tomb. Whatever. Outside of the gates, there is a flat granite wall that is at least 25 feet high. When I say flat I mean flat - it must have been shaped with chisels and hammers. A massive wall of solid stone speckled gray with flickers of quartz. Not unusual in and of itself, but here two columns of words had been painstakingly hand-painted the length of the slab.

On the right side is a passage in Greek. Or Russian. Or Slovakian. Or Martian. Or something. I am no linguist, although I occasionally claim that as my profession to people who don't know me, so you'll have to go with my best guess.

On the right side of the stone is a translation of the previously noted words. A translation that apparently had been transcribed into English by a gang of drunk monkeys on a dare. It's true. We have pictures. Not of the monkeys for they were long gone. Or perhaps hiding in the bushes to ambush us and take the bike. I can only imagine how many monkeys and how many typewriters, or possibly laptops, needed to be assembled for a proper translation. I'm also thinking hard liquor rather than beer. The text rambles something about God and powerful acorns and tree trunks and heaven and the value of Vodka, and I think, but I'm not certain, a garden of golden bananas. This must have been where alcohol really kicked in, hence the banana and Vodka reference. Now these curious simian ramblings are on the wall for eternity. Or until the paint fades. Or the monkeys sober up and come back for a re-write.

I can only imagine the consternation the simian’s translation must have caused the deceased's family. But, as my old Grandfather used to say - and possibly the best advice I could ever pass to you - "You don't fuck with a gang of drunk monkeys. Well, not twice anyway.

Balancing this strangeness are the views. The views were beautiful. We snapped a couple of pictures. Long river valley, spectacular hills, the town spread out before us, the air so clean and crisp that it burned our pollution laden lungs, yada yada yada. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the hair on the back of my neck began to rise.

Mom shifted about nervously. "You get the feeling we're being watched?"

Gah! She felt it too? "Yes. Strongly."

Mom looked about. "Animal?" she asked, scouring the tree-line opposite the entrance to the tomb.

And then it all became crystal clear. The hair raising could only mean one thing - a true "Zombie Vibe". It was evident to me now that this was nothing more than a trap. A place where they lured unsuspecting tourists to feed their irritatingly polite Canadian zombie hordes. No sense using up all the town folk when there is a steady supply of idiots from THE STATES to appease their undead hunger. How typical.

I explained the situation to your Mom in pantomime, fearing that to make a sound would be to seal our fate. I had no weapons with which to defend us against the nightmare. Nary a chainsaw or a shotgun or a Bruce Campbell to be found, so if we were attacked it was obvious we were pretty much screwed. No, pantomime was the way to communicate for sure.

"Why are you chewing on my head?"

"Brainssssss. . . ." I whispered.

"You're getting my hair all wet and stinky. Stop it."

"Brainssssss . . . "I hissed, and shuffled about a bit but I think the effect was lost due to my cane. You ever notice that you don't see a lot of handicapped Zombies? What's up with that? When I get home, I'm writing a strongly-worded letter to the management. Come to think of it you could probably count being dead a handicap. And the rotting flesh. And the defaulting on loans. Aw fudge. Just forget it.

"You're telling me we're being watched by Zombies."

Funny how so many of Mom's questions really aren't questions at all. You ever noticed that?

"Brainssss . . . ," I whispered, and nodded my head up and down in the affirmative.

It was interesting to watch your Mom at this point. I saw her rally herself for an argument, then right before she launched into some bit of logic a wave of doubt played over her face. She looked from the Tomb to the trees then back to me. She concentrated hard for a minute, and then concern stepped out of the way for a touch of fear to take its place on the canvas of her soul.

"You know, I'm not going to validate your Zombie theory, but it is creepy and I think it's time to go." Whereupon your brave mother, the woman that gave birth to you and your sister sans any kind of pain killer or anesthesia, ran like a scared-cat over to the bike.

For some reason watching her kind of spooked me. As if her willies were contagious. I ran in a modified-panic to our behemoth, my skin a patchwork of goose bumps. Before you could say "Screw you Zombie du Canada!” we beat a hasty retreat back down the hill.

Protip: Never ignore a Zombie Vibe. It very well my save your life someday.

Although, Canadian Zombies would make an excellent Cirque Du Soleil show, don't you think? I'm not positive that the high trapeze act would work, what with the limbs falling off and all, but I'm sure they could put a twist on the show that would knock our socks off.

In hindsight, it probably wasn't Zombies. I don't think they handle the cold very well. Most likely an animal of some type was watching us. I suppose it could have been a Zombie-Beaver, or a Zombie-chipmunk, neither of which would frighten me terribly. I mean think about it - it would take quite a bit of effort for a zombie-chipmunk to eat your brain. Unless there were like 3000 of them and . . . Lord . . . that's a scary thought! I may have tinkled just a bit as I typed that sentence.


*** the journey continues Monday and comments are always appreciated ***

Welcome to the Tomb

*** continued from previous post ***

Right about then I spot a sign for "Krakland's Tomb".

(I don't think that was the real surname, but it will suffice for our story.) Just a small blue sign with an arrow pointing up a tiny road that spiraled up the mountain. Finally, something interesting! Who can pass up something like that? I mean, it's a TOMB! I could have ignored a sign alerting me to "Krakland's Grave", or "Krakland's Final Resting Place", or "Krakland's Remains", but a TOMB? I would have sooner passed up a road-side stand giving out free money.

Plus -and I can't emphasize this enough - your Mother had begun to nervously tap her rock against the back of my head. I knew a little diversion would do us both good.

So, I turn up my least favorite surface - a gravel road - (I KNOW what I said, so hush) and carefully wind our way up the side of said majestic mountain. After a bit the roadway widened into a packed-dirt parking lot and sure enough there's a sign pointing to "Whose-his-head's Tomb".

So. Flippin'. Bizarre. Especially at 8:00 in the morning and malnourished to boot.

Here, on the side of the mountain, nestled with boulders, and dirt, and scrub vegetation, and the primal stink of the wild - with absolutely nothing else around - is a beautiful garden ringed by a high, wrought iron fence. A garden full of flowers and benches and presumably a Tomb, but the gate is locked. Evidently you can't visit the dead until 9 AM on weekdays.

We could peer through the fence and speculate on what we weren't able to see. It looked fascinating and very Zombie-ish at the same time. I mean who hasn't seen countless movies wherein a nice couple on a huge, futuristic motorcycle accidentally wanders up the side of a mountain to an elaborate tomb only to be eaten in the next scene? Amiright? It was just so utterly cliche' it made my fillings hurt.


*** the journey continues tomorrow and remember, comments are always appreciated ***

Hungry . . . So Very Hungry . . . .

*** continued from previous post ***

After we have satisfied the needs of the bike, we cruise up the street looking for a place to eat. That cracker had done its best, but it was no match for the raw beauty of Canada. We were famished at 5:30, we were now bordering on insanely hungry. If we didn’t find food soon I might have to consider eating your Mother.

Now, it is at this point that I should explain that all of Stonekeep is spread along one road that nestles against the base of a mountain, crosses a bridge over the Columbia River, and picks up its journey on the distant side of the valley. What I'm trying to say is - it ain't that big. But it is sprinkled over about 3 miles in a long, U-shaped strip. Still, by Canadian standards this is Gotham.

We spot fast food - closed at 8 AM in the morning. There are pizza places, Greek restaurants, pubs galore. There are Delis. There are Steak Houses, Italian restaurants, and a couple of seafood joints. But - and this is a big one - nary a chain restaurant nor breakfast cafe to be seen. Thus begins, what Mom and I lovingly call the new vacation game of "Where in the Hell is somewhere to eat?" We never spoke of it, but visions of the night before sprang into our heads like ill-trained Golden Retrievers that had just horked down a bottle of Ritalin from frazzled little Jimmy's backpack.

After scooting up the road, then crossing the river, it became apparent that we had run out of town. There were scattered houses, and at one point we thought of just pulling up in random driveway, and knocking on the door. We were fairly sure that the residents of said house would be too polite to deny us a Poptart. Or, Eggs Benedict. Maybe Prime Rib, we wouldn't be choosy.

We'd wasted about 30 minutes on this little hunt, this early morning exercise in futility. Agitation spread over us like a spilled glass of whiskey at the dinner table. I tried not to think of our schedule, but I couldn't help it. Today was THE long day. No time for lolly-gagging.

Right about then I spot a sign for "Krakland's Tomb".

*** the journey continues tomorrow and comments are always welcome ***