THE JOURNAL OF ELLIOT CRIPPLESBY
The pace is quickening. I feel the same sense of anticipation that a high stakes poker player must feel with four aces in his hand and a massive pot in the middle of the table. We’ve not caught him yet, not even caught sight of him, but we are hot on the heels of Professor Humphries and out here in the wilderness, away from the television cameras and huge crowds of people he has surrounded himself with up until now, he will not get away so easily. If he can’t feel us breathing down his neck then the man must be wearing a spacesuit, vacuum sealed. I am confident that surely, surely he cannot evade us for much longer.
And in the meantime... Well, where to begin?
Geeza had stumbled across something down at the lake, but he obviously needed to be by himself, so I agreed to his suggestion that we separate without objection. Not only did I agree to split up, but I took myself away from that flawless, breathtaking scenery and headed back to the village, fool that I am! It is simply amazing here, jaw-droppingly beautiful; more spectacular even than the Brayford Pool on the outskirts of Lincoln!
The network of lakes nestled in amongst the mountains takes on a glorious palette of iridescent colours, all due to the weight of the colossal glaciers rising steeply all around them, which grind down the boulders and stone into what is known as rock flour. This fine, powdery substance becomes suspended in the water and refracts the sunlight to give off a veritable feast for the eyes.
Isn’t it amazing what you can learn from tourist information brochures?
There are hundreds of bird species here too, all happily flitting about to and fro. I even saw a hummingbird! I never would have believed they came this far north. Amazing! I’m told that in autumn, or ‘Fall’ as they say over here, the colours are simply stupendous as the deciduous trees shed their leaves and retreat for the winter which gets very cold – and I mean proper cold.
We are all familiar with seeing our breath when the temperature drops, but here they say that in certain parts you can see steam coming off your eyeballs! Any return trip I decide to make after all this is over will have to be planned extremely carefully! The colour and the beauty of a Canadian Fall certainly sounds like something worth coming back for, but steam coming from my eyeballs? I think not.
The village of Lake Louise itself is wonderfully picturesque. At this time of year it is surrounded by meadows given over to thick carpets of bluebells which really have to be seen to be believed, although it is still pretty nippy, even now. As I went from shop to shop with my photo of the Professor I had numerous opportunities to buy all manner of goods, all of which without exception had Maple leaves plastered all over them. Whether it was a key ring with my name and date of birth on it, a deck of cards, a postcard or the kind of big, fat pencil you only find in tourist shops – even a can of larger – everything was smothered with Canadian flags, Maple leaves and quite often the words: “I am a Canadian,” too.
The stores in the village ranged from tourist tat to essentials such as food and clothing, and then onto some pretty serious military equipment: shotguns, assault rifles and all manner of hand guns were there on display should I be interested. I would have had to show a permit and one other piece of identification with my name and address on it in order to buy one though. Comforting to know such stringent measures are taken to limit the sale of these things.
It was also pointed out that while they were for sale, you could not actually let them off in the national park, as this was strictly illegal and doing so would land you in all sorts of trouble.
I reneged on my chance to own my own gun and also passed up the offer to get a good quality chainsaw, Canadian made (Maple leaf! Maple leaf!). In one way I was quietly pleased that none of these hardware shops had recognised Humphries - I do not wish to speculate how I would have felt if I’d found out that he’d bought himself a gun. Thankfully though, that is not an eventuality I will have to face. Unless he is already armed of course - no, come on, stop it! I’m just scaring myself now.
Eventually growing slightly despondent - I would have had to have been a Jehovah’s Witness to be able to bear so many negative answers and closing doors - I went into Louise’s Larder last of all with my photograph, with the view to ask them, be told ‘No we haven’t seen him,’ and then perhaps walk a couple of the shorter trails to take in the scenery. That way at least I wouldn’t have wasted the entire day. However, much to my surprise the lady behind the counter, a woman in her late thirties with long black hair clamped onto the top of her head with what looked for all the world like a medieval torture device, remembered him passing through here not long ago!
“Sure he was here. A couple of days at the most,” she had told me.
Her name was Abigail DeMontres and Humphries had stuck out in her mind because he had wanted to know which the best trails were to get to Mount Amery, right up in the north of the park. It is, by all accounts, difficult enough to get there at the best of times, but even more so at the moment because not all of the vestiges of winter have left us. He had also bought an entire chocolate-chip flapjack, made to resemble the Canadian flag of course, measuring twelve by eighteen inches. I am not sure which made him stick in her memory more, but I have my suspicions.
Ever since my arrival in Canada - which is a fantastic country by the way - I have noticed all sorts of little quirks and idiosyncrasies which I had until now been putting down to patriotism. Talk to anybody from this vast nation and you come away thinking to yourself: those Canadians – they’re a patriotic bunch aren’t they?
Now though, I am beginning to wonder whether they are not so much parading the fact that “I am a Canadian,” as “I am not an American.”
The jury’s still out for me, but I would say it is about a fifty-fifty split at the moment. I don’t know. Maybe both philosophies go hand in hand, but whatever the motivation behind it all is – and remember, this is a feeling strong enough to persuade let’s say at least one in every three Canadians to have a Maple leaf, if not the entire flag, tattooed somewhere on their bodies’ – it is a force to be reckoned with.
Then again, maybe it has nothing whatsoever to do with patriotism or anti-American sentiments. Instead it could just be all the Poutine they eat – the Canadian national dish: chips, gravy and cheese curd? That’s enough to send anyone funny in the head isn’t it?
When I asked Abigail which route the Professor had taken she wanted to know why I was so keen to find him and it was here that my association with Geeza shone through because I came out with a magnificent, but entirely fabricated tale on the spur of the moment which did enough to convince her.
“My two colleagues and I are researchers for the BBC - that’s a television station in England, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. We’re here to see whether or not this will make a suitable location to do some filming in the late summer and ‘fall’.
“My co-worker Humphries,” I told her, “has gone up north to see what that area of the park has to offer, but we’ve just heard the happy news from London that we have already been given the go ahead, based on the info we sent back before we separated.”
I was quite pleased with myself, especially my talking quite glibly on the subject of e-mail and satellite communications, given that I know nothing about either, being a total, self-confessed technophobe. I even had the audacity to tell her of his love of cakes, in particular home made flapjacks which was the only thing his mother had cooked well when he was a child! Terrible really, deceiving her like that, but this Professor has got to be stopped – besides, I don’t suppose any harm has been done by my spinning this tangled web of lies.
“Strangely enough,” she said “he didn’t say he was with the TV. He did look the type though.” What on earth does that mean? “What was it has said now? Oh that’s right, he said he’d heard there was a couple who lived up there and he wanted to ask them a few questions.”
“A couple?” I asked. This was odd…
“Mmm, sure. I told him I didn’t think so, that someb
ody must’ve been playing a joke on him. No one lives up there; how could they?”
She had told him that it was wild and inhospitable, with more bears than you could shake a stick at. Ok, she didn’t say that exactly, but the implication was the same. However, he had simply winked at her and tapped his nose slyly, saying “You’d be surprised my dear, you’d be surprised.”
She asked if I had a map and having brought it out she highlighted the roads and routes to take, just as she had done for the Professor. She also marked the point where the car would have to be left behind and drew a big circle around Mount Amery. It was about fifty miles further north, at the very headwaters of one of the Bow River tributaries. Had there been a big picture of a dragon and archaic lettering informing the reader ‘Here Be Monsters,’ I would not have been at all surprised.
“I guess you already have your tents and camping gear,” she said, to which I suavely replied “Err, well actually…,” so she informed me who I could purchase the best equipment from and offered to provide us with a hamper that would last up to one week.
“Just as long as the bears don’t get a sniff of it.”
This statement, although it may have been an example of the world famous Canadian Wit, unnerved me somewhat and I asked her if perhaps we should have a mobile phone or a walkie-talkie or something, so we could get in touch with a park ranger or a Mountie or whatever, should there be an emergency. She looked at me with suspicion and arched an eyebrow in my direction.
“But what aboot all that multi-media communications equipment, the BBC laptop and satellite phone you’ve got in your car? Couldn’t you just use that?”
Oops. I laughed my ‘forgetfulness’ away as nerves. “We have no grizzly bears back in England,” I told her. “Only squirrels.”
Having found all that out I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, so I bought a cup of chamomile tea and some blueberry pancakes and went and sat outside at a wooden picnic table to await Geeza’s return. Whilst the Canadians are not far behind the Americans with regards to their food portions, they are noticeably more normal. I don’t suppose I will ever forget what I ate in Texas – not until I can get back into my trousers without loosening the belt a few holes, at least. Besides, you could forgive them eating a lot up here, given that it gets so stupidly cold.
The muffins were good and the tea was better. I was just about to order myself a second cup in fact, when he finally rocked up at around six in the evening looking somewhat wild-eyed and unkempt. He swayed his way over to the table and collapsed down onto the bench.
He then proceeded to inform me that he had found a lead and that we must get to the area around Mount Amery as soon as possible. While I was pleased that he must have found something out, I must confess to feeling a bit disappointed at having the wind taken right out of my sails.
It didn’t stop me grinning from ear to ear though as I saw his jaw drop when I told him “I know,” and brought forth the map with our pre-planned route already highlighted in luminous pink.
We had both stolen each other’s thunder completely! I wouldn’t mind knowing how he had come by his information, but I guess he must have spoken to someone else who had seen our flapjack loving foe.
He wanted to leave right away, but though this idea was tempting I had been advised by both Abigail from the Larder and all the people in the camping stores (which are ominously called ‘survival’ stores up here) that it would be best to set off at first light, or just before. That way we could take maximum advantage of the precious daylight hours to negotiate the roads which tend to become less user friendly the further off the main tourist routes you go.
So rather than do anything hasty which we might come to regret, we nipped back into the Larder where the night-time menu had just been posted and enjoyed dining there before lodging in a hotel across the road.
Geeza laughed out loud when I informed him of my elaborate cover story, but went a bit far I thought, forming his hands into the shape of a camera lens and moving about the dining area supposedly ‘getting angles’. Poor Abigail. It was unnecessary, but I did laugh.
We rose before dawn, packed our car with our newly purchased survival goods as well as the large, wicker hamper from Miss DeMontres and off we went, with the promise of our deposit back - a couple of Loonies - if we returned the basket.
A Loonie, in case you were wondering, is how they commonly refer to a one dollar coin over here. It has a picture of a Canadian goose on it, which can also be known as a Loone. The birth of this coin in the late eighties immortalized Brian Malronny, the Prime Minister at the time, as “Loony Malroony.” This was a direct response to him going ahead and replacing all the old one dollar notes which everybody had preferred. Yet another shining example of a politician carrying on and doing something which absolutely nobody wanted.
Politicians the world over seem to have forgotten over the years – or perhaps we have, the general public at large – that they are supposed to be serving us, working for the people; not elevating themselves to a separate ruling class, a law unto themselves, riding rough-shod over the very people they have been chosen to represent. Why not do away with the lot of them? It’s the beaurocrats who run everything anyway, so who would miss them? Look at Belgium – how many hundred days without a government and yet still things rumble on. Not very well, admittedly, but life continues.
Perhaps when the Arab Spring begins to encroach into Europe they’ll suddenly begin to take notice of the people they supposedly represent. Democracy? Gravy train more like!
So anyway, up before dawn and when the sun broke over the eastern horizon and illuminated the landscape around us we drove in silence as the sights, sounds and smells defied description and made speech impossible. I am beginning to wonder if Scotland has moved to its present location through place tectonics and was originally a part of Canada, many eons ago. They do seem to be cast from the same mould - although having said that Canada gives you a feeling of youth, growth and the immensity of life, whereas Scotland has that air of untold age and the wisdom it brings is infused into every rock, loch and field lying fallow.
It is as if Scotland is the parent or grandparent and Canada the younger relative - large, strong and in the prime of life. So perhaps it is Canada that has drifted westwards upon the Earth’s crusts... Hmmm, maybe... I’ll have to find a geologist and ask him.
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