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The Magic of the Road By Beverley Abbott The road has a way of changing you forever. With every highway travelled and every new encounter, your life is enriched permanently, and that was certainly the case for me in the summer of 1980. I was 20 years old and had just finished a year of community college in Ottawa. It was my dream to be a social worker and to devote my life to helping others, but there was something I needed to do for myself first. Adventure was calling me, and I knew that travel would provide me with an education that could not be paralleled by any institution. An easterner all my life, I had heard much about the grandeur of the Rocky Mountains and specifically Waterton National Park, so armed with only a knapsack and a map, I set off on a solo journey westward much to the chagrin of my loving parents who understandably were concerned about what might lie ahead for their only daughter. Waterton was everything I had envisioned and more, with it's endless range of mountains that seem to reach up and touch the sky, and a wind that forever blows, stirring your soul to perpetual motion. The majestic Prince of Wales Hotel was the employer of choice with it's ancient dormitories that had been home to similar adventure seekers from all over the globe for decades. After several scary nights spent camping in my minuscule tent, imaging that every conceivable carnivorous mammal was outside wanting to make me their next meal, I managed to secure a position, and more importantly, a bed at the hotel. My room-mate was a similarly aged, and like-minded woman from the Maritimes named Twila, and we both had been given the dubious honor of working in the staff cafeteria, affectionately known as "The Slop Shop." After several weeks, despite the incredible beauty of Waterton, Twila and I wanted more. Whether it was the wind moving us, or too many 5:00 a.m's serving "slop" to our hung-over colleagues, we made the decision to hit the road with our thumbs extended. Although this was something I would never consider today, at the time it seemed like the only reasonable alternative. After all, I told myself, this was a unique way to experience all the west had to offer, at the same time being a "fiscally responsible" way to travel as we certainly were not "flush" from our experience at the Prince of Wales. Our first destination was to be Banff where Twila had a friend who had found work in a local restaurant, but ultimately it was the fruit trees of the Okanagan Valley that we were headed for, as we had heard that cherry pickers were in short supply that year. Our first ride came in the form of a pickup full of teenagers headed to Calgary for the "Alberta Jam", a large outdoor rock concert featuring a variety of Canadian bands. When the question was asked if we would like to join them, the answer was so obvious that Twila and I had no need for consultation but simply responded in stereo with a resounding "yes." We knew already that we were really going to like this hitchiking thing! After several days of festivites at the Alberta Jam, it was time to hit the highway again and head toward Banff. As is so often the case on the road when travelling by thumb, the route thus far had been happily circuitous, but now we were on a mission to get a few more dollars in our pocket. Travel to Banff was straightforward enough. Rides with two different vacationing families brought us to the bustling town comprised of both tourists and travellers. It was readily apparent that we were of the " traveller class", hunched over from the weight of our knapsacks and looking more than slightly haggard after days without a shower. Relief, such as it was, came in the form of an offer of work at a Chinese restaurant and accomodation in a storage closet in the basement. We were really living now! However, as appealing as it all initially seemed, after two weeks of attempting to sleep on the cold concrete floor and counting Campbell's Soup cans rather than sheep, we'd had enough! We were Okanagan bound. The numerous people who facilitated our journey were varied and interesting, each with their own story to tell, but they paled in comparison to the wonderful individual who our lives intersected with in Peachland, B.C. We were outside the Canada Employment Office feeling disheartened by the news that there was not, in fact, a steady stream of employers looking for the likes of us to assist with the harvest of fruit from their trees, when we heard a voice saying "You gals look like you're lost." As it turned out, the voice belonged to Ray, a kindly soul and local eccentric who had lived in Peachland for all of his 76 years. He was quick to offer us a ride in his '69 pickup to a little piece of land he had overlooking Lake Okanagon. In exchange for some much needed help on his "farm," he offered us accomodation in his little tent trailer and regaled us for the next week with numerous stories of his fascinating life and the people in it. The generosity that Ray demonstated has remained with me, and I kept in touch with him regularly until his death in 1998. As our time with Ray came to a close, Twila and I made the decision not to push our good fortune any further, and to make our way back to Waterton to pick up the meagre cheques that awaited us, and head back to our respective homes and families. But fate was not finished with us yet, as luck would have it. It was on the road outside of Pincher Creek, waiting for our last ride back to Waterton, that my life was to change forever in a way that I never could have imagined. We had just positioned ourselves by the side of the road when two motorcycles, each with lone male riders, made their way toward us at significant speed. In jest, we both stuck out our thumbs, and were able to hear one yell to the other "What do you think, should we pick them up?" The response was a resounding "No!" but the first rider was determined, and quickly turned around despite his companion's protest. To this day, I cannot thank the man enough, that I now know to be Bob, for his perserverance as he gave me the gift of a lifetime. After taking off his helmet, Bob's friend, John, promptly informed me that he 'wasn't fat, just had a lot of clothes on," an odd introduction I thought, but I also quickly noted that he was very good looking. And so the decision was made that I would ride with John, and Twila with Bob, as the riders both just happened to be carrying extra helmets, presumably for exactly such an occasion. The ride began smoothly enough, although it had not been easy accommodating both bikes with all our gear. Feeling more comfortable as the ride progressed, I decided that I would try to impress John with my "vast array" of knowledge of the area. As he turned around to listen "attentively", the visors on our helmet became locked! Despite our best efforts to untangle them, John's navigation skill was put to the test as he tried to focus one eye on the road ahead, while the other was forced to focus on me only inches away from his face. Over the 24 ensuing years, and the innumerable times that this tale has been told, John loves to recount that it was at that moment, when he was forced to stare "into those beautiful brown eyes," that he knew he'd found the love of his life. For me, the moment came earlier both with his initial zany pronouncement of "I'm not fat" which was quickly followed by a lecture on "what is a nice girl like you doing hitchhiking anyway…you should be in University or something!" The days, weeks and months that followed solidified that initial connection, despite my return to Ottawa and enrollment in University to commence my social work training. After a year apart, I returned to the west by plane, not thumb, to continue my education, and to start a life with the man of my dreams. To this day, I know in my heart that our serendipitous meeting on that roadside, and the frightening entanglement of our helmets, was the work of a force much greater than us. Since that fateful day, we have travelled thousands of miles on motorcycle together through this wonderful country of ours, never again placed in that precarious position, proving that the road definitely has a mysticism and magic all its own that it will weave into one's life if you are open to its bidding. |
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