Pedal the Highwood Pass – Kananaskis Country / by Barbara Baker

 

Every June, before Hwy 40 is open to vehicles for the summer, my husband and I ride the road from the Peter Lougheed Provincial Park to the Highwood Pass (highest paved pass in Canada). David and I take off earlier on our x-country bikes because we haven’t crossed over to road bikes or electric bikes yet like our friends have.

 

Do I love this ride? I’d be a liar if I said yes. But I do love parts of it. Like near the beginning where there is a downhill. The scenery is breathtaking. I love the feeling of accomplishment when I get to the top. And the descent is a thrill. But the grueling uphill makes me want to swear. A lot.

After the initial downhill, I check my odometer. 5.3 km. Only 11.7 km to go. Insert a big sigh.

There’s lots of bear scat on the highway. I scan the blooming dandelion filled ditches for movement. The jagged peaks of the Eastern Slopes make the plate shifting events more visible and there’s little snow on top because it’s been an unseasonably hot spring.

“Drink lots of water,” David reminds me.

I nod and force myself not to look at the odometer until the next corner.

Our friends pedal with us for a few minutes of chatter.

“If it’s cold at the top, don’t wait for us,” I say.  “Just photoshop us into the group picture.”

Off they go. Part of me wishes I hadn’t said no to the e-bike for my 65^th birthday. I was adamant I didn’t want one until I turn 70. I’m not quite so adamant right now.

When I see more bear scat, I run the bear rule scenarios through my head. If it’s a grizzly, don’t look them in the eyes. They feel it’s a challenge. If it’s a black bear, look tall, speak with confidence and make slow movements to retreat. If it’s a momma bear of any type and I’m between her and the cubs, kiss my ass goodbye. The visual of me kissing my ass goodbye makes me chuckle. The bear scenario – not so much.

 

My eyes peek at the odometer. 12.3 km. If I round down to 11, I have further to go but if I round up to 13, who will pedal the extra .7 km? I chastise myself for checking the distance again.

A group of road bikers zip past and say, “Good job.”

I force a smile and glance at David. “Would this really be faster if I was on a road bike?”

“Yup.” 

“But this is the only time I ride on a road.”

“Yup.”

“I need a break.” I quit pedaling and coast to a stop. “My crotch and toes are numb.”

It takes a few seconds to get the prickles out of my foot before I can set the other one on the pavement. We both do our own version of stretches, eat a granola bar and wash it down. Off we go again. Only 3 kilometers left and a short flat stretch ahead. I stand and pedal until the uphill starts.

I start to count the pedal rotations to see how many it takes to make a kilometer. But I get lost around 276. Don’t look at the odometer. Focus on the line in the middle of the road. The hill is endless and after yet another corner, at the top of the hill, I see a sign. I KNOW that sign.

Tiny people wave. Crank. Crank. Do it. Just do it. Don’t stop now.

And there we are, in time for the group photo. 

After a quick sandwich, I put on all my warm layers, get one last picture taken and start the thrill of the downhill.

                                               

                                 2017                                                                    2023

I feather my brakes when I get to 52 km/hour. There’s no time to take in the scenery now as tears run down my cheeks.

You can contact me at: bbaker.write@gmail.com

Summer of Lies: Baker, Barbara:9780228615774: Books - Amazon.ca

What About Me?: Sequel to Summer of Lies : Baker, Barbara: Amazon.ca: Books

My Dream Vacation

With July and August come vacation season. For those parents working full-times jobs, these months offer the perfect time to get away from it all. The destinations vary: either trips to visit out-of-town family members, to a resort, or for the fortunate, an exotic locale. However, none of these match the imagination when it comes to a once-in-a-lifetime destination, the dream vacation.

So what is my dream vacation? Let me take the word “dream” literally. A couple of months back I had one of those vivid dreams that seem to last all night long, one that made me feel as if the waking world is the dream and no the other way around.

I boarded a jet from an unknown airport for a flight that lasted almost an entire day. The destination? A tiny island in the middle of a vast ocean; a place was so isolated that only a handful of people lived on it.

The island was remarkable. Cocooned by a light fog and a hushed isolation, it floated high in the southern seas, as if anchored in the mute white atmosphere. Surrounded by cold green waters, no trees grew on it. Besides a few humans, only penguin-like animals populated it. It was too distant to receive any type of radio or television signals.

But rather than dark, the island was a happy place. Despite a paucity of adults, the island was inhabited by many happy children who climbed its rocks and played on its beaches. Enormous whales floated about in the waters, constantly rising from the depths and snorting huge plumes of water.

It took me several minutes to get my bearings when I woke up, the dream being so life-like. I wandered through my quotidian duties that day but the dream did not leave me. When curiosity could no longer be contained, I checked a world map on the computer, searching for remote islands that may resemble the one in my dream.

Several possibilities emerged but were quickly dismissed. The Galapagos felt remote enough, but iguanas and giant tortoises did not appear in my dream. Several islands of the South Pacific – Bora Bora and Tonga -- appeared on the screen as possibilities, but my dream island was far from a tropical paradise.

I finally entered “the most remote island in the world” in Google search. The answer popped up immediately: Tristan da Cunha, an eight-mile-wide island in the middle of the South Atlantic, whose closest mainland city, Cape Town, South Africa, lay 1,743 miles away. I couldn’t say with certainty that it matched the one in my dreams, but similarities existed. The island, dominated by a rocky volcano, is devoid of trees. Low-lying mists create a secluded, hazy setting. Rockhopper penguins nest on its shores.

Tristan Da Cunha

Unlike my dream, no airstrip exists. However, fishing boats from South Africa visit eight times a year. A trip to Tristan da Cunha is an exercise in patience and planning. About eighty families live there permanently. There are neither cell phones nor home internet service, but as a gesture to the modern world, one lonely internet café exists. It seems that the island is a paradise for children. The entire island, with neither predators nor crime, is a vast playground for children, who live in complete freedom.

I would love to visit Tristan da Cunha. Is it the island of my dreams? Obviously, I can’t tell but I did gather one more scrap of evidence. It seems that whales and dolphins swim the seas around it. Certainly, it’s a place for a dream vacation.

Mohan Ashtakala is the author of "Karma Nation."  

www.mohanashtakala.com

He is published by Books We Love. 

www.bookswelove.com