Frenchy's Rant

Big Bend National Park is another one of those national parks that you really have to want to go to. Tucked way down in the far western corner of Texas along the Mexican border, it isn’t on the beaten path to anywhere. I’ve always eyed this elusive expanse of land, but could never make all the logistics work to justify visiting. Until now. With a modicum of hammering from Houston, I figured I could fit in a brief visit and still make it back to California in time.

Self Portrait

As an added bonus, once I rode past San Antonio, the desolate but delicious Route 90 appeared to be the most direct route I could find to the park. I’d ridden parts of Route 90 once before, and knew it to be a wonderfully deserted stretch of asphalt, surrounded by some beautiful West Texas scenery.

To make up for my past two days of laziness, and celebrate an amazing concert the night before, I decided to shoot two Ghost Rider tribute photos on this first day heading west.

Ghost Rider Tribute – Day Five, Number One

I rode for hours through the beautiful and barren West Texas scenery, which seemed to have been put there just for my enjoyment. Again I started to wonder what would happen if I had an unfortunate high speed dismounting incident out here in the middle of nowhere. I shoved those thoughts deep down and concentrated on the rugged yet serene tranquility surrounding me. Hours passed and I never saw another vehicle, until I got close to the Mexican border. Suddenly, green and white Border Patrol vehicles swarmed like angry ants; driving up, over and around everything in their never ending, vigilant quest to keep our borders safe from extraterrestrials.

I had to pass through a series of US Border Patrol checkpoints along the way. At one checkpoint, I asked the officer which upcoming town, Sanderson or Marathon, would be a better choice to spend the night. He thought for a second, then replied, “Well dude, to be honest both towns are shitholes that are stuck in the year 1973.”

I continued toward shithole town number two, because it was the closest shithole town to Big Bend with a hotel. The sunset can only be described as glorious. I realize that using the word glorious in a ride report makes me sound like I also joined the West Texas Knitting For Douchebags Club, but with a gigantic, well defined halo and parhelion surrounding the setting sun, I think the word fits, so just deal with it.

I stopped on this deserted road to take my second Ghost Rider tribute picture:

Ghost Rider Tribute – Day Five, Number Two

On the way, I also stopped to punch a few bulls, crushed a beer can on my skull and shot up some road signs, just to prove that my glorious application to the West Texas KFD club would never be accepted.

Located sixty miles from the entrance to Big Bend, the Gage Hotel seemed like it would be a bit above my modest price range for a room, but was not. For $70 I was allowed to spend the night in an authentically decorated Western room, including an authentic cow skin rug on the floor. And by authentic cow skin, I mean it looked like someone had skinned a unfortunate cow and with a minimum of work turned the hide into a cow shaped rug.

Donning my one good shirt, I aimlessly moseyed on over to the only restaurant in town. Within minutes I was happily tucking into another delicious and very juicy slab of beef. Within minutes after that, my one good shirt doubled as a napkin. It never fails. After dinner, I ambled over to the nearest watering hole saloon to toast the Best Day Ever. Sitting by myself at the bar, I noticed one of the things that makes small town Texas bars great. In these small bars, dogs can and often do sit in the kitchen furiously licking their balls and nobody seems to care.

Big Bend National Park was far away from everything, the road in was long, and that morning’s ride was all worth it. This park would require several days and a sturdy dirt bike to fully explore, but what I saw of the place with my limited time, I liked. And nearby Big Bend Ranch State Park was even better, with an awesome, gravity defying roller coaster of a road that snakes along the Rio Grande river.

Glorious!

After passing through several more exotic non-citizen visitor checkpoints, my Best Day Ever ended in the hotel town of Deming, NM. I noted on my analog map that Deming is only fifty miles south of Silver City. With a big grin, I realized I might be able to unravel the luscious Route 152 after all.

But, sadly, that grin abruptly deflated as I was unloading Rain Cloud Follows for the night. While carrying my dirty clothes into the hotel room, I noticed this cliffhanger-in-the-making that would completely ruin that plan.

How will it all end? Will our Hero rescue the damsel in distress? Will the bank foreclose on the farm? Click here to read the stunning conclusion!

Most times I ignore the voices of reason in my head, the ones that say silly stuff like, “Hey, dummy! Maybe taking a touring bike up a mountain on a dirt road is a bad idea, especially when not one soul knows you are doing it,” but when the hair on the back of my neck stands up, that I do not ignore. The appearance of this huge and ominous truck got my complete attention. Though he was a fair distance away, I could see the dread-locked driver shouting and menacingly waving his arms.

So, I did what any brave soul would, I turned tail and, as fast as my nearly bald road tires and overweight touring bike would allow, I took off, with the battered pickup gaining on me. He seemingly gave chase, and while I wasn’t sure if I was interpreting things correctly, I didn’t exactly want to stop and find out that I was; discretion being the better part of valor, and me feeling pretty much like a big pussy at that moment.

With fear and hope swelling in equal proportions, I ran away. When the path forked, I formed a desperate plan to give the demon pickup truck the slip.

I faked left then went right. At this point, while I didn’t exactly leave the giant stranded by the riverside, I did manage to evade him. I have no idea what he might have wanted, and I am OK with that. Through the rest of the dirt I cautiously raced, and three hours after starting, I found myself safe and sound at the other end of the path.

Welcome To The Enchanted Land

Thanks to my extended off-road adventure, the excellence of Route 152 would have to wait for another day.

The road I’d found was nearly as good, though still infested with locusts performing bizarre insect love acts. Low on fuel and tired from the chase, I putted through the landscape until I found my oasis, an old Shell gas station. As I pulled up to the pump, another sun-dried old cougar approached, asking me to take her picture. This was starting to become an odd theme for this ride.

“You want me to take your picture here?” I asked. “At the gas station? In front of a pump?”

“Yesssssss!” she hissed.

I obliged, shot a stunning three-quarter length portrait of her and a diesel nozzle, then got an earful of what was now becoming the usual –  how her friend had a Honda blah-blah-blah and she once blah-blah-blahed… Odd, indeed.

I smiled, nodded, waved, and got the hell out of there.

The day’s detour forced me to crank it up a notch, and soon I was in the state where notch-cranking is encouraged and even expected, because in Texas, driving at 80 MPH is considered dawdling.

Drive Friendly – But Fast!

Following smog-belching trucks down I-10, I noticed some peculiar cloud forming ahead.

I’ve seen these peculiar formations before, they usually mean that the clouds that always seem to follow me have caught up, are rallying the troops, and soon there will be rain, high winds, lightning and hail. As I approached the clouds, they eerily light up as dazzling lightning bolts dance around inside. I enjoyed this impromptu light show until it is dark, and the very first fat drops of rain started to fall. Home for the evening is the semi-famous El Capitan Hotel in Van Horn, a grand old hotel built way back in the 1930’s when people built good looking hotels.

Damp, tired from the day, and in desperate need of some Scottish 12 year old Single Malt therapy, I trudged to the front desk. The desk clerk, noticing my Rhode Island drivers license asked what I am doing so far from home.

“Well, it’s a long story,” I begin, “but the short version is I am riding from Los Angeles to Houston to watch Rush play.”

“Rush? Is that the band from the movie  I Love You, Man?” She added incredulously, “Wait a minute, is Rush a real band?”

“Ummm, yes,” I answered, “they are a real band.”

She continued, “So, are you gonna air guitar thought the show?”

“Nope. I’ll be air drumming, thank you very much.”

The bar was still open, so I order a double Dalhwinnie Single Malt neat and happily hoisted a toast to the Best Day Ever. I was completely unconscious about fifteen minutes later.

The next morning I woke up up early. I had a birthday celebration to attend in San Antonio, and I wasn’t exactly as close to the home of the Alamo I as I would have liked to be. I knew the day’s ride would be mostly high speed, highway induced hypnotism. I loaded my ‘Angry White Man Music’ playlist on my iPod, gritted my teeth and accelerated to warp five on a road that looked more like a runway than a highway.

In the interest of efficient travel, and knowing the Texas Rangers would probably frown on me setting up Rain Cloud Follows in the middle of I-10, I decided to forgo my Ghost Rider tribute, taking instead this awkward portrait at a fuel stop:

Hours of mind-numbing highway later, I arrived in San Antonio, and the rest of the day was spent helping my beautiful girlfriend Sleeping Beauty and family celebrate her sister’s induction into the BIG THREE-OH Club. Welcome to the Top of the Hill, Denise! It’s all downhill from here!

I had trouble sleeping that night. My restlessness didn’t stem from my birthday cake excess indulgence, it’s just that… I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve! Though I have seen Rush about twenty times over the years, I still get excited before each show. Needless to say I was up early once again. Bidding Sleeping Beauty and family a fond farewell, I cranked up the only fitting playlist for such an important day – All The World’s A Stage (naturally) and the road between San Antonio and Houston flew past as I enjoyed listening to the old concert recording every bit as much as I did thirty years yeas ago.

Pat and family put on a Texas style feast as a pre-concert meal; gigantic, thick steaks with all the trimmings. Excited and full, two of Rush’s biggest fans piled into Pat’s truck and headed out for some much anticipated concert excellence!

Rain or shine? Of course, about thirty minutes before the show started, the skies opened up and a short deluge soaked everything. Thankfully, Pat and I were safe and dry in a nearby Irish Pub. Again, as if on cue, the rain stopped and the sky cleared just before the show started.

The View From The Cheap Seats

The house lights dimmed, the opening movie rolled, and the sold out crowd erupted in a wild cheer as the the familiar guitar riff intro to ‘Spirit of Radio’ boomed throughout the amphitheater.

Image Courtesy John Arrowsmith – All Rights Reserved

Image Courtesy John Arrowsmith – All Rights Reserved

(Before I continue my fanboy gushing about the show, I have to say a huge thank you to Rush tour photographer John Arrowsmith for giving me permission to use these pictures from the Houston show. More of John’s fantastic concert photography can be enjoyed at this site.)

All those years I spent learning the drum lines to Rush songs paid off as I put on an amazing display of air drumming excellence way up in the cheap seats. Not surprisingly, Pat distanced himself from me during what surely looked like a seizure to the untrained eye. During ‘Freewill,’ I air drummed so hard I accidentally punched a kid in the face. I apologized profusely, but the kid understood. ‘Freewill’ is that good of a song.

The only time during the whole concert there was a line for the men’s room was after the drum solo. But then again, at $13 a beer, I can understand the reluctance to purge. That’s some damn expensive urine! I doubt there was ever a line for the women’s room.

I air drummed until I was sore. I screamed until I was horse. In between I bought beers until my wallet was empty. The band played better than I have ever heard them play, and seemed, at least from my far-off vantage point, to be having a good time doing it. The show was so enjoyable that the three hour set passed by much too quickly. Without even needing to say it, this incredible culmination of sixteen hundred miles of motorcycling can only be described as the Best Day Ever!

Supremely happy and content at being a small part of such a display of musical excellence, I was almost as excited to turn around and begin the sixteen hundred mile journey home.

Act Three can be found here.

Ever since I was this little drummer boy  in the picture below, I’ll confess, I’ve been a fan of the rock band Rush.

I can still remember the first time I heard Rush like it was yesterday, which is funny because I can’t remember what actually happened yesterday. Anyway, way back in the day, I somehow managed to convince my friend’s older sister, the beautiful Jennifer, to follow me to her basement. I had no clue what was going to happen next, but I think she had an idea.

Innocently, she popped her All The World’s A Stage 8-track into the player, and instantly my world changed.

The 8-Track That Started It All

From the first notes of “Bastille Day” to the closing chords of “What You’re Doing,” I was hooked. Beautiful Jennifer ceased to exist as I sat there transfixed by the amazing drumming I was hearing. As a nine year old tadpole drummer, my dream became to learn how to play drums like Neil Peart, Rush’s drummer extraordinaire. Once I learned to play the drums right, I’d then tour the world in my very own tour bus as a world famous rock drummer. For years, my poor, understanding parents both supported my dream and tolerated my hours long drum practice sessions, as I attempted to dissect each intricate rhythm and drum passage. With time and practice, I could sorta-kinda play through some of the less difficult songs. I annoyed the entire neighborhood for years.

Funny how things work out, just not always like you plan. Now, I do travel the world on a tour bus, though as an audio engineer for World Wrestling Entertainment, instead of the  world famous drummer I planned to be. These days I consider myself merely a drum owner, though from time to time I will still sit down behind the drum kit and annoy my neighbors by trying to hack my way through “Tom Sawyer.” Though I don’t drum like I used to, Neil Peart continued to inspire me.

Back in 2002, a friend suggested I read Peart’s Ghost Rider, a tale of the tragic loss of his family and the healing powers of motorcycling.

This book came along at a particularly low point in my own life, and once again, everything changed. After my second reading, I decided the best thing for me would be to take my little yellow Suzuki Katana – nicknamed The Nip-cycle – for a long, healing ride. My longest ride to date had been about 100 miles. This journey – performed by a much thinner version of myself – the young version that actually fit into that matching yellow leather coat  – comprised over 3500 miles in eleven days, meandering from the Kingdom of Rhode Island to Kentucky, through Deal’s Gap and the Blue Ridge Mountains and back.

That ride was the origin of my very first, very poorly written ride report, and also the motivation behind every ride that followed, to this day. Again, I was hooked.

A recent, half-joking Facebook post from my friend Pat’s wife became the basis for my latest ride. Her post said, “Rush is coming to Houston on September 25th. Will someone PLEASE take Pat so I don’t have to go?!?” I looked at my calendar and talked it over with The Boss, then responded with a simple, “I will.” My girlfriend Sleeping Beauty conveniently had plans to attend her sister’s initiation ceremony into the Third Decade Club on that same weekend, which I think was her way of saying to me, “Please don’t drag me to go see Rush again!”  The birthday party was conveniently located on the way to Houston in San Antonio, so I broke out the crayons and doodled out a semi-decent Map-kin.

One the Wednesday before the concert, I flew in from wherever the WWE show was, arriving just in time to say goodbye to Fiona before she left on her flight to San Antonio. I quickly tossed some clothes in a bag, fueled up my trusty Yamaha FJR that I call Rain Cloud Follows, and set out for Houston.

Without the luxury of unlimited time, I knew the majority of the ride would be on the Mundane Mile Disposal Thoroughfare known as I-10. With little choice in my first day’s route, I settled into a comfortable rhythm and the miles effortlessly disappeared behind me.

I decided that since this ride was a sort of tribute to my childhood influences, I’d take one Ghost Rider tribute picture each day. This was my first day’s attempt:

Ghost Rider Tribute – Day One

I wandered east, soon leaving behind my adopted home state of California for the drier, browner pastures of neighboring Arizona.

A few hours into the Grand Canyon State it started getting dark. I wound my way to Gila Bend, figuring I’d spend the night at a hotel I’ve stayed at a few times before, the quirky Best Western Space Lodge. Of course the Best Western Space Lodge was full of the kind of people I detest; those scumbag travelers that plan ahead and make reservations. Bleeach! Those forward thinking scumbags occupied every room in the Space Lodge, forcing me to seek other accommodations. I opted for the closest and cheapest motel, a no name place with $26 a night rooms, and cryptically offered ‘Refrigeration.’

Refrigeration?

I almost laughed at the room total – $30 including tax. The man behind the bullet proof glass slid me a key through the opening and gave me that look that says, “For $30, don’t expect much.” In fact, for $30, you really don’t get much at all: one bare light bulb, a bed, and a fan for air conditioning. My grandmother would find the room’s interior decorations retro. The bed is comfy, if you like your mattress extra, extra firm. I’m not positive, but I think the sleep number of that mattress is somewhere above a thousand. For comparison, the floor’s sleep number is one hundred. For the low price of $30 you also get to experience the thrilling sounds of freight trains as they shriek and rumble past all night long.

As the 5 AM Sante Fe Express train clattered through Gila Bend, I got up and got out. As I thumbed the ignition, the pull of New Mexico’s curvy Route 152 was pretty strong, and since I was up so early, the extra miles were easily justifiable. I pointed Rain Cloud Follows east once again, with the start of Route 152, the little town of Silver City square in my sights.

As the day warmed up, I stopped for some fuel and a cool drink. Almost instantly, a leathery old lady came running up to me, gushing about how she took a ride on the back of a motorcycle a week ago. She told me, “Now I need to get me one, but,” she said with a half-smirk in Rain Cloud Follow’s direction, “I’m getting a real bike – a Harley!”

You go, girl!

As I made my way to Silver City and the goodness that is Route 152, I noticed a sign for Chiricahua National Monument. On a whim, I took the exit – the small two lane road provided a perfect backdrop for my second Ghost Rider tribute photo.

Ghost Rider Tribute – Day Two

I was nearly alone on this road, a long, scenic two laner that led the forty or so miles from the highway to Chiricahua National Monument. I say nearly alone because while I was the only vehicle on the road, there were thousands of frisky grasshoppers doing all manner of things in the middle of the pavement.

I felt awkward interrupting their insect orgy, so I did my best to swerve around the mounds of frantically fornicating bugs. Even with my best efforts, there were too may horny hoppers in the road to avoid them all. Rain Cloud Follows arrived at Chiricahua National Monument covered with legs and antennae.

Chiricahua National Monument is seldom visited, thanks to its remote location. As I figured out, you really have to want to go there, since there is no direct route in. The detour from the highway to the Monument stretched to over forty miles. Once at the monument, I added another stamp to my Parks Passport, then took the eight mile scenic road to Massai Point.

Massai Point, at an elevation of 6870 feet is surrounded by interesting pinnacle formations on all sides.

I turned around and headed back down to the visitor’s center, not relishing the though of riding forty miles back the way I’d come to the highway. Studying my analog map, I found another route, a small, dashed line indicating some kind of road that led back to the highway, though the map claimed the road was closed in winter. This is September, long before winter, so I reasoned with the negative voices in my head that I should be OK, though I wondered exactly what the dashed line meant. It didn’t take too long to find out.

Decision time. Behind me is the certainty of forty miles of pavement covered with crickets banging each other. In front of me are unknown conditions, certainly dirt, most likely climbing high into the Chiricahua Mountains. What to do?

The decision is simple. It’s obvious. Don’t listen to the voices, even the ones of reason.

Never turn around.

I slipped and slid my way through miles of gravel, dirt and mud, enjoying this treacherous fun. Of course, the ride would have been much more fun on a nice dual sport, but I’ve taken Rain Cloud off road enough to know how the bike handles in the dirt, which is surprisingly not all that bad. After about an hour winding up the side of a mountain, I started thinking to myself, “What am I going to do if I get trapped out here by myself under a fallen bike?”

The only answer I could come up with was, “Don’t find out.”

The road was challenging and fun, requiring total concentration to keep from pointing my wheels at the sky. The next thing I knew, I’d spent nearly two hours hidden away in total seclusion, when suddenly my reverie was broken by the sight of a gigantic, battered, old pickup truck clattering and banging its way towards me at a high rate of speed, the wild eyed driver glaring menacingly as he rapidly approached.

Alone in the wilderness, this sudden development did not bode well at all.

Act Two can be found here.

We cross back into the greatest country on earth without an issue. Even my friend, El Coco Loco, The Tubby Terrorist I call Dark Meat Snack, is allowed in without incident.

With aplomb, we savor the grandeur that is Glacier National Park. The under construction ‘Going To The Sun Road’ is open, providing us with more mountain road gravel riding fun.

Along with this death defying balancing act, we witness an award winning wildlife performance. At another animal created traffic jam, we watch in awe as a magical unicorn and her baby unicornette defy gravity, effortlessly walking down an impossible looking cliff.

Then, in full view of thousands of tourists, in front of hundreds of cameras, the unicorn unceremoniously squats down and without a care in the world drops a massive, magical unicorn dump. Priceless!

Kalispel casts its spell on us that night. A late night Map-kin session indicates that the excellent Idaho Route 12 is between us and home, we set out the next morning with ambitious plans to conquer this road.

We reach Missoula at 1 PM for fuel, and a strange feeling of déjà vu comes over me. I see an Irish pub and a hotel, and realize that Dark Meat and I stayed in Missoula a year before on our failed attempt at conquering the Going To The Sun highway. In that very Irish pub the game of Tabasco-Guinness Shuffleboard was invented.

All of a sudden, the motivation to move is gone. We sit in the lot, staring at the pub. Everyone’s thinking it, but nobody says it. Finally, the contemplative silence is broken.

“You know…” Fiona starts off.

I continue her thought, “…we’ve got enough time to get home. We cooooulllld just….”

“… stop here…” adds Dark Meat.

“… and play Tabasco-Guinness Shuffleboard for the rest of the day!”

The rules are simple. First, a pint of Guinness® brand Irish stout is emptied. This is very important, the glass must be empty. Then, that empty pint is set up at the end of a long table. Two half-full bottles of Tabasco© brand pepper sauce are then set up at the opposite end of the table. Using the non-dominant hand, each contestant pushes the bottle toward the empty glass. The Tabasco© brand pepper sauce bottle that ends up closest to the Guinness® brand Irish stout glass without touching is deemed the winner. The loser pays for the round.

The Olympics of Tabasco-Guinness Shuffleboard commences, and the game lasts well into the night. The next morning, our will restored, we conquer the awesomeness that is Idaho’s Route 12.

Indicators that our ride is almost over start appearing, as evidence of civilization starts creeping back. In the last ten days, we’ve seen more bears than red lights. Somehow the people we’ve met have survived without strip malls, without Wal-Marts, but we start seeing those blights again. We run the first red light we see, just because we can.

Consulting the map, we delay the inevitable as long as possible, hiding from over-edification as much as we can. Our improvised route keeps us off the interstate, and we log a long, high mile, Wal-Mart free day.

The gas station town of Jordan Valley becomes our home for the night.

You know you’ve successfully dodged civilization when you have to rent a motel room from a gas station.

The road rolls on; the threat of The End Of The Ride looms larger and larger.

On our last day, we bob and weave, dodging the extreme heat of Death Valley. Eyeballs greedily soak up the remaining sights as that melancholy feeling falls over me once again. The gap between us and home decreases until finally we hit our turn signals for the last time, roll up our driveway, and for the last time on this ride, toast the Best Day, Best Ride, and Best Friends Ever!

Without missing a beat, Dark Meat Snack and Sleeping Beauty retire to the pool to cool down, while I take a moment for myself, both to reflect on the ride, and hide my sadness that is it over.

The Entire 6956 Mile Route

In my post-ride depression, I check my neglected email account for the first time in two weeks. One message, from a man I met every-so-briefly on April’s annual Road to Wrestlemania ride catches my eye.

Seventeen days and thousands of miles have passed. That’s a long time to be stuck with the same people. Surprisingly, to this point, nobody in the group has murdered anyone else. Scenery overload and road loopiness has definitely set in; things that would never be considered funny set everyone into giggle fits. There’s not much that can be done about either issue, the scenery overload continues as we begin our southward stab on the Yellowhead Highway toward the even more picturesque Promenade des Glaciers, better known as the Icefield Highway. And the loopiness? It’s much preferable to murder.

Well, maybe….

Anyway, more mountains pop up on all sides, again each one completely different than the rest.

Overwhelmed by the stunning deluge of imagery, my eyeballs go into panoramic overload, unable to completely process this total immersion in spectacular mountain majesty. At that moment, I realize that the objective for this ride has not only been met, it has been far surpassed. I am snapped out of this reverie when right in front of me brake lights break out like an ugly rash. A gaggle of cars have haphazardly parked all along the road. This is the best way to find wildlife, simply look for a traffic jam.

The reason for the blockade? An antenna enhanced critter happily and obliviously grazing away on the side of the road.

I can’t help myself, so I jump off and shoot it.

Does this jacket make me look fat, or is it just the fat that makes me look gigantic in the jacket? Wrong. The correct answer is none of the above. Remember, I’m still suffering from post traumatic sting syndrome. The swelling from the previous day’s bee stings has inflated my normally ripped physique, the aftermath is still evident. Yeah, that’s the ticket!

Nestled in the collective crotches of the Victoria Cross Ranges, Pyramid Mountain, Maligne Ranges and Indian Ridge, Jasper is a perfect place to unwind after a long day of riding. Turns out that everyone in the world is aware of that fact. As we enter the bustling ski town, I briefly worry about finding a room.

The first hotel we see has a gigantic Vacancy sign illuminated. Perfect, right? who needs reservations anyway? Reservations are for wieners, we’re adventurers!

At the desk, the usual I-Need-A-Room dance begins.

“Two rooms please?”

“Sorry, sir, we’re sold out.”

“Really? I’m sorry. That’s my fault. I got confused when I saw your Vacancy sign out front, please forgive me.”

Who’s a wiener now?

Oblivious tourists clog the roads, making appealing targets. Frustrated, I think to myself, “These people all have rooms, maybe if I send a few to the hospital, something will open up?”

A massive barrage of phone calls later, we finally locate the last two rooms in all of Jasper, conveniently located up many flights of stairs, and sharing a single bathroom with an entire floor. What an adventure!

The Best Day Ever is toasted from a rooftop restaurant. And from a local bar. Then a brewery…

The ocular overload continues the next day, with gawking stops at the Columbia Icefield Glacier:

Mount Athabasca:

Random snow cones:

And pre-bottled pure mountain water:

We roll through more of the same until we reach the funky enclave of Radium Hot Springs.

Upon finding this delightful weirdness, there is no doubt this town will be our final stop in the The People’s Republic of Canuckistan. Supremely pleased, we celebrate the greatest twenty four hour period in history with something that begins with ‘A’ and ends with ‘Glass of Twelve Year Old Macallan.’

The border of the USA looms large, and, as always happens, our finite supply of free time is running out.

Click here for the earth shattering finale to this epic tale!