I flexed my fingers on the hot steering wheel. I rolled down the window and spat out my wad of flavourless gum. I flicked through the radio stations. Channel after channel of distorted static greeted me. I rubbed my sunburnt arm as I cracked my neck and peered forward. The endless highway stretched before me, surrounded by seas of green. In a nearby field, a cow mooed.
I had been on the road for four hours. I wasn’t even at the halfway point of my journey.
Once in a while, you have to do something foolish. We live in a society that values order, control, and reliability. Farmers have to get up at the same time every day or we’d all starve. Accountants have to file their numbers down to the umpteenth decimal or our economy would descend into a Mad Max-esque hellscape. Politicians have to make important decisions or we’d have no one to pummel with our impotent rage. We need routines.
But every so often, it’s necessary (and satisfying) to burn your routine to the ground. It’s vital to toss your schedule into a pyre and turn the ashes into something new. Shattering a cycle, however you do it, is the only way to stay sane.
I’ll be honest with you folks; I was in a bit of rut these last few months. The winter hangover blahs clung onto summer like a tenacious barnacle. I needed to hit the restart button. But what would be the kindling for this ritual fire?
Last week, I found myself with five days off. As I browsed through my computer looking for something to do, I stumbled across Google Maps. Bored, I scrolled up, moving my God’s eye view far above Yorkton. I saw all of Saskatchewan and beyond. Far to the left, clinging to the side of Alberta, I saw them: The Rockies.
I thought, “Why not?”
So, I packed my bags, booked a motel, and set out for Banff. I’ve been meaning to see the mountains of Canada’s great west ever since I moved to the Prairies, but I always found an excuse to put it off. July seemed like the right month to finally do it.
I didn’t jump into this journey completely half-baked. I stuffed my trunk with water and granola bars. I filled my iPhone with dozens of podcasts. I borrowed an 11-hour audio book from the library. I was ready (supposedly).
Living in Saskatchewan for close to a year, I thought I had grown accustomed to Prairie driving. I’ve survived the monotonous stretch of flatness, straight lines, and grid roads on numerous trips.
The drive to Banff injected the Prairie flatness with steroids. It was a nine-hour journey with, at most, three turns. I shot through Saskatchewan and Alberta with the directness of an arrow. My car ploughed past farms, villages, and gas stations. They all blurred together into a green and yellow soup. It was like riding a carousel; the same images repeated themselves ad nauseam.
The road to Banff seems custom built to break the mind due to boredom-induced insanity. But thanks to our modern conveniences, I clung onto my levelhead. I flipped through radio stations, CDs, podcasts, and two hours of the audiobook (which was surprisingly bingeable). I defeated road madness.
As the sun retreated to the horizon, I checked into the motel. I collapsed onto the bed, drifting into a heat exhaustion coma. But my journey had just begun. Tomorrow, I had to climb a mountain.
Tune in next week.
