My true travels are coming to an end, with this post, even as the train is in motion, bringing us closer to our destination. As we pass a murky lake and more commuter traffic this morning, JR announces that there is approximately one hour and fifteen minutes left on our journey across Canada.
It almost looks British, this part of BC, or that which in my mind is British – green pastures in January, overcast skies, no snow, farms, tight row houses on a hill not far in the distance. All around, things are covered in a thick ivy – ducks are sitting in muddy ponds not more than 30 centimeters deep where drainage is not achieved.
It is low hills, framed by overhanging mists of white clouds doffed by evergreens and peaks rising with snow in the background. The foreground is either a river or an inlet, someplace near Michan, or Maple Ridge, maybe Coquitlam, not quite Burnaby – the suburbs of Vancouver.
Vancouver is becoming more of a reality. Kitsilano becomes a place – undergoing gentrification with “yuppies,” as Susan says, who is the woman formerly described as in the printed dress back a few provinces ago.
She likes active art and conscious being, tells me about a book, The Four Agreements.
(In case you don’t know), maybe more on their meanings later.
1. Be Impeccable With Your Word 2. Don't Take Anything Personally 3. Don't Make Assumptions 4. Always Do Your Best
What has this journey done to my perspective?
I see wood I’ve worked with my hands, a different color here. Logs I see as lumber are floating in the river. New observations of the beginning of things in the West Coast, mostly of sawmills, woodchips, Georgia Pacific, industry that people don’t often see, things my father would see and observe much the same.
We’re finally to Vancouver – anti-climactic. There is finality in this leg of travels. We arrive at the station about 09:30, the bus for Squamish departs at 10:00, no chance though I run out with three heavy bags, attempting to catch it. I must miss it for a reason.
So I wait in the station, moving back and forth across the train station, slowly eating a lunch, reading, talking with Shaun, a galley cook from Victoria.
The bus boards, I take meaningless notes on the Greyhound as water pours down the rocks onto Highway 99; for those who’ve been, think a 20-40% more spectacular drive than what already is of Minnesota’s Highway 61.
Shannon Falls is roaring today – no climbers in the parking lot, full in July.
I’m finally here.
Lifestyle begins.
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