Why and if are bedfellows of can and can’t, will and won’t. There’s always a challenge. Something to face. Something to prove. We can’t always identify the whys or ifs, but it’s the can you or can’t you, will you or won’t you that becomes your odyssey.
There is a Journeys page on shericadventures.com. It is an 8 year chronicle of coupled self-exploration, post career and kids at home. It is a search for who we become when we are primarily responsible for our own happiness, wrapped in a mission to escape our constructed familiar. Or maybe it’s nothing more than a running commentary of the trips we’ve taken. The recipe for each adventure usually begins with few cups of same day, same way mixed with a healthy dose of crazy ideas, simmered until bubbly. Fold in a few ounces of possibility with a handful of health, time and financial constraints. Stir. Season to taste. Take it to go.
Toes in the Arctic Ocean was contrived in a sauce of Florida heat and more than a few happy hour conversations. What road was worse than Big Bend Ranch’s road to Sauceda, or the boulder crawl to Rincon or as far as the Blackrock Desert? Where was a climate crisis to rival the drought of Glen Canyon or the Greenland glacier melt sending ‘bergs past Newfoundland? Where were the coolest temps on the continent to counter the heat and humidity of the Sunshine State? How far is the Arctic Ocean? Far. How do you get there? Across a series of rugged, rig and patience testing roads. How long would it take? Most of the Florida summer. What do you want to do for birthdays? What’s along the way? Let’s google and find out.
What began as a journey morphed to an odyssey somewhere north of north. The Yukon and Northwest Territories are land monsters of immense size and minuscule population. The Arctic sirens lure intrepid explorers up the Dempster Highway, where an angry river god traps them in the cave of Eagle Plains until they have proved their resilience. Once released, the travelers battle fierce tribes of invisible blood sucking creatures and the god of dust and dirt. There is a powerful witch that cracks windshields, soaks bedding, halts fans, kills batteries, and breaks door handles and teeth because you deserve to get the trial for which you came. Without punishment for can and will spirits, there can be no odyssey.
The reservation gods were with us on this last reverse leg of Tropics to Tundra. Choosing familiar over foreign, they granted us three of the most coveted campsites in the Canadian Rockies, with the one cancellation site in Lake Louise on a Friday night, another in Tunnel Mountain Village 1 on Saturday night and yet a another in Waterton Lakes on Sunday night to bring the Canadian portion of the journey full circle. In the beginning we joined and won a lottery months in advance for site reservations. In the end, the last minute pick-ups were better sites in better campgrounds with better amenities. The real difference was the mental matter of dealing with the uncertainty and worry. Just let it go.
The return to Banff down the Icefields Parkway from Jasper to Lake Louise was a continuation of SMEAT. Where we were once bundled, we bared. Where we once marveled we masked. The fires burning in British Columbia blanketed the mountains in a gray haze, raising temps and creating 2D cardboard mountain cutouts falling to the monochrome waters and terrain below. The glacier skybridge was still open and the sold out big wheeled crawler was still shuttling passengers to the Icefields despite Mother Nature’s disguising deeds. Dressed in tees and shorts, we ate chili fries in the cafeteria overlooking the Athabasca glacier, reminiscing on wearing hats and gloves and raincoats just a month before. In any authentic odyssey, the weather gods will test you.
As days were becoming lazy, we traded curiosity for comfort. It’s not that we couldn’t rally for a sight never seen, it’s that we didn’t want to. We wanted to eat the lotus flower. We were happy walking through town, picking up tomatoes and bread for an evening sandwich, seeing “The Odyssey” in an opera house. lounging in a soft chair wrapped up in A/C. We were not home, but we were acting land thinking like it. It is totally understandable and totally mistaken.
Slipping into Maelstrom AFB, we are using the facilities of the young missiliers to regroup, repair and replenish. While the young men and women maintain and man hidden silos of deterrence through unfathomable power, we raid their super market and retail store. We use their recreation facilities to empty buckets of dirt from air conditioners, filters, floorboards and wheel wells. Fresh oil and filters are swapped in at their auto skills DIY center. We shift from dropping the pack, to figuring out how to diagonally cross the States under a dangerous heat dome in a smoke screen.
The Odyssey continues until the T@G is in the garage and the credits roll. Heat and high speed freeways are creatures of their own. The Montana State Fair provided a celebration of sorts to send us on our way. We milked goats, pet rabbits, and ate deep fried Swedish meatballs on a stick. It’s a Montana farewell more Taylor Sheridan than Christopher Nolan, but an odd-ysse nevertheless.
