How It All Ended

My dad has been teasing me to get back to my blog: “You know, there are 500 people out there anxiously wondering where you are.” I toyed with the idea of leaving the journey open-ended, to let you fill in the blanks as to whether or not I actually made it back to Canada, and how the journey in the Jamboree concluded. However, it only seems fair that, since it did end, and since you have been reading all along up until now (and even though I'd love knowing I was writing to an audience of 500, I'm aware that that's a bit of an exaggeration) and if for no other reason than it feels good to wrap things up, I'll finally let those of you who are still out there in on how.

I left Seattle and crossed the border back into British Columbia. I continued to visit friends and family in the west coast area. In White Rock, spitting distance from the US; on the ferry back to Victoria to spend another week on the island, back to that city where the Jamboree and I started out last June. Full circle. Ta-da!

As satisfying as this was, I was ready to get back to Calgary where I planned to idle out the remainder of my year off, living on the goodwill of my parents and Tara, in whose house I'm residing in exchange for cleaning and cooking and cat-caring, and to spend time with the people I like around there.

So, I turned the Jamboree's nose westwards once more to return to Vancouver for another few days with Carolynn. While spring was in full bloom on the west coast, I was forced to stay a few extra days longer in Vancouver than planned because of snow falling in the mountains, making the roads somewhat treacherous. It was early April, still plenty of time for winter to linger, and when I finally was able to leave the Pacific behind and make my way across the mountains, a two-day journey, over two mountain passes, I revelled in the newly fallen white stuff.

Yes, revelled. I celebrated. I cheered when I saw the accumulation of fresh snow blanketed thickly along the highway, and that I wasn't driving in it while it was coming down. I, after all, hadn't spent the entirety of the winter in it. I spent my last night in an empty campground in Revelstoke, BC, and that evening as I sat at the kitchen table in the Jamboree eating dinner, I watched more snow as it started to fall, at first slowly, then voluminously, in big, soft, fat flakes outside. It stuck, and the next morning I had my own private winter wonderland to carouse in, high up in the mountains, the sun shining through frosty branches and sparkling off the ground.

But I do understand how most Canadians would have disagreed with me in the use of words such as “revelled” and “celebrated” and “caroused”. By April, we northern folk are generally sick of winter, tired of cold, longing for the simplicity of slipping into sandals and a light jacket before leaving the house, but still forced into the time-consuming routine of lacing up boots, gearing up in heavy jackets and mitts and hats, letting the car run for a minute to warm up before driving anywhere.

I get that, but that next, last, day was the drive all the way into Calgary, with the sun reflecting off the snow in the part of the mountains I know so well, and I thought it was a lovely ending.

West Coast April 2010