Wisecracking Across America - 11. Chapter 11

Sunday, May 23, 1999

During dinner last night, gazing at hazily beautiful mountains through a mass of black phone cables, Tom asked, "Does the rest of Vancouver look like this?" While he and the dog slept, I checked our guides. "Yeah," I told him this morning. The books said the island had "magnificent views, often blocked by pedestrian buildings." I'd also checked the Alaska-bound ferries for reservations, finding they'd been completely booked since early March. "Though there might be cancellations," I pointed out, remembering Hearst Castle.

While I overslept, Tom had also been reading, discovering that, at this time of year, the ferry only headed north every other day. Plus, it took fifteen hours per trip, long enough for the vibrating dog to have long-gone overboard. "We should probably skip it," he agreed.

We also decided to skip the rest of Vancouver, our books clearly preferring the mainland. So shortly after two were back on a ferry. Though we did detour for Gnomemansland. Who wouldn't? You couldn't tell from the billboards, but it was a midget racetrack for kids, protected by a thirty-foot troll.

"Is there a difference between gnomes and trolls?" I asked Tom. "And when they're thirty-feet tall, does it matter?"

He shrugged, but was happy to take my picture in front of the big little man. As usual, the dog looked pissed.

The city of Vancouver, which, to confuse things, isn't on Vancouver Island, was huge. And since this was only the first of the three-day vacation, lots of people were still traveling. I tried to steer Tom around the sprawl, choosing underused roads, only after looking more carefully at the thin red line I'd picked on the map I realized it was actually parallel pink ones. Not a little-known escape route: more like fifty miles of unpaved road. Whoops.

We were having trouble finding gas anyway, so stopped for directions. Yeah, yeah: that'll revoke our guy privileges. The good news: the road ahead was actually paved. "All our lives," a pair of giggling junior desk clerks told me at an affluent golf club---meaning at least fifteen years. The girls also asked where I was going.

"North," I replied. Which lost their attention.

They'd hoped I'd say: "To this Really Excellent Party in Mt. Garibaldi Park." And that brought on the bad news: that every college kid in British Columbia---and there seemed to be beer-toting thousands---was on the same road. Traveling in vans and sports cars, or hunched on motorbikes, they crept along like packs of fire ants. Though after we finally passed the park entrance, traffic pretty well disappeared. In fact, everything vanished. "You sure you know where we're going?" Tom asked.

"The sign says Sea-To-Sky Highway."

"And which part are we on?"

He doesn't get the part about being second banana on this trip. Third, if you count the woofer. He's also been steadily kidding me about dragging along my ten-year-old Rand McNally atlas. "How much could've changed?" I've insisted. Whoops, again.

Still, for the next hour, we said 'Wow!' a lot, as each hairpin turn brought new, spectacular views. As we got higher---and higher---I had to roll up the windows, though not so long before guys had been in cut-offs and their weekend targets flaunting cleavage.

"Gonna snow any minute," I joked.

Tom laughed. "Look across the road."

It was true: under remnants of snowplow sand, the ground was still white. Finding a clear patch, we stopped for more pictures. The dog first hesitated, getting out of the truck. Then she nosed, licked, and marked the cold stuff. Dog choices are pretty simple.

I threw a snowball---guy choices ain't real complex either. For a moment, the dog stared, like 'You expect me to retrieve that?' But dogs can't be sarcastic, and there's no point pretending otherwise. And after three-or-four of my mini-bombs nearly hit her, she picked up one in her mouth. Briefly.

On our way north again, I quickly had to teach Tom to use low gear. "Is that what it's for?" he asked. We were heading downhill, fast, at maybe 15 degrees, and I've never liked roller coasters. "Slow down," I said. A lot. Though I normally didn't interfere with Tom's driving. But he was mainly Lord of Flat Places.

Just after eight---it was still daylight bright---we reached Cache Creek. That sounds rustic, but wasn't. It wasn't quite a town, either, more of an intersection. Distracted by endless, amazing, scenery, I had no idea how far we'd come, and hadn't even checked for dog motels. Tom pulled up in front of what looked like a brand new motel, made of freshly-peeled logs.

"I've always wanted to sleep in a log cabin," he grinned.

The difference between a cabin and a motel is the difference between a gun and rifle, but---as other people have learned before me---why argue with a romantic? Besides, I doubted they'd take dogs.

Tom checked. They did. Cheap. Fifty bucks, American.

The co-owner, Sandy, soon led us to our room---there were maybe a dozen in the T-shaped building. "My husband did all the hard work," she explained. "I just decorated." (Never say just to a union scene designer.) They'd opened two rooms the year before, then four, and now were up to full count. There was also a new restaurant, off the lobby.

"That's for extra income," she went on. "We figure if we rent four rooms a night, through the winter, we'll break even. And we've been at least half-full since Christmas."

The rooms were great, small, but neat. With very little decoration, though what there was seemed hand-crafted. The restaurant was good, too: not fancy, but everything was well prepared. I did have some trouble with my credit card, spending maybe twenty minutes on the phone getting it approved, though Sandy didn't seem worried. She just laughed, "We're always having trouble with things from the States."

As I got back to our table, I complimented Tom, "You pick the motels from now on. Restaurants, too. This is great."

He just grinned and slurped his vodka.

273 miles