Road Trips With Dad
.
I can thank Dad for my great bladder control. Despite the copious amount of Diet Pepsi I used to
consume during my work shift, I don’t have to “go.” Chalk it up to road trips.
.
I never saw Disney as a kid. Instead, we would go camping. In the summer, the one route to the lake was through the Fraser Canyon, and the traffic would be crazy. We’d try to get an early start in our attempt to beat the rush, getting up while it was still dark. We wouldn’t have to drive far to leave the lights of Burnaby and the city behind. We called the part of the Fraser Valley I now live “marshmallow land,” as it was so often shrouded in a thick fog, with the tall hops growth on either side creating an almost white cave effect. Should we opt for the by-pass, I’d always make sure to grab a look at the lights of the prison against the mountain as we whizzed past...the illumination casting an eerie glow on the ever persistent haze. As a child, I could never foresee that I would one day end up there.
.
It wouldn’t take me long to break into the properly sought and allotted “road trip food.” Over the years, it stayed consistent…..items eaten only on such voyages. When we first started going to the cabin, it was still possible to pick up three items for a penny, a currency which no longer exists. Most of the candy would now be considered highly politically incorrect. There were the candy cigarettes in the bright red box. The cigar shaped licorice or gum; take your pick. There were wax bottles that one chewed the lid off and drank the cloying liquid inside. They looked like those mini booze bottles one spots at the counter in liqour stores. We would chew on the wax afterwards, which would probably be perceived as a choking hazard today. I guess kids back then were more hardy. There was the huge sour circle that resembled a giant quaalude.
.
We knew that we wouldn’t be stopping for hours, thus the food. As Dad pointed out, he wasn’t going to pass all the slow drivers only to have to pull over. And let me tell you, there are a vast amount of dreadful drivers. The irony was the naming of their vehicles….monstrous squares with the names of swift beasts driven by terrified old men. In fact, “Turtle” would have been a more appropriate name than “Cougar.” To this day, when I see a Westphalia Van, I feel the urge to drag a razor across my wrists. The drivers could only do the speed limit on flat and straight surfaces, which meant they’d step on it when a passing lane was finally found. Back then, with all that traffic, there weren’t many places on Jackass Mountain, with all its many tunnels, that a person could pass. I’m not a religious person, but there really needs to be a special place in hell for these people.
.
As we moved through the canyon, we would pass attractions we never stopped to visit. The old Alexandra Lodge, a building out of the gold rush, advertised “the best hamburgers in the world.” I still recall a strange building with a flat roof that had a sign “deer,” which were, indeed, spotted within. That’s long gone and nobody else recalls the place. Despite the many tour buses, we never took a ride down the Hell’s Gate Air Tram.
.
This was the dark ages and we were left to our own devices. There were no DVD’s back then and the radio sucked. Collecting the licence plate numbers and colourings of other travellers’ vehicles became a thing to do. I had to get one from as many provinces and states as possible. I had the backseat to myself as my brother felt better in the front. I shared it with our dog, Tiny. There was no A/C, and a film of white salt would form around her mouth in the intense heat of the canyon. If there was an accident and the traffic backed up, that heat would become overwhelming.
.
As we drove, Dad would sometimes make comments about stories on the news. He probably wouldn’t know what the A.C.L.U. was, but he was a fine proponent for its beliefs. I still recall how on one such trip, the song “Indian Reservation” by Paul Revere and the Raiders came on. My dad told us to stop talking and to listen to the words. When he’d first come to this country he’d become ill and spent a significant amount of time in a hospital ward with first nations men who became his friends. For the rest of his life, he taught me not to judge with such little messages.
.
It was only at Cache Creek, when the road diverged, that we could stop. The Oasis Hotel had a watering hole for the men, while the women and kids would head off for the cafeteria. I still remember the jewel case on the counter, festooned with lights. What, prey tell, did that case hold? Why, it had a veritable feast of jello squares, some with whipped cream toppings. The colours jiggled and glimmered as the tower slowly turned under the lights. Mom would only order coffee because she was on a diet and would then pick at our plates.
.
The bathroom was a mystery at the Oasis. In the long row of toilets, all of them cost a dime to enter, save the one at the end. This stall was festooned with grafitti from people passing through on the many busses that stopped...women searching for a better life in Vancouver than the one they’d had in some small town in the prairies. One year I saved ten cents to check out the special offerings of the pay toilets, and found no free moist towelettes or spray perfume samples. There was more toilet paper and less writing on the wall. You don’t always get what you pay for, a lesson learned.
.
Before we started the final leg of our voyage, we would hit the lobby, which had a magazine and book rack. Over the years, my selections changed. At first, I would buy comics such as Ripleys Believe it or Not. Then, as I aged, it would be Teen, Seventeen and Rona Barett’s Hollywood. Dad would re-emerge from the watering hole of males and we would hit the road again.
.
I can thank Dad for my great bladder control. Despite the copious amount of Diet Pepsi I used to
.
I never saw Disney as a kid. Instead, we would go camping. In the summer, the one route to the lake was through the Fraser Canyon, and the traffic would be crazy. We’d try to get an early start in our attempt to beat the rush, getting up while it was still dark. We wouldn’t have to drive far to leave the lights of Burnaby and the city behind. We called the part of the Fraser Valley I now live “marshmallow land,” as it was so often shrouded in a thick fog, with the tall hops growth on either side creating an almost white cave effect. Should we opt for the by-pass, I’d always make sure to grab a look at the lights of the prison against the mountain as we whizzed past...the illumination casting an eerie glow on the ever persistent haze. As a child, I could never foresee that I would one day end up there.
.
It wouldn’t take me long to break into the properly sought and allotted “road trip food.” Over the years, it stayed consistent…..items eaten only on such voyages. When we first started going to the cabin, it was still possible to pick up three items for a penny, a currency which no longer exists. Most of the candy would now be considered highly politically incorrect. There were the candy cigarettes in the bright red box. The cigar shaped licorice or gum; take your pick. There were wax bottles that one chewed the lid off and drank the cloying liquid inside. They looked like those mini booze bottles one spots at the counter in liqour stores. We would chew on the wax afterwards, which would probably be perceived as a choking hazard today. I guess kids back then were more hardy. There was the huge sour circle that resembled a giant quaalude.
.
We knew that we wouldn’t be stopping for hours, thus the food. As Dad pointed out, he wasn’t going to pass all the slow drivers only to have to pull over. And let me tell you, there are a vast amount of dreadful drivers. The irony was the naming of their vehicles….monstrous squares with the names of swift beasts driven by terrified old men. In fact, “Turtle” would have been a more appropriate name than “Cougar.” To this day, when I see a Westphalia Van, I feel the urge to drag a razor across my wrists. The drivers could only do the speed limit on flat and straight surfaces, which meant they’d step on it when a passing lane was finally found. Back then, with all that traffic, there weren’t many places on Jackass Mountain, with all its many tunnels, that a person could pass. I’m not a religious person, but there really needs to be a special place in hell for these people.
.
As we moved through the canyon, we would pass attractions we never stopped to visit. The old Alexandra Lodge, a building out of the gold rush, advertised “the best hamburgers in the world.” I still recall a strange building with a flat roof that had a sign “deer,” which were, indeed, spotted within. That’s long gone and nobody else recalls the place. Despite the many tour buses, we never took a ride down the Hell’s Gate Air Tram.
.
This was the dark ages and we were left to our own devices. There were no DVD’s back then and the radio sucked. Collecting the licence plate numbers and colourings of other travellers’ vehicles became a thing to do. I had to get one from as many provinces and states as possible. I had the backseat to myself as my brother felt better in the front. I shared it with our dog, Tiny. There was no A/C, and a film of white salt would form around her mouth in the intense heat of the canyon. If there was an accident and the traffic backed up, that heat would become overwhelming.
.
As we drove, Dad would sometimes make comments about stories on the news. He probably wouldn’t know what the A.C.L.U. was, but he was a fine proponent for its beliefs. I still recall how on one such trip, the song “Indian Reservation” by Paul Revere and the Raiders came on. My dad told us to stop talking and to listen to the words. When he’d first come to this country he’d become ill and spent a significant amount of time in a hospital ward with first nations men who became his friends. For the rest of his life, he taught me not to judge with such little messages.
.
It was only at Cache Creek, when the road diverged, that we could stop. The Oasis Hotel had a watering hole for the men, while the women and kids would head off for the cafeteria. I still remember the jewel case on the counter, festooned with lights. What, prey tell, did that case hold? Why, it had a veritable feast of jello squares, some with whipped cream toppings. The colours jiggled and glimmered as the tower slowly turned under the lights. Mom would only order coffee because she was on a diet and would then pick at our plates.
.
The bathroom was a mystery at the Oasis. In the long row of toilets, all of them cost a dime to enter, save the one at the end. This stall was festooned with grafitti from people passing through on the many busses that stopped...women searching for a better life in Vancouver than the one they’d had in some small town in the prairies. One year I saved ten cents to check out the special offerings of the pay toilets, and found no free moist towelettes or spray perfume samples. There was more toilet paper and less writing on the wall. You don’t always get what you pay for, a lesson learned.
.
Before we started the final leg of our voyage, we would hit the lobby, which had a magazine and book rack. Over the years, my selections changed. At first, I would buy comics such as Ripleys Believe it or Not. Then, as I aged, it would be Teen, Seventeen and Rona Barett’s Hollywood. Dad would re-emerge from the watering hole of males and we would hit the road again.
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