Of Inuit and Epidurals

When does a weekend start? JT left the office at one thirty, an early weekend by anyone’s account. Except maybe JR, who didn’t make it in at all on Friday. Maybe, for most people, around five. That was when D put his head round the door rather sheepishly, saying he would have to pull out of Whistler because he hadn’t finished his write up. But surely by eight o’clock, the most pressing decision should be no more than “Should I have a Cosmopolitan, or a Lemon Drop?” Not for me. At eight o’clock I was in the midst of one of those horror anaesthetic exam type scenarios, except there wasn’t going to be a bell that rang to get me out of it, this was real life. The shift finally ended at eleven, my first moment to stop, and I realized I was still shaking. I left the resident, thrilled by her most exciting shift in all of her three months of training. I left two new mothers, alive, to see their babies. I left, a little older and wiser, grateful to those who have trained me, and very ready for the weekend.

Saturday dawned with the brightest of cerulean skies, and I decided I would make the trip up to Whistler anyway. I was quite excited about driving again. I picked the rental car up downtown and drove back to Kits to meet with my bank manager. I parked three streets away from the bank, in an effort to avoid reverse parking on the wrong side of the road and thought wistfully of my bike, which always drops me off at the door.

An hour and a half later, but now with the possibility of a Canadian credit card, I emerged from the bank. I also had seven pages of maps, downloaded by my friendly bank manager when I confessed, I wasn’t entirely sure of how to get to Whistler, but was pretty sure there would be signs. Now, I am perhaps not the best map-reader I know, let alone when I am concentrating on driving on the wrong side of the road, and indicating every turn by a furious swishing of windscreen wipers. It was hardly surprising that somewhere between Map 4 and Map 6 I found myself, no longer on the map, no longer on the highway, but on the scenic route through West Vancouver.

West Vancouver is where the richest of the rich live. Its appearance reminds me of parts of Sydney. The road winds its way along the coast, offering glimpses of Lion’s Bay between the houses, massive, multilevel, extending down to private jetties on the waterfront. Now, maybe I was looking at the view, maybe I was singing along to the radio, maybe I was replaying the events of the previous night, I don’t know. I do know, that the bus coming in the opposite direction, was well and truly taking up more than its share of the road. And moving towards the right wasn’t possible because of the sheer rockface the road was cut into.

Anything is possible. Between a rock and a hard place, I chose the rock. Almost instantly, there was a sickening dull crunch, and I was immensely grateful I didn’t have a passenger. I was already going pretty slowly, on account of the twisting, narrow road, so although the car was making an awful groaning noise, I managed to drive on another couple of hundred metres until I was able to pull off the road, and into some one’s driveway. And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I sat, silent, and shaking.

A woman, gardening on the other side of the road, came to check on me. I sat, in shock, but otherwise unharmed. The car fared less well. Husband and son were hustled out to change the tyre, but the replacement angled as awkwardly as a dislocated ankle and it was clear it would have to be towed. Several phone calls ensued, each promising much and delivering little. Husband eventually took over, managing to convince them in a way that my squeaking damsel-in-distress voice could not. Two hours later, the tow truck arrived. The replacement car looked identical to the first one. Of course, the new one had both mirrors attached, a useable passenger door, and the wheels turned in unison, subtle but important differences.

So I was on my way again. Very, very cautiously. The Sea-to Sky highway to Whistler is breathtaking with its views in one direction to the North Shore mountains, still with snow on their peaks, and in the other direction down to the boat filled bay of Howe Sound. Or so I’m told. I spent the drive saying to myself “Don’t look at the view, don’t look at the view”. I decided the planned hike up the Stawamus Chief would be foolhardy. Given the tendency of seismic events to occur in threes, I decided I would probably get lost and die of exposure.

In this frame of mind I continued, past Furry Creek, past Britannia Beach and on through Squamish. The ridiculous names cheered me up immensely, and I even felt tempted to turn on the radio again. Loud sitar music boomed into the car, courtesy of the last driver. Unable to find an alternative, other than classic rock or country, off it went again. Instead, I rewarded myself with quick, cautious glances at the scenery. Courtesy of the Olympic upgrade, traffic is slow along the highway but near Garibaldi Lake it seemed to slow even more. I soon worked out why. Cars were parked on either side of the highway and people with cameras were flinging themselves into traffic to cross to the eastern verge. There, oblivious to his audience, sat a young bear, placidly eating dandelions. My first bear! I too pulled in to a stop, rifling for my camera. I sat, and watched for twenty minutes, silent, still, and smiling.

Tags: accident, bear, Canada, Travel, Whistler

This entry was posted on Sunday, July 27th, 2008 at 10:56 pm and is filed under Canada, Travel. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.