“We don’t take relaxing vacations, do we?” said my wife.
We were driving south along the Icefields Parkway, near Banff, Canada. Actually not near Banff. Nowhere near Banff. Banff is civilization, and out here we had already driven 3 hours into this desolate land of other-worldly beauty. A land of glaciers and bighorn sheep. Of no cellphone reception for at least 100 kilometers. Does such a thing exist?
My wife, daughter and I saw mother bears foraging with cubs on the side of the road. We drove through snow falling across the sub-alpine landscape … in June. JUNE!
We took an ice explorer – picture a bus atop a monster truck with the attitude of a bulldozer – and then walked across a glacier. A GLACIER! The temperature hovered at freezing, and the winds gusted to 50 mph. It stung my face, made my teeth burn and a child in a puffy jacket was nearly cartwheeled away. A guy dug a hole in the ice so we idiots could drink the glacial water flowing below. I stepped in a snowdrift that swallowed my leg to the knee.
The three of us were exhausted as the day waned and we drove the three hours back to our rented house in Golden. That’s when my wife said, “We don’t take relaxing vacations, do we?”
I didn’t know how to take her comment. General commentary? Polite criticism? “I married a moron?”
I hoped it was a badge of honor. Something signifying glory. And not that my hard-charging approach to vacationing was nearing mutiny.
I thought back to a family I noticed in a gift shop in Victoria, a ferry ride west of Vancouver. There we saw orcas on a speedy catamaran and marveled at the smooth pebble beaches near the Pacific. These people had just arrived on a cruise ship headed for Alaska. They looked relaxed and rested. I made note of this. Maybe we are supposed to be like them?
The father didn’t look like he had knots in his stomach. The way I often get when I wonder if I’ve gotten ourselves in over our heads. Planned a trip with too many stops. Too many variables. Too little baked-in relaxation.
That my 12-year-old daughter won’t look back on these trips with fond admiration, but instead will think her father was a crackpot.
I hold my trips to high standards. That’s thanks to my dad. He used to take my brother and me hiking in the Colorado Rockies or fishing for golden trout in the Sierras. We ventured about in Montana to places that barely made maps. Once we got caught “gun-running” with un-declared .22 rifles crossing into Canada. (He got a fine and a finger-wagging.)
I think about these trips when I plan mine. Hard-charging. Meticulously researched. Not for the faint-of-heart. You don’t end the day feeling relaxed and re-charged. You’re exhausted. But you feel alive, and your view of the world has changed.
You might need a vacation from your vacation, but years later, you’re still talking about it. That’s my hope. And, that one day a new generation will trek down a mesmerizing road that is anything but relaxing.