Part I: March 1999

The Great Adventure Begins

Now we were together, adventure called. After a teary goodbye at Pam and Glenns' we kicked Pricey into life, threw Boris in the back and headed west into the mountains. With the long straight road in front of us stretching as far as the eye could see, we really felt we were on an adventure. We weren't quite driving a Harley across the desert accompanied by an Eagles track, but we were driving, out of the confines of our civilised world. We'd left our watches behind, having exchanged them for sheaf knives Rambo would have been proud of, and I'd ceremoniously burnt my work suit and tie. I was dressed in old jeans, big rugged boots and a shirt that said 'Adventure West' in gold writing on the breast pocket. I'd not had a shave for three days for the first time in my life. All I needed now was a tan and the odd firm muscle. Bridge had her shades on, her long black hair flowing free, her arm out the window and her size five Doc Martins on the dash. Her baggy lumberjack shirt clashed with the upholstery but she didn't care, she looked happy but above all she looked free.

Within a couple of hours we could see the Rocky Mountains, where we'd decided to camp for a night. Their white tops glimmered like a pile of rough-cut diamonds on a satin cloth. As we climbed into their shadows, sleet began to fall from the contorted clouds. A dull lonely feeling crept over us as the windscreen wipers worked hard to clear the sleet from our view of the wet road. There was no view, no warmth, and our space had shrunk to the size of Priceys' cab.

All the adventure books I'd read never said anything about feeling like this. Each of us pretended to look for a suitable campsite but we were really both thinking about the warmth and security of Bridget's Dad's house, five hours drive away on Vancouver Island. Great! Our first night and we were already failing ourselves. Eventually we both admitted we were too scared to camp in the mountains at night. We weren't heroes, why should we have to be? No one was watching, so with relief we made a joint decision to drive through the night to the island, and 3.00 a.m. saw us pulling into the Vancouver ferry terminal. The night was illuminated by floodlights and the noise of huge diesel engines pumped out across the bay.

The sounds and lights felt like home, but we were embarrassed. We had been too scared of the mountains to make camp and enjoy their natural beauty. Instead, we waited in the truck for 5 hours in the noise and bustle of the ferry port, that had no beauty and was considerably more dangerous than a good camp in the mountains. As we climbed into our sleeping bags and reclined our seats we laughed with each other about the first night of our adventure. The ferry terminal car park wasn't exactly the untamed Canadian wilderness we had dreamed about in Polperro.

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