4000 miles. I don’t know why.

The sun finally came out this weekend and on Saturday and Sunday I visited the small Crescent Beach in nearby Surrey. I parked in a small lot and walked past cottages with impeccably groomed yards and brightly colored flowers that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Dr. Seuss book.

^ One thing I’ve noticed up here is that a lot of time is spent on yard maintenance. Carefully trimmed bushes, eloquent flower arrangements, and shaded arbors are the norm, rather than the exception.

A few beachfront shops selling fish and chips clustered around the main public beach. As with the aforementioned houses, the effect was almost laughably idyllic, like the ersatz city in The Truman Show. A long gravel walkway followed the beach in each direction, and I walked on this, away from the people. The sand disappeared and the beach got rockier.

I was almost alone here, a few hundred yards from the main beach. I passed a volume-enhanced Baby Boomer sitting on a towel reading a book. He was cross-legged. He was naked. I walked faster.

I found a large flat stone and stretched out on it. It was just warm enough to enjoy the sun.

The high Asian population in the greater Vancouver area is understandably accompanied by an enormous amount of Japanese, Chinese, Vietnamese, and Thai restaurants. Even on the beachfront strip, signs advertising sushi and wanton soup are are numerous as those selling homemade gelato or fresh crab legs.

I haven’t eaten out much this trip, so for lunch on Tuesday I walked into one of the larger Japanese restaurants downtown and was seated. On the starched white tablecloth was a container of soy sauce, a glass of water, and a pair of paper-wrapped chopsticks. Uh-oh.

I ordered a teriyaki chicken plate that came with rice, a small salad, several large pieces of sushi, fried vegetables - squash, I think - and miso soup. Still no silverware.

In the end I think I did relatively well, considering that my previous experience with chopsticks was fairly limited. The rice was the hardest part, and I did resort to using my fingers for the sushi. I never figured out what to do with the soup so I left it alone. I searched online that afternoon and found that it’s acceptable to pick up the bowl and drink directly from it; I had guessed that in the restaurant but didn’t want to go down that potentially embarrassing route unless I was completely sure.

The food was good, though.

How cold are the winters there? What does the yellow sign above “30 km” mean (#528)?

I guess that sign meant that to watch out for joggers in the area; I’m not really sure. It was rainy and in the 50’s all week but the sun came out and it warmed up to about 70 over the weekend. This area definitely has one of the mildest climates in Canada: I think the TV weathermen reported snowfall this week for Banff and some of the other ski resorts. I’m not really sure how cold it gets during the winter here, on the coast.

Breathtakingly beautiful scenes. I would find it hard to give up a place with so much natural beauty available.

Yep it really is nice. I can see why people would move here, especially from other parts of Canada. There’s not many other places where a ski slope is just a few hours from a sandy beach.

Vancouver was also chosen to host the 2010 Winter Olympics and people here are very excited about that, especially with the recent publicity of the summer Olympics.

^ Clock in downtown Vancouver counting down to 2010 Olympics. Photo from Wikipedia.

Last Saturday, I went into the heart of Vancouver for the first time. I’m not very interested in shopping or museums, so after a few errands I set my sights on famous Stanley Park, which borders the downtown area.

I drove in from the southeast and crossed through the entire metro area to get to the park, which occupies a peninsula on the northwestern tip of the island. I drove through what I at first assumed was Chinatown, then through an actual Chinatown which made the previous Chinatown look like Kansas City, then into the shopping district after an unfortunate missed turn which took me past a mission and several dozen homeless people lounging on the sidewalk. Vancouver has a notoriously controversial supervised injection program, which has obtained an exemption from federal drug laws to offer a clean and staffed drug injection site. I’m betting the site was somewhere in that area.

The city has a smalltown feel - belying its growing population - which is mainly emitted by an obvious effort to cater to pedestrian traffic and mass transit at the expense of vehicles. There’s no equivalent of Atlanta’s spaghetti junction, indeed, even the highway - I almost said interstate, but that term doesn’t work in Canada - is peppered with stoplights all the way through town. The issue is exacerbated by the disturbingly common phenomenon of parked cars in the right lanes of the streets, even on major thoroughfares. This, coupled with the absence of any left turn lanes, results in a six-lane highway reduced to one non-stationary lane flowing each way instead of three. However, I’m sure the city planners and shopkeepers were happy with the result: crowds of window-shoppers and tourists strolling unhurriedly along the sidewalks, grasping shopping bags and stopping to eyeball each streetside restaurant’s posted dinner menu.

The 1,000 acre Stanley Park is bordered on three sides by water, with a large suspension bridge on the north side leading to North Vancouver and Lynn Canyon Park, which I had visited the previous weekend. The park is completely encircled by a concrete walkway, which, it being a Saturday, was blanketed by walkers, joggers, bikers, roller-bladers, baby strollers, and dogs. The interior of the park was heavily wooded, with meandering trails, most of them empty.

I walked for a few miles on the walkway next to the water and passed a beach. It was in the 70s and sunny and a few brave souls stood in knee-high water, but most of the beachgoers lounged on the sand under hats and sunglasses.

^ The walkway circumferencing the park, and the bridge crossing north.

^ On a hill, looking down at the beach. Behind me there was a large grass lawn and a restaurant, each hosting a different wedding reception in the beautiful Saturday-afternoon sunlight. I didn’t see an open bar. I moved on.

^ A seal bobbed on the waves and I took this picture just before it slipped under the surface for good.

^ If you think jet-skiiing over the wake of a ski boat is fun, try it behind a tanker.

^ Leaving the park via Beach Avenue, which, surprisingly, has a beach. It seemed livelier than the relaxed one in the park.

^ Recrossing the southern bridge at dusk.

My legs are sore.

After a bit of Saturday morning research online, I decided to spend the day at Lynn Canyon Park, in North Vancouver. A near-record setting heat wave (low eighties) passed through White Rock this week, and I was ready to spend the day in a cool forest. Also, did I mention that my apartment doesn’t have air conditioning? My apartment doesn’t have air conditioning. It’s a good thing that my coworkers are inanimate objects - describing my work wardrobe as casual would be a gross overstatement.

It took about an hour to drive to the park, whose entrance was located surprisingly close to subdivisions, gas stations, and apartment complexes. It was reasonably crowded but, as with Yellowstone, the crowds thinned considerably a few hundred yards into the trail. The park’s main attraction is a large suspension bridge near the entrance which spans Lynn Canyon. The bridge is made of twisted cable and wire mesh and has - purposely, I would imagine - quite a bit of slack in it, causing it to swing when several people cross at once.

I’ve discovered that hiking suits me quite well. In other forms of exercise, walking around slowly and breathing heavily is what you do after the main activity. In hiking, that is the main activity. I walked deeper into the forest, away from the screaming kids and black-socked dads, and saw a sign proclaiming, “Lynn Peak, 2.8 km. Warning: some rugged and unmarked trail ahead. Experienced hikers only.” So of course I had to do it.

I’ve snow-skied on enough mountains to realize that such signs are largely an exaggeration of the actual difficulty of the terrain ahead, to the point where I’m not too concerned about them. (While skiing, the only time such a warning would induce me to stop and question the route was if it were accompanied by a Red Cross official at the top of the run with a Breathalyzer. “Too much eggnog - no moguls for you.”)

As it turns out, this particular warning was unfortunately accurate: the 3.5 mile round trip took me about 4 hours. It was extremely steep the entire way, averaging a 10% slope to rise 300 meters over the 2.8 km distance. The trail consisted of loose rock and tree roots, with an occasional patch of mud thrown in. It was in the 70s under the trees but the amount of exertion required to move upwards caused me to sweat through my shirt in a matter of minutes. I removed it to cool off. My whiteness immediately reflected massive amounts of sunshine back out of the atmosphere, cooling the earth’s temperature by five or six degrees, allowing me to put my shirt back on. Also, my backpack began to chafe.

The lookout point at the summit of the peak was very impressive, facing south towards Vancouver Island and the river. The comedian Brian Regan has an act where he jokes, “I hear about fundraisers where it’s a thousand dollars a plate…I would have to send the food back, just out of the principle of the thing…’Is there a problem with your meal, sir?’ ‘Well, ah, it’s good. It just ain’t a thousand dollars good.’ ”

This view was good, I just don’t know if it was 3.5 hours good. I had a 1.5 liter bottle of water in my backpack, thinking it would be more than enough, but I had drained it completely by the time I reached the top. In the few hours after I got back down, I drank a liter of water, a quart of Gatorade, 20 ounces of Lipton Green Tea, 20 ounces of 7-Up, 12 ounces of Diet Dr. Pepper, and another glass of water at my apartment. And I, um, retained all of it.

I had only seen a few other hikers on the route to the summit, which made me feel a little bit better about my prowess, until I was heading back down and passed a man in his forties listening to his iPod and jogging up the trail. Jogging. I wanted to trip him but by this time my legs were too flimsy for any sudden movements. So I just nodded.

I started hiking at 11:30 and had done a few miles before my decision to veer onto the summit trail. When I made my way down from the peak I re-crossed the suspension bridge and climbed rubber-legged into my truck. It was 4:40. I drove back to White Rock and bought a rotisserie chicken from the grocery store, carefully veering around other patrons within smelling distance. I ate it while lying horizontally on my couch and tried to not think about ever having to walk again.

dude, bring me back one of those squirrels…
– Stephanie

I saw a few more black squirrels in the park, and, uh-uh, no way. What was once friendly and benign now just looks sinister, like when Tobey McGuire wore the black costume in Spiderman 3.

Are you going to apply for dual citizenship?
How bad is Canadian TV?
Did you get your door mirror fixed?
Are you tired of everybody quizzing you?
–Sam

1.) No way
2.) Well, I watched about a third of the Olympic women’s marathon last night because it was the most exciting thing on.
3.) No. I actually hadn’t driven in a week, until Saturday, but, yeah, I should probably figure that out.
4.) Nope.

^ Suspension bridge

^ River at the bottom of the canyon

^ I had heard that Vancouver has a large Asian population, but I really noticed it Saturday at the park. Perhaps only a third of all the conversations around me were taking place in English.

^ Another bridge, looking down

^ Trail to the summit

^ Worst Handicapped Ramp Ever.

^ View from top

^ Looking south onto Vancouver Island

^ Possibly Whistler Mountain in the distance. (Edit: it’s not Whistler, but Washington’s Mt. Baker. Thanks to Gregg.)

In a world where “many” means “none”, “many” of you have asked me to document a day in the life of British Columbia via pictures. Here’s my attempt.

^ Wake up, check email, walk outside. White Rock is one of those fortunately planned cities that is laid out on a grid. It must have been designed by one of them en-jin-eers instead of just paving over deer trails or however most cities get their random road structure. My apartment faces west. I walk out and turn left to head south, to the beach.

^ One or two blocks. See water.

^ One or two more blocks. More water.

^ Closer to the coast, the streets turn San Francisco-steep. It takes me 15 minutes to walk down to the waterside cafe to get my coffee and 30 minutes to walk back up, my calves singing the whole way.

^ The pier. I will occasionally stroll out onto it on cool clear mornings when I know I don’t have 7 urgent emails to respond to because my web server is down or a client discovered his keyboard doesn’t have lowercase letters.

^ This row of shops faces south to the beach, which is off to the left of the photo.

^ Walkway. This is my evening running route, or at least the route I periodically contemplate running while lying on the sofa reading The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.

^ Walkway, train tracks, and beach, with the pier extending out. To answer your question, YES, these tracks used, twice per day. As you can see they’re only about a yard - excuse me, a metre - from the walkway. Steve explained the layout of this beach to me while showing me around the apartment and added, “Every year we have two or three drunk guys on the tracks and they get hit by the train, eh?” He held an imaginary beer bottle in his right hand and pantomimed a person being dealt a huge blow from the left, throwing his right hand backwards. “Then they spill their beer.” He snickered. I still have no idea if he was joking.

^ Safety FAIL.

^ Beach. Low tide, 7 a.m. At high tide there’s no beach and the water laps up at the rocks you see in the lower right.

^ Got my coffee. Have to walk back up. Do not want to. Could be worse, though.

^ I didn’t take this photo, but I’ve seen a few of these black squirrels. Whoever knew there was such a thing? I mean, what’s next, green cows? Don’t drink that milk.

^ My building, “The Dorchester.” Sounds like an English castle.

It’s not.

I couldn’t find housing on Vancouver Island, except for a few on-campus apartments at the University of British Columbia. I know what goes on at college campuses during the first week back from summer vacation, I was there for about 10 of them. I declined that option.

^ Bleep bloop bleep. Hit “Enter”. That’s all I do, it’s easy.

^ Watch terrible Canadian television then go bed. Repeat.

As a postscript, for my driving edification, can somebody please tell me what a flashing green light means? I’m currently assuming it’s something like a flashing yellow light, i.e., I have the right of way but watch out for pedestrians and bad drivers.

Hopefully it doesn’t mean “Peacock Crossing”.

Last Friday, I drove from Spokane, WA to Bellevue, outside of Seattle. On Saturday I made my way up to White Rock, British Columbia.

When I set out to drive across the state of Washington, I was a prepared for a densely populated forest of tall pines, with ferns and mossy rocks covering the damp ground - similar to what I’d seen in the Idaho panhandle. Instead the eastern portion was much like western Nebraska or southern Wyoming: large seas of grain and grass, with hardly a tree in sight.

I spent the night in Bellevue, and I’ve already documented my experiences purchasing a Canadian cashier’s check and crossing the border. I can only say that I hope it’s easier getting back into the U.S. than it was getting into Canada, and I hope I don’t have to go back to counter A.

When I entered White Rock that afternoon, I took the wrong turn in a roundabout and got on another divided highway with no exit to turn around for eight miles. It started to rain. I finally located 1448 Fir Street and Steve, my renter, kindly stayed a while to show me every nook and cranny of the apartment and circle local landmarks on a few dogeared maps. All I wanted to do was sleep.

I carried a small suitcase up the three stories and turned out the lights, listening to the rain hit the roof above me. I was exhausted from the past two days but couldn’t fall asleep. Every now and then I’d chuckle. I’m living in Canada for a month. For no particular reason.

^ Eastern Washington

^ A scenic pull-off in the mountains looking down on the Columbia River.

^ Further west. Trees.

^ Those Washingtonians sure like their coffee and laptops. Or is it Washingtonites? Washingtonese? Ah, Washingtizzles.

^ Border.

^ I’m gonna be super-pissed if you don’t let me back in, ‘Merica.

The first leg of my trip is complete. I have settled into White Rock, BC for the next 30 days, until September 9th.

When you were a kid and the school year crept slowly through May, nearing its end, the upcoming summer vacation was almost too much to behold. You could only let a part of your mind think about it or you’d go crazy, like staring into an infinite universe. There was simply no way to comprehend what those three months of freedom meant. Each May was your first - you’d never seen a summer vacation before. You had always been going to school, for as far back as you could remember. You were certain that on the day you were born your mother kissed you on the head, handed you a Trapper Keeper and sack lunch, and dropped you off at a gray cul-de-sac in front of a looming building. Comprehending spending a weekday with anyone but batty Mrs. Hosenfefer, doing anything but eight hours of geography and long division, was unfathomable.

Then it came.

You swam, you slept, you watched “The Price is Right” and “Pinky and the Brain.” You went to the beach and burned your nose. You ate watermelon and played wiffle ball until darkness fell and you couldn’t see that tiny white sphere anymore.

In August, your heart skipped a beat when you realized it was almost time to go back to school. School! What was that? You could only vaguely remember your school friends and the principal and the “good” outfits of clothing you wore there. Wait, I have to sit at a desk for how long? That’s unconscionable. I’ve never heard of such nonsense.

On the first day back you wandered the long school halls like an unfamiliar hotel room in the dark. You thought you had been there before, sometime in the distant past, but it was like grasping at the images in a dream when you wake from it. You could just barely recall.

From August 2nd to August 9th, I drove 3,357 miles, averaging 420 miles per day for eight days. On the 10th, when I woke up in British Columbia, my first instinct was to go online to plot my day’s route, maybe reserve a cheap motel. But there was no need.

I unpacked a few clothes, went to the grocery store, and restlessly paced the apartment. I wanted to go somewhere. I felt like I had always been on the move. Sitting in a Barcalounger watching TV just felt…wrong. I was sure there’d been days before where I hadn’t driven for hours, watching the scenery and the people change, but I couldn’t remember them.

Only 29 more days…

Box Score - Six Mile, SC to White Rock, BC

• 3,357 miles driven
• 10.5 tanks of gas
• $794 worth of gas
• $580 worth of hotel rooms
• 12 states (SC, NC, TN, KY, IN, IL, IA, NE, WY, MT, ID, WA)
• 2 times I potentially damaged my hearing by cranking the volume to 11 for this song
• Dozens of times I saved my hearing by turning the radio off for this song.
• 1 time I heard Darius Rucker and Jessica Simpson back-to-back on a country station. What’s this world coming to? (Hootie’s song isn’t bad, though.)
• 11 speed traps passed
• 0 speeding tickets
• $0 fast food purchased. (Hey, I’m as surprised as anyone.)
• 14 apartments in Canada contacted
• 1 apartment found
• 391 pictures taken
• 1 very thorough search of my truck by a man with a gun

Canadian border booth. Each car is taking about 30 seconds to clear but there’s still an hour’s wait to make it to the front.

The border agent hands me a form. There is a tick in the checkbox labeled “IMMIGRATION”.

In case you ever need to know, the following responses are apparently the wrong answers to give to the Canadian border agent at counter A. Especially if you are a young male, traveling alone, with a heavily loaded truck and a dubious backstory.

Why did you choose Vancouver?
I heard it was nice.

Where did you find the apartment?
Online.

Have you ever met the apartment’s owner in person?
No.

When does your lease start?
Today.

What is today’s date?
I don’t know.

Do you have a copy of the lease with you?
No.

Do you know anyone in Vancouver?
No.

Do you own any guns back home?
Yes.

Are you bringing any knives or other weapons into Canada?
Yes.

Who do you work for?
I’m self-employed.

What happened to your side-view mirror?
I was driving through Montana and hit a peacock.

What?

Steve has a condo in Canada. I want to rent Steve’s condo in Canada. I need to pay Steve.

Here’s what that entails.

1.) Realize that it’s Friday and I have to get a certified check today before meeting Steve tomorrow.
2.) There are no branches of my bank, BB&T, on the west coast.
3.) Drive around Bellevue, Washington, looking for a bank. Spot a Wells Fargo.
4.) Stand in line.
5.) Explain to teller that I’m not an account holder but I need to buy a cashier’s check. Teller nods and begins typing. Explain that it must be in Canadian. Teller frowns.
6.) Wait for supervisor.
7.) Supervisor says I need to open an account with Wells Fargo to get a cashier’s check in foreign currency.
8.) Go to the supervisor’s office and begin opening an account.
9.) “Can I fund this with a credit or debit card?” “No.”
10.) “Personal check?” “No.”
11.) “Wire transfer from my current bank?” “Sure.”
12.) Look up number and call BB&T to start a wire transfer. Oops, wrong branch. I wanted the one by Eckerd’s, not downtown.
13.) Hang up and dial other branch.
14.) “Hi BB&T, I need to make a wire transfer to my Wells Fargo account.”
15.) Wait for supervisor.
16.) “Hi supervisor at BB&T, I need to make a wire transfer to my Wells Fargo account.” “No problem sir, you’ll need to come in person and sign the slip.”
17.) “I’m in Seattle.”
18.) Can you hear a frown? I heard her frown.
19.) “I do recognize your voice Mr. Sanders. I can probably do it just this once, if you’ll sign the form I fax you and mail it back to me right away. First I’ll need you to confirm the following information…”
20.) Confirm information.
21.) Finish opening Wells Fargo account. Savings, checking, deposits, checks, blah, blah, blah.
22.) Call BB&T supervisor. Tell her to initiate wire transfer. This takes several hours.
23.) Drive around Bellevue looking for a hotel because I drove 300 miles that morning and have been trying to get a check all afternoon.
24.) Find hotel. Uh-oh, there are double sets of automatic doors and marble tile and the clerk is wearing a black suit. Bet this is expensive. Don’t care.
25.) Check into hotel. Take nap.
26.) Drive back into Bellevue. Was the Wells Fargo on 106 & 10th or 110th & 6th? I wrote it down but left the paper in the hotel room.
27.) Locate Wells Fargo. Go inside. Wait for supervisor.
28.) Sign the fax from BB&T and ask Wells Fargo to mail it.
29.) Pick up certified check. $1460 monthly rent + $500 security deposit = $1960 Canadian dollars.
30.) Buy two cokes and $20 worth of sushi and go back to hotel room to watch Mr. Deeds. Fall asleep.

Thanks to everyone who has commented. It makes me feel like I’m actually writing to someone and not just babbling aimlessly like a hobo talking to a parking meter. Here’s some answers to your questions…

and make sure you do lots of fun things…i’m living vicariously through you. — Stephanie

I will definitely make sure and detail anything that I think you’d want to hear about. I will probably not castrate any pigs, however. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere.

Please stop off at some greasy spoons and start some fights. They would make great writing material. — Don

But don’t listen to my brother’s advice about the fights in a greasy spoon. — Mom

When faced with conflicting advice, I am probably more apt to choose the option that doesn’t involve me getting beat up by a herd of truckers.

I always wanted to travel across the US by motorcycle. Your log makes me want to do it. — Don

Apparently I chose Sturgis week for my road trip - I saw bikers, bikers, and more bikers from Iowa to Montana. Also, you’ll enjoy this Don, I saw a few guys cycling up towards Yellowstone’s trailheads from the entrance - probably at least a 6% upgrade for 10 or 12 miles.

As in, this:

^ Pain. Ful.

How about some info on the tunes you are listening to that are getting you thru all that corn? The newest Rick Springfield CD was just released… –Ann

This is embarrassing. I very carefully transferred 80GB of my music over to an external hard drive that I brought with me, and purchased an 8GB MP3 player for use in my car. And then…I never got around to putting any music on the player, except for a few Ben Harper albums which got me through the Carolinas. Even right now, as I’m writing this and thinking about it, my external hard drive is buried somewhere in my truck and I don’t want to root around for it.

This probably sounds awful, but I honestly haven’t listened to any music for the past 2 or 3 days, not even the radio. I just think.

And Ann, I don’t know where you got your information, but you are way, way off. Rick’s last name is spelled J-a-m-e-s.

Whats the gas run out there? — Seth

It’s interesting. In Iowa and Nebraska, 89 octane with 10% ethanol was $3.79 but pure 87 octane was over $4. I guess those states have a subsidy for the corn usage. In Wyoming gas was $3.79 or so but that was 85 octane and my truck started knocking. I filled up in Washington today for $4.19.

If you had a bigger slope could you break 100? — Seth

This isn’t as clear-cut as it seems, either. My truck chronically underclocks, a fact I discovered in Nebraska while timing the mile markers with a stopwatch. At 75 cruise, it took 45 seconds to tick off a mile, which is actually 80 mph. At 80 cruise, 42 seconds (85 mph). The 98 mph figure I gave was based on driving a mile in just over 36 seconds. So I’m sure that at some point in that mile my truck broke triple digits.

To carry your idea further, I’m sure I could hit some pretty impressive speeds on a -90^o slope, but braking would be a problem.

A seal ate Buster’s hand! OMG! Now he’s got a hook. LOL! — Tom

I told you something would happen to Buster! “He’s going to be all right…”

oh, and you’d have been better off eating the sandwich then having the scent with you the whole time — Einar

Yeah, I didn’t explain this one very well, either. I had a tupperware container with four plain pieces of bread and two unopened metal tuna fish cans. I opted not to open the tuna cans until I got back to the visitor’s center and was surrounded by slower, plumper people.