17
TURN TOWARDS CANADA
In our never-ending search for more space, privacy and remoteness, we decided to return to Canada once again, this time to the Rockies, so we threw our I Ching coins to see if the gods were friendly. The oracle clearly answered us:
Return: "Everything comes of itself at the appointed time. Return means coming back. Progress had been halted at every turn, and movement appeared impossible. Now the paths leading to renewed growth are revealing themselves. This situation can mean the returning to the beginning of one of your familiar old cycles or patterns. It furthers one to have somewhere to go, that is, to undertake something."
"Improvement, whatever you do. The new forces that have entered your life, refreshingly different and more vital than previously, will cause no conflict, no strained relationships, no discomfort to anyone. They are unanimously welcomed. Do not try to accelerate this change. It must be allowed to develop in its own slow, deliberate manner. To try to force it would be as foolish as disturbing the frozen earth over dormant seeds. This hexagram indicates a new force forming in an old relationship. Let the rhythmic waves of change move in their own time. What will happen has begun to happen. You sense its starting; as it proceeds you will sense
its progress. Let it happen. Let it be."
Why does one leave the known for the unknown? Why do others stay behind and never look beyond the horizon? What motivates restlessness? Is it a pioneer spirit or an adopted person with no roots, wandering, always trying to recover a loved lost one?
"Jean Paton from Orphan Voyage has observed that illegitimate, orphaned and adopted persons tend to be restless wanderers, always in search of the elusive nirvana." 3
We had been seriously searching for land for six years in Idaho, Oregon, northern California and Washington. This trip to the far north was our second. Yellow- stone, still in the throes of winter, looked like the aftermath of a war - black patches of earth and charred timber like stubble on a chin, remnants of last summer's fires. A winding road along the canyon of the Yellowstone River; an elk carcass half- eaten in a gully; brooding bison; smoking cauldrons; tiny volcanoes. Yellowstone was only forty-three miles north of the town in which we lived. But I still dreamed of a cabin in the wilderness with trees, a creek and a mountain view.
It was a clear day, ideal for driving. A hundred miles of the park, fifty to the Interstate in Montana, two hundred to Missoula and our favorite health food store, and a hundred more to a secluded campsite on Flathead Lake. An outdoor fire and a delicate drizzle on our camper top contributed to a mellow evening. In the morning we would cross into Canada.
"Get out and step to the side of the car," demanded the Canadian border guard. He climbed into the back of the truck and pulled apart everything he could get his hands on. When he found our homeopathic pills, we tried explaining what they were.
"They're placebos charged with energy. You know what a homeopathic is?" I Asked.
"I know what they are," he retorted. "You have no idea where people hide cocaine," he muttered. "You got any guns?”
"No," we said, but that didn't stop him. Steve joked that the next time he'd bring our cats because cat people don't carry guns.
"I have a lot of guns and I have cats," he snapped. By this time he had arrived at the head of the truck having left everything in complete disarray.
"What is it about us that you chose us?" asked Steve.
"I'm not gonna beat around the bush," he answered with a twisted grin. "All people from Wyoming carry guns."
After leaving the border behind we breathed a sigh of relief and turned on the eBe only to find that nothing had changed since our last trip. The Meech Lake Accord was still being debated; Benazir Bhutto, a woman, was the new premier of Pakistan; Catholics didn't want to talk about AIDS or condoms in the classroom; and Ronald Reagan was to be a guest speaker somewhere.
We headed up the Columbia River for two hundred kilometers and stopped at a health food store in a small town to ask about a realtor. The only one in town knew just what we were looking for and sent us, with a detailed map, to an old hunting lodge that had just come up for sale. There were three other properties close by, the last and largest the least interesting, he warned, "It's nothing but a swamp.”
We found the logging road which passed through breathtaking country and our excitement mounted. The lodge, nestled in tall trees on a knoll against a huge rock, was definitely remote and needed a lot of work. We decided to spend the night in the truck to see how we felt. The property was situated next to a small farm with some screaming kids and clanging machines, and we were disappointed at how noisy it was. We moved on. After spending the following two nights on the other properties, we were not impressed and as a last resort decided to take a look at the "swamp.”
A tree-lined, rough driveway led to an open meadow ringed with towering Douglas firs, unequaled mountain views and a rushing creek that caused our hearts to quicken. The sun's rays lit the morning mist and the surreal landscape glistened and breathed. Tiny webs shimmered in the crooks of branches as we made our way towards the edge of the bench that overlooked an alluvial plain formed by the slackening waters of the creek and a marsh. It was precisely the piece of land we had longed for, an acreage accessible yet remote, no electricity or phone, and because there were no utilities the land was cheap. Before making a final decision, I wanted to check out the even more remote town of Jasper, remembered from a visit many years ago. This was only the beginning of our journey and even though we might have found exactly what we wanted, we had to be sure.
Just past Lake Louise, a campsite off the Ice field Parkway in Banff National Park materialized. Snow was predicted.
We awoke to six inches of it, lit the stove with dry branches stored under the truck, toasted some bread, brewed tea and decided to return to Lake Louise for in- formation about road conditions. The ranger said the plows would be out sometime soon but we would be wise to wait a day.
The highway report was worse the next morning but the plows would open the road by noon. The mountains were visible in the pearly white atmosphere and each turn in the road rendered a more magnificent landscape.
After inquiring about land in Jasper - there was none available because it was all park - we headed towards Mt. Robson National Park and the Yellow head High- way. The landscape became very depressing with clear-cuts marring the mountain sides and slag heaps defacing the meadows. It was a long drive and we were happy to arrive in Kamloops and find a campground, a bit too neat and civilized but clean and empty.
The next morning we drove south through the Okanagan Valley, the fruit- growing capital of Canada, towards the American border. We were so close to the coast and I hadn't seen my oldest daughter for nine months but I couldn't make up my mind - to continue home or head west. I was actually afraid to reveal my feelings or to express my desires. I wasn't even sure if she would want to see me. Steve asked over and over again how I felt. I'm adopted. Fee