And so the trip was over. At the end of all of my trips I am
filled with feelings that seem diametrically opposite to each other. I was thankful and at the same time sad that I
am done travelling for another year. I was grateful that I was safe, healthy
and would soon be sleeping in my own bed. I was also sad and perhaps just a
little bit depressed because my life was about to become structured and
predicable and just a little bit boring. I can’t imagine ever not wanting to
travel.
Like all of my trips
this one was an amazing adventure. In the space of eight or nine weeks I went
from Sudbury to Winnipeg, to Edmonton, to Yellow knife then to Duncan on
Vancouver Island; and then back to Sudbury. I think I travelled about 10,000
kilometers in other people’s car and trucks.
I met people I could have only have met hitchhiking. I saw things that
perhaps hundreds if not thousands also saw, but I had the time to just stand
there and truly see. I can still see the brilliant yellow of the canola flowers
for acres and acres not too far west of Winnipeg, the great big bull bison ten
feet away from me casually sauntering amongst the yellow construction equipment
on the banks of the Mackenzie River, all of the bears who wandered, both to my
concern and I think theirs, a bit too close to me, the cougar tracks on the
beach of some nameless river at the north end of Vancouver Island, the long
stretches of almost empty highway, the shore line of a hundred rivers or lakes
and of course the mountains. If I work at it just a little bit I can see the
trucks and cars of the people who picked me up, my driver’s faces and of course
every place I slept.
It was an unusual trip in that those who picked me up were a
bit different than in other years. For example I got four rides, all of them
long rides, from women. In the past ten years, other than on the islands, I
have only ever had two rides from women. And what amazing women my drivers were
this year. All of them had an adventuresome spirit, but they also had the
courage to be what they knew they could be. With the exception of the nurse who
drove me from High Level to the turn-off to Yellowknife and who in her own
right had created a life for herself that was quite extraordinary; the three
other female drivers had, as if almost out of nothing, created careers for
themselves that were innovative and ground breaking. All of them seemed to be
doing something that not only would I have never dreamed of doing; they were
doing things that I didn’t know needed to be done. I learnt so much from them.
I have thought a lot about those four men who gave me drives
between Yellowknife and Chilliwack and whose values and perceptions of women
were so different than mine. I have, on
occasion, wondered if it is me who is so out of touch with the real world; but
I don’t think so. If I am, I want to remain disconnected from their world where
women appear to have, at best, limited value outside of their sexuality. It
concerns me that there are those who treat their partners with so little
respect. Perhaps I should have said more to them.
I also, particularly in the dark hours of the morning, think
about those four or five drivers who gave me long rides and never asked me
about my story. There were a couple of drives where after seven or eight hours
of being together, my drivers didn’t even know what I did for a living. In fact
it felt as if on this trip, I spent less time talking than on any other
previous trip. Part of me was a bit resentful – I am a story teller and I need
to tell the stories that I have learned. If stories aren’t share they die. But, in part because of a course that I am
teaching this semester, I think I have come to the understanding that other
people also need to tell their stories too. And that perhaps in this world
where it feels as everyone you see on the street is wearing a clear sign saying
“please ignore me” by displaying the ubiguous ear pieces that are plugged into
their I-Pod – it is harder than ever to find people who want to hear those
stories. Sometimes my job as a passenger
is just to allow them to do that. So I learnt another lesson this trip – it was
a good one and one that I need to remember. But I also wonder about those
drivers and what their lives are really like. It seemed as if they needed to dominate
the conversation just so that they could tell a complete stranger their
stories. What does it say about our society when people have no one in their
lives to share with?
I have been trying to write this blog for four or five days.
It has been more difficult than usual to find anywhere near the right words to place
upon the page. I was confused about why I was struggling. But of course the
answer is obvious. To finish writing is to finally finish the trip and I don’t
want to finish the trip. I want to be out there on the road right now, bored
out of my mind, worried if I will run out of water, wondering where I am going
to sleep tonight and incredibly excited about the possibility that the driver
of the next car or truck that drives by will stop and offer me a ride. And he or
she will tell me a story or two and I will tell him a few back in return.
Next year I will do it all again
