Jamey Glasnovic - Lost and Found: Adrift in the Canadian Rockies

Writing a book is a solitary endeavour like no other. The audience is some distance away, in both time and space, and once they are finally able to hold a hard copy of your thoughts and efforts in their hands, the inevitable tears, frustrations and triumphs of putting pen to paper are finally in the past. Writer and reader experience the same project in different universes.

Getting that book to print, however, relies on a lot of other people to make it happen. Thats why writers go to great lengths to try and thank anyone and everyone who spent even ten minutes in contact with their idea, as I will do here. It is a given that I will forget someone (perhaps lots of people), and for that I am deeply sorry.

Thanks must go out to one of my early readers, Devin Nielson, who saw a rough and not altogether coherent early version of the first three chapters and was kind enough to say, Hey, I get it. I totally get it. Were coming from the same place, thats for sure. At least thats how I choose to remember the conversation we might have been drinking beer at the time.

I also have to thank Marcie Januska, Stacey Fraser and my brother Jesse, who all suffered through early versions of other projects that have yet to see the light of day. That was back when I was living in Calgary and still trying to figure out what it meant to be a writer, and the content was probably worse than what Devin had to plow through. Melanie Jones must also be thanked for the same suffering.

Playwright Eugene Stickland was always good for a humorous story about the perils of life spent with a pen in hand, but peppered in with the laughs was some truly sage advice. Come to think of it, the entire Calgary theatre community was an early muse as I served them drinks at the Auburn Saloon and listened to their stories about making a living in the arts.

Here in Canmore, Mike Reed, Jay Gingrich and Mike Gerlach gave very helpful feedback and encouragement. Martin van den Akker, Frank Vermeulen, Lawrence White and Neil Orchard, in addition to being fun guys to go skiing or hiking with, all took an interest in the idea and made me feel like it was worth doing. Rob and Megan Anderson gave me a job whenever I needed one and tolerated my absences when I didnt. Not a single person I ever worked with in the bar industry (or most of my regular customers, for that matter) ever thought it was crazy or stupid to try and do something outside the meat grinder that is service. Thank you all for putting up with my ranting and raving.

Jennifer Groundwater edited an early version of my manuscript, and Rob Alexander was incredibly helpful with later versions. During a short stint as a freelancer, I watched real writers and photographers at work, and the staff at the Rocky Mountain Outlook has been an inspiration. Don Gorman at Rocky Mountain Books had a well of patience for this novice writer that at times appeared bottomless, and Peter Norman helped clean up the last of my sloppy behaviour at the page. Bob Sandford cannot be thanked enough for all he does for writers, photographers and artists in the Bow Valley.

And finally my mother, Dena, and my stepfather, Brian, must be thanked for dragging me kicking and screaming to the out-of-doors as a teenager, where I developed an appreciation for the natural world. Brothers Jesse and Scott were often there and are fun travelling companions to this day, when we can find the time. And of course theres my partner, Jocey. No one understands the trials and tribulations of the creative mind quite like another creative person. Im sure just about anyone else would have smothered me in my sleep by now. She is without a doubt one of the good ones.

I hope you enjoyed the book, wherever and whenever you are.

Suns up, mm hm, looks okay, the world survives until another day. And Im thinking about eternity, some kind of ecstasy got a hold on me.

Bruce Cockburn

Its official: Im an idiot.

At least thats how I feel as snow continues to fall in an increasingly energetic fashion and the temperature drops at a rate even a seasoned meteorologist would find alarming. Ive been thinking about the consequences of this turn of events for about 15 minutes now and can come up with no other conclusion than that Im an idiot. The worst part of it all is not the cold, or the wind, or the even the snow, but the realization that my discomfort as a result of all three is entirely self-inflicted. There is no one to blame for the predicament I find myself in and no great conspiracy to pin my growing anguish on. I chose this and must now suffer the consequences. I can only hope the weathers downward spiral doesnt end up killing me.

Surviving a snowstorm is not an unusual accomplishment in Canada; millions of people do it every winter by simply staying inside. But getting caught in an October blizzard, miles from the nearest anywhere, while struggling up the side of a mountain on a bicycle well, thats a different story. There is a measure of responsibility to it. Sure, this wind-driven squall has come out of nowhere, but it is autumn in the higher elevations of the Rocky Mountains, a place where bad weather can be expected in any month of the year. It even snowed a little bit yesterday, and the day before that, and still I act surprised by this unpleasant development.

All around me, the mountains are nothing more than an ocean of white and shades of pale grey, and even though it is not yet three oclock, the remaining daylight suddenly has a murky, menacing quality to it. Shadows and ghost images in every direction hint of the incredible scenery the storm is obscuring, but there are no solid reference points beyond the dark, sloppy asphalt beneath my wheels. With the availability of campsites on the road ahead far from certain, a single thought keeps pushing to the front of my consciousness: Why am I doing this again?

As I churn uphill at a pace that will never be mistaken for impressive, that line of inquiry simply begs another: Why cant I be like a normal person, content in my idyllic little mountain town, with a solid relationship, steady employment and favourite pub already sorted out? After all, who consciously abandons no, actively escapes what many often refer to as a paradise on earth, in order to subject himself to these harsh conditions? A question worthy of consideration on a deserted roadway, over a couple hundred laboured pedal strokes, and as big fluffy flakes work their way under the back of my collar, the only answer I can come up with is: an imbecile, thats who.

Things could be worse, I suppose. The gusting wind could be blowing downhill into my face, forcing me to push my bike uphill at a walk. A flat tire would also be a disaster right now, for sure; frozen hands desperately trying to manipulate small tools as sudden inactivity encourages a drop in core body temperature and flash-freezes sweat and melted snow to my skin. So, in light of the precarious state of affairs on the back side of Parker Ridge, just above the Big Bend on a stretch of road appropriately named the Icefields Parkway, I have no choice but to carry on while pondering the mechanics of perception and, it must be said, my entire decision-making process. It is, after all, fully within my power to be splayed out on a familiar couch with a cold beer and a bag of chips, with nothing more challenging than three periods of televised hockey to worry about. But no, Im determined to be out in the world, with all that that entails, and this is the reward for imagining theres more to life than to eat, sleep, work, repeat: a whiteout on a bike. As I may have mentioned already, Im not too bright.

In my defence, pedalling up Sunwapta Pass on the Icefields Parkway in Jasper National Park seemed like a good idea from the comfort of my home a few months ago. And indeed, it was comfort that helped drive me out in the first place (or more precisely, an overabundance of false comfort) but in alternating my hands up under the front of my warmest cross-country ski top to keep them from freezing while I grind up a climb that is going to take at least another hour to complete, its impossible to avoid putting any and all motivations under the microscope. I believe they call it soul-searching, and in this preoccupied state Ive failed to notice a vehicle the only one Ive seen in the last ten minutes coming up quickly from behind.