Common sense takes a vacation

I went to our New Hampshire place last week. It's beautiful in any season, but when it's snowbound it looks like a fairy cottage. Glorious, white, sun-glinty. Icicle swords rooted to trees and eaves and railings, catching sun and bouncing light all over. Animal tracks large and small captured in frozen crisscrosses on the buried lawn.

I'd gone to the cottage to clean up after my son and his friends, who'd spent a week of their college semester break there. Except for the furry Chinese food stuck to some plates in the sink, things looked pretty good. The kids had spent some of their time outside -- they left a Stonehenge-shaped formation of beach chairs, now cemented in place by hardened snow until spring, on the deck -- but I saw no evidence of reckless vacation behavior.

Nobody had, for example, jumped off the roof into the eight-foot-high snowdrift that billows up against the house each winter. Adam had evidently absorbed at least one of our 237 recountings of the day, years ago, when our friend Larry leapt from the roof into the drift, expecting to be pillowed by softness but drilling instead through the snow and crashing full-force onto the boulder the drift covered, shattering his ankle and compromising it for life.

I did, however, see reckless vacation behavior as I drove home. It was school vacation week, and kids were out everywhere enjoying the snow. As I drove above a railbed that paralleled a half-frozen river, I watched two young boys ride snowmobiles down the railroad tracks. Their dad, who'd parked his turquoise pickup on the railbed about three feet from the tracks, accompanied them on his own machine. Dad took up the rear, and the smallest, youngest boy led the pack. The tracks weren't arrow straight -- they wound and curved, mimicking the bends in the river -- so the snowmobilers wouldn't be able to see trouble barreling down the tracks.

This oblivious trio called to mind people I've encountered in far-flung places who seem to think tempting fate is part of the travel experience.

Letting your common sense take a vacation just because you're on one isn't just foolish, it can be deadly. You don't take your kids snowmobiling down active railroad tracks; you don't sit your toddler atop a buffalo in Yellowstone for a photo op; you don't squeeze yourself aboard a tiny, overloaded wooden ferry that has no life jackets.

And, unless you're trained for it, you don't walk across a glacier without a guide.

We were driving Alberta's superb Icefields Parkway from Lake Louise to Jasper and made a pit stop at the Columbia Icefields Visitor Centre, where we boarded a mammoth Sno Coach for a ride up the Athabasca Glacier, a tongue of ice 10 miles long.

As the coach climbed the Athabasca, we looked to our right across a half-mile expanse of crevasses and cracks and great snow chunks heaved up into wild formations and saw two figures walking up the glacier, unguided and without equipment of any kind.

Our guide shook his head. "They shouldn't be out there alone," he said. "They don't know where to walk, where the thin layers of crusty snow are that hide crevasses. They fall in and die." He then told us about the Athabasca's most recent victims, all tourists who'd figured hiking up this monstrous field of ancient, moving ice was just a walk in the snow.

The fools kept hiking higher and higher and farther and farther away from the guided tour areas and activities. Our guide kept one eye on them as he treated us to a safe and thrilling tour of the glacier.

As we boarded the coach for the trip back down to the visitors' center, I scanned the upper reaches of the icefield for one last fix on the two hikers. I didn't see them.

Mick, Kanye and Stampede Shania

My son saw the Rolling Stones. For free. And doesn’t entirely realize how cool that is. He came home from school and said, “Kevin’s got seven extra tickets (no, I don’t know how) to the Rolling Stones tomorrow night. Can I go? We’re just gonna stay for the opening act, Kanye West.”

The “tomorrow night” in question was a school night, but this was the Stones. They’d brought their Bigger Bang concert to Gillette Stadium outside Boston. Were I to say no, I’d be haunted for the rest of my life every time the radio played “Brown Sugar.” After giving both permission and the mandatory no-drinking-and-driving-if-there’s-a-problem-call-and-I’ll-come-get-you speech, I secretly hoped Adam and his friends would, after communing with Kanye, stick around for at least a little jumpin’ jack flash.

Concert night came, and at 9:45 my phone rang. “Mom!” yelled Adam into his cellphone above the musical tidal wave in the background. “We’re gonna stay for a few more sets!” I was delighted. I wasn’t hearing the Stones live, but my 17-year-old son was, and I went back to bed humming some vicariously-enjoyed “Angie” as a lullaby.

Adam got home just before midnight (this is a great kid). I bolted into the dark hallway and said, “So? Was it awesome?” Adam held up his cellphone and played video of Mick and the men pumping out “Tumblin’ Dice.” The kids had been so close to the stage that, had there been no volume to the video playing on this lilliputian screen, you could’ve identified the song by reading Mick’s pouty lips.

“Yeah! Awesome. We were acknowledged by Kanye West!”

“What? That’s great... but... Just look at this!” I pointed to the tiny cellphone concert. “You saw the Rolling Stones! One of the greatest bands in rock 'n roll history!"

“Yeah. I know. We saw the Rolling Stones. But we were acknowledged by Kanye West.”

Fair enough. Then I learned the kids had used only five of Kevin’s seven tickets. What did Kevin do with the other two? “Sold them to a guy in the parking lot for twenty bucks.”

Oh, the pain. “Tell Kevin if I’d have known there were extras I’d have given him a hundred bucks apiece. And I wouldn’t have driven with you guys nor sat anywhere near you...”

I thought about how close I’d been to maybe seeing the Stones, then realized how long it’d been since I’d been to any concert. Let’s see... When was the last time? Oh, right...

We were at the Calgary Stampede, the great rodeo cum carnival which, for one week each July, turns Alberta’s capital into a non-stop street party and 99.9 per cent of its good citizens into boots and bolo-wearing cowboys. Everybody, young and old, becomes a Stampeder. Calgarians and visitors start the day by parking themselves on hay bales stacked in strip mall parking lots all over the city to enjoy pancake breakfasts with big dollops of Stampede spirit on the side. Stampede is in the air. It's everywhere, inescapable. Musicians in Stetsons and big silver belt buckles tap their toes on the concrete in street corners and pedestrian areas all over the city. Even run of the mill salutations like "Have a nice day" or "See you later" are temporarily replaced by "Have a good Stampede!" Everyone has a Stampede ticket in his pocket, and all roads and rail lines lead to the fairgrounds, where people come and go all day and all night, all week long. If you’re planning to visit Calgary, Stampede Week is the time to go.

There’s a lot to do at Stampede, from morning to midnight, so we studied the program detailing the week’s events, and everyone in the family circled his or her must-sees. Mine included Shania Twain’s performance at the giant white-topped musical tent.

On concert day, I entered the tent and scouted a spot from where I could get some good telephoto shots of Shania. As she twanged and sashayed her way around the stage in a leopard leotard, gold lame jumpsuit, and other comely costumes, I shot an entire 36-exposure roll of slides. I noticed folks in the audience eying me with amused looks, and I thought, What? What are you looking at? She’s famous. I want pictures.

When the family reconvened in our hotel room later that afternoon, I said, “Well, I saw Shania Twain.”

Dana, swallowing a smile, said, “No, mom, actually you didn’t,” and handed me the marked-up program.

Had I looked at it more closely before trotting off to the music tent I would have known I’d just burned a roll of expensive Fujichrome on a you-won’t be-able-to-tell-the-difference Shania impersonator, the lovely and talented Shania Twin.


www.LoriHein.com

Calgary Stampede Chuckwagon groupies

Two Daltons, a Drake, a Travis, a Casey, a Wiley, and a Dustin or two. Names of the cowboys leading the point pack on the afternoon we settled into the grandstand to take in some rodeo at the Calgary Stampede.

“This ain’t no golf game, ladies and gentlemen,” purred the announcer with the deep, gorgeous Calgarian voice as the world’s best cowboys – Albertans, Manitobans, Minnesotans, lots of Texans, a West Virginian, a few Australians – roped cattle with lightning bolt speed and challenged brute force and gravity by staying upright on the thrashing bare backs of unbroken broncos. We thrilled to the action, the raw power of men and animals, the intense display of courage, bravado and physical stamina.

But my favorite part of The Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth, as the Stampede bills itself, was the Chuckwagon Races, “the chucks,” to devotees. Thirty-six men in nine four-crew heats race chuckwagons around the 5/8-mile dirt oval that rims the rodeo infield, enter the infield, navigate a figure-eight around barrels, hurl items representing camp stoves and cooking implements, then bolt back onto the track for the gonzo break to the finish line. Four horses haul each wagon, and each team has a chuck driver and outriders, men who start the race on foot, then mount their horses and try to catch their wagons. Teams lose points if the outriders finish greater than 150 feet behind their chucks.

We had the good fortune to sit next to Jennifer and Kathy, native Calgarians and Chuckwagon groupies. “Haven’t missed a Stampede since we were three years old,” said Jennifer. As the horses, chuck drivers and outriders roared around the golden oval, raked smooth after each heat by smiling, big-paunched guys on green John Deere tractors, Jennifer and Kathy explained every detail, tradition and nuance of this rolling, thundering, galloping spectacle.

They knew the names of every team and every rider and driver, and they pointed out the chucks raced by cowboy families, with fathers, brothers, cousins and uncles dedicated to hurtling a particular wagon through the course and to the finish. Jennifer said many of these men, horses and wagons would be hightailing it down to Cheyenne, Wyoming as soon as the race we were watching was over. These serious rodeo men follow the “chuck circuit” all over North America in pursuit of event purses as large as $50,000. That year, the Cheyenne chucks, a circuit biggie and until recently a major part of Cheyenne Frontier Days, coincided with the Calgary Stampede’s 10 days of eventing. Serious contenders hopped between the two. If a team made the Calgary finals, they’d compete in Wyoming, “then hop a plane in Cheyenne and fly back in time to compete on the last night of the Stampede,” said Jennifer.

Stampede is in Calgarians’ blood. They love it, savor it, are proud of it, set their calendars by it, and never miss it. Cowgirls in full regalia greet tourists at the airport not with, “Welcome to Calgary,” but “Welcome to Stampede.” Then they “brand” you, stick Stampede buttons on your kids’ shirts and whisk you into the main terminal, a space decorated with hay bales and stuffed cowboy figures wearing Levi’s, boots, Stetsons, red bandanas and pearl button shirts. During Stampede, folks gather in parking lots, plazas and in front of strip malls across the city and enjoy carbs and camaraderie at Stampede pancake breakfasts.

During Stampede, nobody says, “Have a nice day,” Have a good evening” or “Take care.” Everybody, Jennifer and Kathy included, wishes everybody else well with a warm, genuine Alberta grin and “Have a good Stampede.”

Four travel favorites: Lakes

It came to me while I was running...how to share glimpses of lots of great places in the the short space of a blog post: a list. With FOUR TRAVEL FAVORITES, I’ll share four of my favorite fill in the blank (exotic places, museums, bridges, mountains, islands, man-made wonders, natural wonders, scenic drives, seaside towns, buildings, ruins, castles, rivers, cities of various sizes...tell me what you want to see LHein10257@aol.com).

Let’s start with lakes:

• Moraine Lake, Alberta, Canada – Alberta’s glacial lakes sit like aquamarine jewels cradled in magnificent Rocky Mountain settings. Base yourself in Banff or Jasper and drive the Icefields Parkway between them, detouring to take in the necklace of stunningly-colored lakes. Moraine is close to Lake Louise, another mountain-ringed eyepopper. Just off the Parkway, take in the arresting beauty of Peyto Lake. It’s a color you’ve never seen before.
• Lake Titicaca, Bolivia – Earth’s highest navigable lake sits between Peru and Bolivia, and you can access the lake from either. From the lakefront Inca Utama Hotel in Huatajata, Bolivia, take a hydrofoil trip on the 12,500-foot lake to the Island of the Sun, peppered with agricultural terraces built by the Incas, many still under cultivation. Stand on the island’s pebble beach and face the towering massif of the Andes’ Cordillera Real, which towers above Titicaca’s eastern shore.
• Lake Como, Italy – La dolce vita doesn’t get any sweeter than this. Go in summer, pick a lakeside town like Cadenabbia, Bellagio, Tremezzo, Varenna or Menaggio to base yourself in, and enjoy the sweetness of doing nothing—dolce far niente. Nothing but soaking up sun, drinking brilliant local wines, eating food so fresh it bursts in your mouth, and watching sunlight and moonlight play on water, green mountains and rainbow-colored buildings.
• Lake Lucerne, Switzerland – Called Vierwaldstatter See, Lake of the Four Forest Cantons in German, Lake Lucerne is a high-altitude beauty ringed by Alps, plied by inter-canton ferries and lined with pristine Swiss towns. Base yourself in Lucerne, and take in the medieval walls, watchtowers and painted covered bridge that juts out into the lake. Mounts Pilatus and Rigi kiss the clouds above you. (Yes, there’s a pattern here. I like my lakes served with a side order of mountain grandeur.)
  
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Moraine Lake: Rocky Mountain jewel

Moraine and other glacial lakes grace Alberta's Rocky Mountain landscape