Roadside memorials

One of the spontaneous activities that grew out of my motorcycle ride to Bella Coola was to stop and ponder at the numerous roadside memorial sites. 

I knew that as soon as I stopped and read pieces of the story that I needed to do something. I had to create a ritual that would seek to respect the site but also provide opportunity to cleanse myself of the toxic energy that I accumulated by visiting each site. 

I recognized now weeks later it was like a cumulative stress reaction that I needed to intuitively shift towards resolution or move it forward in my own mind/body/experience. 

At each site I took care to observe and find meaning in the organization of what objects were left at the site. I wanted to give each site a moment of silence and then at the end of my visit I would select an object to take with me to the ocean. I was careful in selecting each object to ensure that I was not removing part of the memorial. Most of the time it was a rock or a stick that was native to the geography. The few exceptions I had selected a piece of the vehicle wreckage that was non descript or anonymous.

One can't help notice these memorials on this highway. I was curious why most of these were not contained in my memory with my trip with Baxter. 

As I looked at all the dates on the crosses, it turns out that except for one, all of these deaths had happened since Baxter and I had made this journey. It is difficult for me to comprehend the collective grief and anguish that is connected to these spots on the highway. 

I am curious how many contain the same elements. The symbolism of the cross, the name prominently displayed along with the dates of birth and death. The sites for me feel like a cry for help. 

I reflected on September 11, 2001 and how I felt as a professional crisis responder. I felt compelled to do something, to reach out and try to make a contribution to assist in the recovery process. At the time I had just started working at the hospital and I knew the impact that one death had on the village surrounding the loved one. What does one do when the villages collide and multiple deaths occur at one time, or in the case of this highway, when multiple deaths occur over a period of 10 years? Is there something that I can suggest to try and shift the narrative?

It is easy to understand how these sites can grow and become contagious. However, I wonder what happens to people's experience as time passes. It was noticeable that some of these sites are frequently visited. Who is the mysterious caretaker within the family network? What happens when this person no longer takes the time to visit as frequently and clean up the garbage? Who claims ownership of these sites? What happens when there are competing interests on how the site should look?

These sites can be part of a complex haphazard ritual. What happens when trauma becomes the driving force within the ritual? How does the healthy family/friends communicate with the traumatized visitors. Is there middle ground to communicate? We know when the gathering occurs shortly after death the structure of the process can contain all the elements necessary to help shift the narrative from being stuck to introducing a seed of hope or change or opportunity of future. 

If the funeral celebrant is experienced they can weave together all the ingredients and create something palatable regardless of the nature of the traumatic death. The memorial becomes a milepost on their path through grief. Conversely if the roadside site is maintained by the peers who do not have the maturity or experience then these sites become a neon marker that they are stuck.

What do you see here?

Over time the site can take on a more simple focus.

This site was the most dramatic one that spoke to me in a unique way. It took on a schizophrenic quality of containing separate elements of the story. I was curious if both friends and family maintained this site. It was clear that the memorial site had strong elements of peer culture, while the crash wreckage contained harsh reality of the event. The finality and the twisted graphic mechanism of injury were obvious. I noticed that in both sites there was an alcohol theme. Was someone trying to reach out to the surviving young people and persuade them to be mindful of what happens when you drink and drive?

Do these type of interventions actually produce tangible change in future behavior or is it a way that paternal role models can feel like they are trying to make a difference. Creating some semblance of life from a site where death is all that one experiences. 

Many hospitals and schools have a joint program called the PARTY program where they introduce high school students to the reality of drinking and driving. First responders including nurses, paramedics, police and firefighters interact with students and present realistic consequences in hopes that a kid won't drink and drive or step into a vehicle with a friend who has been drinking and seek an alternative way home.

I then contrast these roadside memorials to Baxter's crash site. His site to me was never about memorializing the tragedy of his death. I frantically tried to shift the narrative. I wanted to clean up the carnage and remove it from the site. My goal was to shift the focus from his death to what he would be doing if he were still on this earth. The shoe provided such a narrative, the idea of him still traveling to concerts with his peeps, hanging out on a Friday night and doing all the things kids do these days.

God and the magical mattress (indian time 2)

"A car with a trailer coming our way is passing and having trouble getting back into his lane. I flash my headlight to make sure he sees us. He sees us but he can't get back in. The shoulder is narrow and bumpy. I'll spill us if we take it... I hold steady to the edge of the road. Her he COMES! At the last moment he goes back and misses us by inches." p. 111  ZMM

At Anahim Lake I met an old guy riding a vStrom (a sport touring bike) who tells me he just got out of the rain fifty kilometers south. He was going to camp in Anahim, however with 3 hours of daylight left I felt that I wanted to get some more distance before I camp. That and I am cheap and know that it would cost me much more to camp at Anahim Lake and I thought I could find a recreation site for free.

I drove for almost fifty-five kilometers south of Nimpo Lake when I found this nice spot along the river. While it was not a formal recreation site it was obvious that people camp there. That or young people come and have pit parties. Being Monday night on a long weekend so I could rule out that possibility.

The next morning I pack up my things at a leisurely pace and start my day. Without coffee I should add. I pulled into a resort a few kilometers down the road but it appeared that no one was home. I didn't want to push the issue seeing I was out in the middle of nowhere. You never know how people look at longhaired bikers showing up to their piece of heaven unannounced.

Finally I got to Tatla Lake where I pulled into the West Chilcotin Trading Post. I asked a guy who was pumping his own gas where he thought I could have a cup of coffee. He told me that the Trading Post had excellent coffee and it was always free. I assumed one would have to fill up with fifty litres or more of gas to get in on this deal.

I walked in and met an old couple huddled around a freestanding stove set up in the middle of their store. As we started talking he told me that he always brews Kicking Horse coffee and uses water from an artesian well that is on his property. The coffee was fantastic and it was free. So what is a person to do, buy some stuff that you don't need of course.

The store had a myriad of treasures. It is where I bought a machete that was made in Brazil (you are welcome Noah). This time I picked up a book and a post card for Alli. I sat on the car bench seat that was on the front porch of the store and I wrote a quick note to Alli and mailed it. I could see from the mountaintops that the weather was moving in so I knew it was time to go.

Every now and again the clouds would break up and I would get to see the sun. The highway changed to a more easterly direction and I could see that the weather was moving directly from the west, so I felt that I could keep ahead of the system. It didn't appear to be moving very fast at this point, but I know that things can change quickly in this part of the world, especially with the diverse geographical terrain.

I won't bore you with all the details and get to the content of the title of the post. I knew that when I approached Redstone I was in perfect synchronicity with the weather, my thoughts, and my surroundings. I was a little dumbfounded with what happened next.

I noticed an old Chevy pick up truck heading towards me. As it got closer, something didn't look quite right. I didn't know if it was a make shift roof rack but as it got closer to me it took on a different shape. About ten metres before we met the shape lifted out of the truck box and started to float in my direction. I didn't really have time to have too much of an “oh shit” reaction. I moved into the farthest part of the road. There was no paved shoulder and a deep ditch so that wasn't an option. I intuitively lifted my left foot and the object hit my bike. About a second later I realized that I was okay and it was a box spring mattress that had flown out of the box of the truck. I pulled my bike to the side of the road, but I couldn't shift my gears. I turned off my bike, looked down at the pedal and something didn't look right.

I started to walk towards the truck that was now at least a hundred metres down the road from me. The couple grabbed the box spring, threw it in the back of their truck and started reversing in my direction. They were relieved to hear that I was physically okay and said that they would help me fix my bike after they take their junk to the dump. I walked back to my bike with a thought that maybe I would include a bit of motorcycle maintenance on my trip, hoping that the damage was repairable.

I unpacked my bike in order to get access to the tools that were in my trunk underneath my seat. By the time I was ready to work on the bike, the couple had returned. They were able to block the road so I could safely lie on the road to check out my bike. The gearshift lever appeared to be stuck on a piece of metal that shielded the muffler from the undercarriage of the bike. I was able to take the lever off, bend the metal and then mounted the lever a bit higher than it was originally. Everything worked okay. I exchanged contact information with the couple and they offered to pay for any repairs that I might incur.

It turned out that I had met the woman a few days before when I filled up with gas. She recognized me and seemed very grateful that I wasn't injured. I didn't allow myself the same relief or time for a reaction as I was still being pushed by the weather and didn't know if I had time to stop. A few kilometers up the road I stopped and walked into this gorgeous lodge. I asked the cook if she could make me a chicken burger in ten minutes. She stated she didn't have chicken but could make a fish burger.

I set my stuff up on the deck so that I could watch to see how fast the weather was approaching. I couldn't relax so I walked around the pond and the beautifully manicured grounds.

It was like I died and gone to heaven.

mother theresa time ...

On this journey I was not on a fixed schedule. I didn't have to be anywhere at any certain time. I had four days from Saturday to Tuesday where I was free to engage with the process and allow the experiences to emerge in their own time. My Spiritual Adviser told me later that "Indian Time or how Mother Theresa time" isn't an excuse for being late for appointments. It is time to allow the divine to connect with you in the present like a stream making it's way back to the source.

I had a loose agenda but I was trying to allow the circumstances to be my guide. I had a few things that I wanted to do and I wanted to savor each intersecting moment of memory.  Where we filled up for gas, where we stopped for a break, or grabbed some snacks.

Here are a few pictures of these places. On the surface they may not seem to be attractive or beautiful, however when revisiting a memory they take on a whole new perspective. Kind of like seeing an old friend after losing touch after many years ...

At each spot I consciously tried not to be rushed. I wanted to take in my surroundings at each spot in my journey.

The other influential component was the weather. I had been watching the long range forecast and found it interesting that the only places that had weather reports were Williams Lake and Bella Coola. There was a gap between these communities and if you understand the space you realize that the geography changes dramatically within the space of five hundred kilometers. There was no way to plan or revise your plan based on the forecast. You would just begin and see what happens. I had rain gear and all my camping stuff on board so I could adjust accordingly.

Last year I had learned on my bicycle trip that sometimes feeling discomfort and cold would be part of the experience. The old man who met me at the beginning of my journey spoke of the Sun Dance ceremony. In this experience hardship is expected. I knew that while I was not going to pierce my skin with bone and tie myself to a pole,  my hardship would take on a different form.

The other narrative that was in the back of my mind is that when I was on motorcycle trips with each of my boys, in direct contradiction of the forecast, we almost never experienced rain. This trip it looked like I would experience rain, the only question was when it would come.

Fast food

If one selects Highway 20 you quickly realize that eating during the trip will require some flexibility and some transformation. You have few options in between stops, which is why you have "snack food" and hydration options packed in an accessible location.

Being a long weekend there was no guarantee places would be open to have a sit down meal. One of the options I had prepared in my mind was cooking food on the go. I was looking forward to the hill and using my bikes engine heat to cook a meal. I stopped in Alexis creek and picked up a couple of burritos (unfortunately the only ones I could find were frozen).

Lets talk about "the hill" for a few moments ...

The song by the Wingdam Ramblers explains the history

Bella Coola Hill

Murray Boal

I'm a gonna tell you a story About a road you’re gonna drive down. Through the coast range mountains Pacific Ocean bound From the west Chilcotin It’s a long way down the Bella Coola Hill. Long before the sailing ships And the white folks settled here. There was a trail up into the jack pine They been walking for a thousand year. Gonna keep on walking It’s a long way down the Bella Coola Hill It’s a long way down     The road is a’steep and narrow     Cuts down a mountain side     On the road to Bella Coola     Are you ready for a wild ride.     It’s a long way down Back in the 1950’s There wasn’t a road down the hill. And the people in the valley say We want to get one built. But the government say, there aint no way Cause it’s a long way down the Bella Coola Hill It’s a long way down The people got together And they bought a D-6 Cat. And they built that road on there own You never seen nothing like that Such a will and determination It’s a long ways down the Bella Coola Hill It’s a long way down     CH twice

The gravel section of the road drops fifteen hundred metres in twenty kilometres.  This is the main transportation route and includes all forms of vehicles from RV's and B train semi's to motorcycles. Just remember up hill traffic has the right of way.

Back to the cooking lesson.

The first step in cooking is removing the packaging and finding a place on the bike that is hot, but not too dirty. One out of two points covered.

Half way down the hill, flip ...

and then find a pull off and eat. The taste of perfection.

Eat while enjoying the view.

If you want to see a more detailed video click the link below and start at 45 minutes.

Start at the 45 minute mark of this video to get a glimpse of what I saw that day.