Jaunted

For the next two days, we bounced between border crossings trying to enter Canada. We found Canadian immigration agents strangely reluctant to admit a busload of freaks in a clown bus. However, we did find a remote crossing near North Cascades National Park in the pre-dawn twilight with nobody home and clear sailing into the Okanagan Valley ahead.

Since this was 1972, our soundtrack included the Dead, the Allman Brothers Band, Little Feat, Alvin Lee and pre-pop Fleetwood Mac. (Our musical appreciation was heightened by substances typically consumed by musicians in the early '70s.) Just as we were reaching a state of complete substance-fueled road trip bliss somewhere near Vernon, B.C., a piston decided to give out, sending a piece of shrapnel through the engine block. Undaunted, we continued our party in the bus--now strapped to a huge Canuck tow truck--into the unsuspecting, unprepared village of Vernon. We spent the next 2 weeks awaiting parts and repairs, managing one unpaid gig in the local park to a small crowd of bemused locals.

The repairs proved incomplete: Yet another piece of shrapnel lay waiting its launch in the bottom of the oil pan. Out of money and low on bliss, our dream began to disintegrate. We managed a ceremonial brewing of very bitter and very potent cactus tea, after which three of us hitchhiked to the railyards of Penticton, B.C. We hopped a freight train headed through the Fraser River Canyon toward Vancouver and home.

Insecurely lodged against the back tires of semi-truck trailers, we spent a glorious, full moon illuminated night tilting and winding our way along the Fraser. As this trip predated not only the iPod but the Walkman, we had no music to entertain us. However, a ride on an exposed freight car through a mile-long railway tunnel is like sticking your ear up to the stadium speakers for the most adrenalin-pumping drum solo you'll ever hear.

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[Photo: cplbasilisk]