Mount Robson

Oh I love the train. The entertainer who went from fairly boring guitar, to more interesting sax to rockin' piano on the euphemistically-named terrace of the Vancouver station, to my tiny room, crisp sheets on the bed, the window alongside, the countryside blurring past as we rolled out of the station on time. From my first glimpse of morning, the station in Kamloops, my first breakfast with other passengers. Oh, the food VIA serves! Transcontinental breakfast big enough to span the distance between the centre of BC and the eastern edge, approaching the Rockies at lunch. A more muted sunrise in Sasktchewan this trip(shown above); not the burst of gold over ice-glazed snowfields, but still the sun, caught in water this season. Half the 26-car train departed at Jasper, leaving a more committed group. Different partners for every meal, including the English tour guide, the Montreal menswear designer and his very political wife for one of the most enjoyable, but also the Mexican-born recent widower and his sister; another widower, going from desolation to desolation, as he put it. The quick trackside walks at Saskatoon, Melvielle. A time out of no-time break at Winnipeg, at the Fort Garry Hotel with dear Ian. Endless Ontario, but prettier this trip, at this time of year. Easy to see the Group of Seven's inspiration, the rocks, all the lakes, the trunks of white birch, the larch, leaves turning yellow. Sad Hornepayne, where there was no water but where Dazy found a battery for her watch. I become nostalgic before the trip is over, wonder how I can afford the trip back. Darn. I love the train.