You had spare gloves this whole time?

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Can-can dancers consorted with: A troupe
Shots drank containing a dead man's toe: 0
Pop-star most closely resembled in terms of current physique: Meatloaf
Distances to cover in Canada: Bloody miles
Weekly supermarket stops: 10
Times had to pack away a wet tent with cold hands: 5
Average distance between campsites and town centres: 4km
Poker tournaments won: 1
Items lost: 1 (my bag with everything in it. Fortunately recovered by Chris)
Houses sold: 0
Houses likely to be sold: 0
Houses up for rent: 1
Cars sold: 0 (unsurprising when I discovered that the advert elapsed over a month ago)
Blog-in-a-Sun-word: Doomed

Yeah, we're in the Rockies.

By the time you have finished reading this blog I will no longer be on a camping tour. I told of the hardships I was experiencing in my last update and I'm afraid to report that, like a gutless Japanese kamikaze pilot, I abandonned ship during the Canadian leg of our adventure. But that only spoils the ending of this chapter. As my old mate John Taylor used to say, 'the devil is in the detail'.

I suppose the logical place to start is the border crossing. Border crossing officials are the scariest individuals to roam the planet since the dinosaurs. Can you imagine the job spec that prospective candidates must meet? We're looking for someone who speaks only in mono-syllabic grunts, with a piercing glare and an inability to break even a semblance of a smile. Why do these guys all seem to have the permanent demeanour of someone who has just found out that a person matching your description has just murdered their wife and kids? Usually the whole rigmarole is enough to keep you straight-faced but this was made impossible crossing into Canada as the border patrol officers were hilariously dressed as mounties, complete with their bright red jackets, aviator sunglasses and rimmed hats. WWF fans among you - and I'm talking about when it was WWF - will remember the ridiculous pantomime villian that I kept thinking of... a real second prize merchant. Anyway, he wasn't too impressed when I couldn't give a straight answer when asked what I do for a living, but then, that's a question I seldom answer honestly. Eh, I look after premature babies... no, I'm a life coach... no, eh, I run a charity for dogs injured in fire rescues... All replies that usually spring to mind but I reminded myself this was a border-crossing and not a Friday night in Lost Society and managed to escape with the stamp I was looking for.

I've used this analogy before, but I can't think of a better one: our first port-of-call was straight out of Back To The Future III. Dawson City was a real frontier town which gained prominence during the gold rush years of the late 1800s. Built on the Yukon river, it still has all the trappings of 1880: wooden slat-style buildings, old courthouse, dusty roads, hunting shops... but what I am trying to say is that it is a total hick-town. The men had breasts and the woman had moustaches. Walking around I was expecting to see a sign for a morning hanging. If you type 'Dawson City, YT, Canada' into a Yahoo search and click 'Things To Do', it returns 'No Things To Do Listed'. This is only partially fair. There is a local tradition in one of the saloons where you are expected to drink from a shotglass in which they drop the putrefied toe of an ex-gold digger who came a cropper during one cold winter many years ago. I was extremely disappointed to be informed that the toe isn't available after 10pm. Deary me. To compensate, there was a band who managed to play an entire set without resorting to a single song written after 1953. I felt like telling them there was this new outfit they might hear of soon called The Beatles who people in some circles reckon might just turn out to be the real deal.

The night progressed to Diamond Tooth Gerties, the ex-house of ill-repute frequented by the gold miners looking to drink, gamble and, eh, get their boots polished. An 'oom-pah-pah' joint like Nancy's drinking den in Oliver Twist but with influences of the whip-crack-away, Deadwood Stage element from Calamity Jane, it now serves as a local casino and dance hall. Frankly in need of a cuddle, I made it my mission for the night to somehow get talking to the can-can dancers with the legs who were giving it big licks on stage. The best I could come up with was to send a waitress back with three packets of Reese's Peanut Butter cupcakes which they had behind the bar. Ok so it wasn't my proudest moment ever but the mild embarrassment proved worthwhile when they came down for a bit of banter after the show. Ewan McGregor (in the form of Mark Renton) once said that "It's shite being Scottish". Well, let me tell you, it's got it's advantages in the Yukon Territory of northern Canada...

From there we headed south on the endless Canadian highways. It took us nearly four days to reach Jasper National Park, stopping only to eat, drink, chop wood, or set up camp in the bush. I must say that this was a draining experience. It sounds so adventurous and romantic to undertake a 40-week camping trip between Alaska and Brazil but I guess when you're planning the venture you just don't think of the times when the highlight for the third day in a row is a toilet stop at the latest Fred Mayer department store. (Fred West's as Nigel and I referred to them for no apparent reason). The saving grace during these long drives is often the scenery but, as luck had it, the rain and cloud contributed to a pretty bleak picture through the truck window. I'm not sure of the exact point that I decided to part company with my new friends but I'm sure it must have been sometime during that long, soul-less journey from Whitehorse to Jasper. Or maybe it was when I realised that we'd gone through the entire four boxes of trivial pursuit questions. I don't have a bad word to say about the tour: the organisers were brilliant, the food was delicious, the truck was comfortable and the people were great; but I had finally concluded that it wasn't for me.

Ironically, once I'd made my decision, things actually began to pick up. The National Parklands that stretch from Jasper to Banff span some of the most picturesque parts of the Rocky Mountains. Despite the fact we were camped 4kms from town - and it pissed rain for the entire time we were there - Jasper was fun. In saying that after that 4 day drive I think we could've landed in Baghdad and had a good time. It was nice just to relax in a pub that actually had some people in it, albeit a squealing hen-night. Lake Louise was quieter but the scenery made up for it and, although physically tough, the trek through the Rockies there was very rewarding. Unfortunately, I didn't make it out on the lake in a canoe but it did put together a little video using my camera and my ipod which came out ok.. see attached (you need sound).

And so we arrived in Banff, the point where I'd decided that I would leave the tent in it's (soaking) bag and splash out on a hostel. Banff is an all-year-round good time town. However, at least in the winter there is the ski-ing to distract you even momentarily from the unbelievable party scene. There are drink promotions every night ranging from $1 spirits to 25c beers... about 15p! London it ain't. I'd forgotten how easy it was to meet people in these places - a few hours after I arrived there was an organised poker tournament which I thought would be good for a bit of banter if nothing else. There were 8 players in total, mostly a good bit younger than me... which is why I felt really bad taking their money from them when I won! I bought a bottle of whisky with the winnings which wasn't quite Quins Bar 'back in the jar' benevolence but seemed to go down well with the rest of the crowd. It went down a wee bit too well with me right enough - so much so that I got into the wrong dorm bed when I got back to the hostel, resulting in an awkward explanation when the rightful owner returned from her night out...

It was with huge reluctance that I left this budget backpackers dream, but I needn't have worried because the my final stop in Canada was Calgary and this is where we met Brock. By this stage, I had been joined by my friend Natalia, a lovely girl that I'd met in Chicago. We were drinking in a swanky-ish downtown bar and got chatting with Brock the bartender, one of the most genuine guys I've ever met. He took the time to write out a full itinerary for us (we hadn't a clue of the places to go at this point), poured loads of free cocktails and even brought us out with his mates after he finished. If you ever happen to find yourself in Calgary, let me know and I'll hook you up with Brock, you won't be disappointed.

Those dreams ain't daft as they seem.

God Bless This House,

Ginty

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Photos

Mad as arseholes
as Sue and Nige used to say..

Chris and I at Lake Louise..
..raging that we couldn't find the footy on anywhere