Grouse

He walked in wearing the classic garb of a high school sophomore; basketball shorts and a loose t-shirt, which would have been fitting, accept he was twenty six and his college degree wasn’t in business. We made previous arrangements to meet at The Cambie, a bar below the hostel I was residing, and in all honesty, the bar was really the only thing the hostel had going for it.

The night before this encounter I drove a feverish nine hours (would have been around six hours if not for the hefty traffic) to Vancouver, Canada. Feverish because I was a bit sad, a bit angry, and wasn’t in the mood to make the trip. I had to force myself out of an enclave of society, otherwise known as Monmouth, Oregon, where both chavs and gated-community-moms live in harmony. Force myself because like most smallish towns, Monmouth throws the old ball-and-chain around anyone unlucky enough to have lived there for the bulk of their lives.

My mood was still sour when I finally arrived at my destination, I didn’t want to be social, and instead of relishing in the beautiful reality that I could order a pint with my legal ID, I went straight to my dorm and slept my attitude off. That morning, I found his note hanging from the hostel’s bulletin board, a post-it requesting anyone to join them on a hike outside of Vancouver, I didn’t know what to expect, but I called the number any way. I was greeted with a humble hello from a man that made it very clear he was visiting from Minnesota.

It was that phone call that brought us to the bar, and from there to my truck where we then drove to our first destination, The Capilano Suspension Bridge. The Bridge was interesting enough, and there were some fun, under-hyped activities (the Treetops Adventure for example), but price wise, it wasn’t worth it; a tourist trap all the flies swath to. But for my guy from Minneapolis, he was quite pleased, being that he had hardly ever seen a pine tree in his life, his excitement made me proud to be from Oregon (and in these situations, I always tell people I’m from Portland because I hate explaining where my home town is geographically (yea its 70 miles south of Portland… like in the valley… sort of near Salem, Oh you don’t know where Salem is? OK ummm like an hour from the coast. Yes, the Oregon coast, it’s cold.)  also, my hometown is NOT cool). When we left the Bridge, there was a small group of elderly women that were not pleased with how close I parked to their car.

“You parked too close, you scratched my car, I have a $500 deductible.”

“Listen,” I said, “you parked over the line, don’t be a shitty parker,” (I didn’t use those words exactly). I then waved my hand between the three inches of space between the rear of their Hyundai and the front of my truck in an attempt to emphasize that the two cars were not touching. I pulled back out of the parking space to show there wasn’t a scratch.

“Look there’s a scratch right there!” She said, pointing to an unscathed surface.

“You are being a very unpleasant lady” said Minnesota, “Very unpleasant.”

“Stop telling me I’m unpleasant!” It wasn’t too long before they edged off, fuckin’ Canadians (most of them are swell though).

We finally arrived at the bottom of Grouse Mountain late afternoon (or as the locals call it, “The Grouse grind,” and for good reason), when the evening sun was at its harshest (keep in mind, I was far from physically fit, and was suffering from a terrible cough that lasted a good portion of my summer (pity me)) nevertheless, we prevailed. The hike is three kilometers straight up along some jagged steps carved into the side of the mountain, we climbed slowly, and it took us a WHILE, but we made it. At the top, It was picturesque, a well-deserved scenery which seemed even more enjoyable after the torture we both suffered through. The calm yellow and blue of late evening settled over the city laid out before us.

It wasn’t too long before the city lights began gleaming, and the top of the mountain became very, very cold. There was no way we were about to hike back down The Grouse, so we opted for an easier route along the Grouse Aerial Tram (it was CAD$15, they must make bank off the ‘grinders’). It was perfect timing too, from the crowded aerial tram we could see the city at its best, in the night.

We later enjoyed a candle-lit (which wasn’t intended) dinner at some hip vegan restaurant, and parted ways with a hug. That was that. We spent the entire day together, a lovely day, and we will never speak to each other again.

P.S. I didn’t bring anything that would have been necessary for a hike, save for a pair of Chaco’s, which are comfortable, but their selling point lingers around the ‘sport’ aspect of the sandal when they are the least suited for walking any distance over a mile (I still have scars from the blisters they gave me). With respects to the sparse amount of clothing I had, the man I met from Minnesota loaned me a pair of his basketball shorts, which were quite large on me despite his small frame. This may be one of the reasons I have not a single picture from this memorable day, I looked like a hobo, but at least I have my memories right?

By Camille Bliss