Option #3 at the Happiness Hotel.

If I wanted to grit my teeth, turn up the music, and slap myself awake once or twice, I could have made it to Vancouver without any problems. But it was getting to dark to take notes, so a few exits after the town of Hope, I decided to pull into the nex stop that advertised an open campground.

The campground in question was the "Whistlestop RV park". Like I said, it was already pretty late, so they just hung a sign in the office inviting latecomers to register their site the next morning.

It was indeed an RV park - I was the only person in the tenting area. I found a nice spot to pitch a tent, but it was dark, and it was in the mountains, which meant that the only light I had was any bio-luminesence the moss was kind enough to provide. So, I improvised.

I strung the tarp between the trunk of my Accent and the picnic table, where it was held down by... actually it was held down by my tent. I rolled out the mattress and the sleeping bag underneath, and it was Good Enough. I crawled under and went to sleep.

Now, since this was the first campground I found off of the Trans-Canada Highway, it's reasonable to assume that the #1 was close nearby. Indeed, the constant rumbling of trucks would be my lullabye. I could live with that. But then, after about twenty minutes, an ear-splitting roar of engine and axles and horns sounded out, so loud that I thought some trucker was warning people that he'd veered right into the campsite. And it kept on roaring, like it was always approaching but never getting closer.

After a momentary stupor, I realised... this campsite was called the "Whistlestop" RV Park. Yes, as close as it was to the Trans-Canada, the CPR was even closer. And so, for the rest of the evening, another locomotive would blast by. Every hour, on the hour-thirty-four. I got some sleep in between, but I counted every single one of them.

Finally, at six thirty-four, I figured that the road was calling. I took a shower, then rolled the tarp and mattress back into the trunk, and I was ready to go. You might be wondering if I was going to complain about the train at the office. I was not, seeing as how a) they probably knew already, and b) the shower was probably worth just as much to me as the sleep was. However, it was a moot point, as the office hadn't yet opened for the day. Shrugging, I drove away. I've never dined and dashed before... but now I can say I've slept and dashed. That counts, right?

Of course, I had only heard the engine - and sometimes, due to either some lucky echo or different weights of cars, it had seemed like I could hear several of them at once - but I hadn't seen it. So, when the forest around the highway cleared a few kilometers later, I looked to my side and saw... nothing but lake and mist.



Ghost train.

Cue the soundtrack.

I'd tell people that I was going to Dinosaur Provincial Park, and they'd say, "Good for you. That's a really nice place."

Perhaps they should have said, "Prepare to tremble in fear at a majesty of nature you never knew to exist, for if the prairies were a monarch, the badlands would surely be its crown."

I'd say more, but a) my camping buddies were the ones that brought a camera, and b) they're all writers. So I'll let one of them send me something that I can repost here. (Hint, hint.)

But in the meantime, allow me to relate to you the story of the most ridiculous car chase I've ever experienced.

We had just finished setting up the tents, and we were waiting for the final carload of explorers to arrive. Being in the bottom of a canyon, cell reception was poor, so Joe volunteered to drive up to the main entrance to contact the others. We bid her farewell, but I notice something as she pulls away.

"What's that box on top of her trunk?", I ask.

"I think it's a lamp."

Well, that's no good. I jump in my car, figuring I can flag her down before it topples. The problem, though, is that I hadn't factored the campground into account. One single lane of gravel, naked two-year-olds cavorting in sprinklers on each side, and speed bumps every twenty metres slowed me down to a crawl. Joe's car was slightly slower, so I was at least able to catch up, so that I could watch the lamp jump and slide over each speed bump.

Finally, we hit asphalt, and begin the long drive up the hill. I flash my hazards and high beams, trying to get her attention. The road's still too narrow for me to pull up alongside her, though. The car starts to veer -- has she seen me? No, she's just swerving around a rattlesnake.

And so we continue, climbing slowly up the hill, the lamp slipping a little more with each passing moment. Finally, she reaches the top, and pulls over. I do the same, and quietly walk over and pick up the prize.

It's a sturdy plastic LED lamp. Not a sliver of glass, or any other breakable substance, anywhere to be found. Defeated, I give Joe the lamp, and turn around.

Now, I told you that story... so I could tell you this one.

On the way back to the site, a four-year-old girl was playing around on her bicycle. She ended up in a slight rut. Hardly even the depth of a fresh set of treads, but it was enough for the rear tire to spin freely, while the bike was held up on its training wheels.

There I waited, minutes seeming like hours, as she pedaled franticly to get out of the middle of the road.

And that, my friends, was the most ridiculous car chase of them all.

Walkabout.

All right. Time to leave the Vegas strip, shake off that neon dust, and go see a few things in my own backyard. After all, everybody has a duty to themselves to know where they live, or else admit they don't live there. Maybe Dinosaur Provincial Park is just an insignificant ripple in the unending plains. But I won't know until I've been there. And I should know.

There'll be no blogging out there, though, so if you want to be updated on is-this-edible stories, you'll have to follow me on Twitter. Username: Labville, naturally. But even then, that's providing that I a) have cell reception, and b) remember my cell.

In other words, have a good weekend, and I hope to have some stories for you by Monday.

Roughing It.

Sitting on the balcony of my condo, frying up beans and sausage in an iron skillet on a Coleman stove. The stove is from Canadian Tire -- as it should be -- and the skillet is from the family -- as it should be. While I occasionally poke the sausage with a fork, I'm listening to my tunes, reading e-mail, and blogging(!). Life is good. Life is very good.

There are worse ways to spend a summer.

Now, all I have to do is use this stove until it's a greasy, rusty mess that only fires up if it's held together in a very specific way, and it'll be perfect.

I think it'll take about a week.