9 April 2006
Met my uncle out in West Dope City for breakfast before we headed into the mountains to take the Hammer on her first hike. We chose the Wet Spot to load up on grub in. West Dope City is the richest motherfucking city in Canada, maybe even the world if you take into account the dope underworld. But the chairs in the Wet Spot are ripped and torn as a crackhead's face. Food was good, the hash browns a little too crunchy for my Sliverville palate.
The Hammer was not too keen on jumping into the back of my uncle's car but once she got loaded you could tell she felt like a queen's stable mutt on the fine Japanese upholstery. My uncle, an old school driver, cranked his car up to 100 miles an hour on the Highway of Death and gave several people the finger for only going about 80 as we passed them like they were hearses.
We tried driving as far as we could up a steep logging road before the car's clutch began smoking like the now still pulp mill used to we passed on the way. My uncle slammed his fist into the steering wheel and said, "These Japanese pieces of shit can't go half as far up a logging road as my old Beetle could!"
We parked, chugged a beer and loaded several others out of the cooler into our packs. Several sandwiches and other non-necessities made by our wives were thrown from our packs to make room for more beer. My uncle lit up a fat one, he is a retired policeman who could now not give a fuck, and we were ready to tackle a mountain that would have made the von Trappes' knees buckle with fear.
The Hammer was fitted with her back pack and ran ahead of us to muck in the muck, chase birds and try to hynotize squirrels out of trees. All she had in her pack were a few rags and two half full water bottles. She will be slowly worked up to being able to carry 24 beer. I told my uncle, "I did not call her the Hammer for nothing. One day what she can carry in beer alone will get two guys hammered." My uncle laughed, cracked a couple more beers for us and lit up another spliff. The sky opened like a mall in the morning and the sun shone through the second growth evergreens.
When we reached our destination the lake was still as Stephen Harper's bed on a Saturday night. In the distance a glacier hung like a painting that is supposed to look like Canada. We wished we had saved room for a couple sandwiches but had more beer instead. We burped and farted and talked about how much we loved our country and wondered aloud what the fuck our army were doing in Afghanistan.
On the way down the hill a young couple with an accent asked us if it was true there was a pub near the top of the mountain. I asked them,"Where you from?" before answering. The pretty brunette told me, "Scotland."
So I answered her question. "If you are Scottish you must know that the closer you get to Heaven the more alcohol there is. Of course there is a pub near the top of the mountain. Keep climbing."