I have to travel through the pacific/mountain date line today and will lose an hour, so I don’t want to delay. It’s a beautiful sunny day until about halfway into the trip, when a light rain begins to fall just as Simon and Garfunkel tell me I hear the drizzle of the rain, like a memory it falls . . . The soft memories carry me through the wooded mountains. I’m thinking of my loved ones as I travel alone, the ribbon of road disappearing under my wheels as I cruise eastward. My mind’s distracted and diffused, my thoughts are many miles away. As I pass the Golden Grizzly Cookhouse, just west of Banff National Park, I text my Calgary friends to tell them I’ll arrive tonight. Then I join the snake-line procession of cars crawling through the frighteningly scenic Kicking Horse Canyon. A black crow preens on a concrete bolster on the cliff side of the highway, while steel nets hang somewhat protectively from the chiselled rock faces rising out of the northside ditch. I stop briefly at the Kicking Horse Rest Area overlooking the whitewater rafting Kicking Horse River. My trip is nearly over. I’ll spend the summer settled in a Calgary suburb. But I have fallen under the spell of motion.