the hand of God

A quiet Good Friday on the Crowsnest Highway. Dramatic curves and climbs wind through orchards along the Kettle River Valley, past vineyards, tumble-down ranches and trailer towns. Passed through wild west prospector country where the smelter stack at Greenwood used to extract copper along Boundary Creek.

Spray-painted on the rock face: prepare to meet God. Depending on your mood, this reads as either exciting news or a threat.

Stopped for a coffee at the Grand Forks Hotel that serves up Canadian and Russian fare. (This is Doukhobor country.) Met a man who told me he died once. For three hours. He’d been snowmobiling and fell through the ice. Kept his head above the surface by letting his sleeves freeze onto the ice surface. Mentioned that he used to run a centre for teenagers and that he would have no difficulty killing a pedophile with his own hands.

Back on the road, tuned into the CBC and heard Mary Hynes interview Mavis Staples. I’m just about the happiest person you’ll ever meet, said Mavis. You gotta be sincere, make it plain, sing it from the heart.

On the highway just outside of Nelson, I see a man standing at the side of an intersection, wearing white gloves and holding a bible. It’s almost sundown and he’s been out here all day. Tells me he’s had a tough life but he’s hoping for two things: a 500 square foot house and a wife. Says he’s a sexual person but he hasn’t had sex for 21 years, because the bible says he needs to be in matrimony to have such relations, so he masturbates. I wish him well without shaking his hand and continue on.

When I tell people I’m headed to Nelson, the reply is often the same: you’ll like it there. It’s full of urban refugees, bohemians, and alternative people. Considering what I’ve encountered thus far not sure what the alternatives are, but looking forward to it.