Finding Kindness on a Wildfire Road Trip

Timing is everything. On Friday morning in a downtown Vancouver rental car office, a stunned Korean couple is discovering they have landed on the wrong side of that aphorism. They are here to pick up a car, intending to drive east. Their plan is to travel along the Coquihalla to Kamloops, then head northeast to claim their hotel reservation — five nights at the Jasper Inn & Suites.

While the rental car staff attempt to fill the couple in on recent bleak developments, the husband is on the phone to the hotel. “No answer,” he says.

No, no one is answering. After all, most of the people still in Jasper are wearing oxygen masks. In the wake of a raging wildfire many parts of the beloved Alberta resort community are gone, and with them the carefully laid plans of these Korean visitors. Their followup destination, Banff, is also looking uncertain. This is not the sort of news one expects to hear at the Hertz office. They are clearly struggling to process it all.

I am there to drop off a car, having just returned from a trip. My journey too had complications resulting, at least indirectly, from wildfires. But my experience had been happier. It resulted in the discovery — rediscovery, perhaps — that there are some good people out there. In particular, I met one in Castlegar.

My latest sojourn to the Prairie provinces of my raising had been another memorable trip, with friends and photos and a smattering of those travel moments one can never predict — for instance, the day in southern Manitoba when a scan of the radio dial picked up a weak signal from an NPR station, and my shocked realization that they were discussing the minutes-old presidential campaign of Vice-President Kamala Harris.

For the succeeding miles, as Manitoba Highway 3 became Saskatchewan Highway 18, I strained to hear the NPR signal that periodically slipped away, replaced by country music and tire commercials. This century’s history, delivered via the same technology that once drew families around the living room Philco to hear Franklin D. Roosevelt.

I found some great motel deals along the way. No inflation at the Wheel Inn in Assiniboia, Saskatchewan, where the modest breakfast room contains a miraculous machine — an automated pancake maker — all for less than $80 a night.

My new favourite town, Eastend, Saskatchewan, features the charming Riverside Motel for a hair under $100. Roughly the same price gets you a large room at the Sunset Motel in Fort Macleod, Alberta, jumping-off point for a scenic drive to Waterton Lakes National Park.

It was my first visit to Waterton Lakes, on the Alberta-Montana border, and I was impressed — it's a lovely place, sitting at the sweet spot where foothills meet mountains, busy without being crowded. Perched on a rocky bluff, the majestic, 97-year-old Prince of Wales Hotel overlooks the town (and yes, brings to mind the Overlook of Stanley Kubrick's cinematic nightmare). A young park guide informs me that three times during its construction, powerful winds blew parts of the structure right off their foundations.

A more recent peril was of a familiar kind — a 2017 wildfire came within metres of consuming the building.

As I continue west the fire reports from Jasper are becoming more dire. There is fire trouble in the vicinity of the Crowsnest Highway too, and I will soon discover that means trouble for me. I have fixed Castlegar as my destination for the night, certain that a routine Wednesday evening will offer plenty of vacancy for a weary motorist. Not so. At my first hotel stop I am informed that wildfire crews are using Castlegar as their base.

“We are full,” a hotel worker tells me. “And so is everybody else.”

It's an ill wind that blows no one any good, and the innkeepers of Castlegar at least are making book on the wildfire crisis. I call another place and get the same message — there is no room at the inn. Any tips, I ask? A manger, perhaps? “You might try the Twin Rivers,” a hotel clerk says. “It's beside the Tim Hortons.” Decent place, is it? The woman mutters a few words. She will not commit herself.

I find the Twin Rivers. It does indeed lack curb appeal — not quite Bates Motel sinister, but certainly a daunting challenge for any photographer tasked with shooting a brochure. The dark sign has just one illuminated square, and it reads “No.” Yet I have no choice. I pick up the phone attached to the locked office door, and wait.

A woman comes to the door. She has long curly hair and a tank top and introduces herself as Erica. I give her a hopeful look, but she shakes her head. “I don't really have anything,” she says apologetically, then pauses. “Well, there's one room. But the A/C isn't working. I couldn't possibly ask you to stay there.”

Grand Forks is an hour away. I'll take anything, I insist. Erica grimaces. “In this heat? It'll be brutal. The window doesn't open.” She muses for a moment. “I might have some fans,” she says.

Moments later Erica unlocks Room 114, separated from the Columbia River by only a screen of trees. While she positions fans and digs out power cords, I look around. Not bad at all — it even has a kitchenette, a feature I have often longed for on this trip. We chat about the unfolding tragedy in Jasper — Erica is hearing shocking reports from local fire crews who have talked to their northern comrades. There seems to be more bad news than the TV is currently reporting.

I assure her that I will be fine here. “Well,” she says, “I couldn't charge you. Not without A/C. Just leave something for the housekeepers tomorrow.”

The fans do their work. I sleep well. Next morning I leave a healthy tip as instructed and seek out Erica as she cleans a room. “You need to take some money,” I say. “I'm afraid you are too soft for capitalism.”

Eventually she agrees to accept the modest sum that happens to be in my wallet, a price that, even with housekeeping tip included, falls into the range one might reasonably have expected in about 1978.

On my way out of town I stop at Lifestyles Coffee, a cozy little shack on the main street. How much for a double espresso, I ask the cheerful owner? “Two-fifty,” she says. OK, I say, how about for four shots? She shrugs. “Two-fifty, total. Hey, it's my place. I charge what I want.”

“It's part of living in a small town,” a customer behind me says.

Now I am at the rental office on Seymour, waiting for the all-clear on my rental return.

The Korean woman and I are chatting about local Korean restaurants, and her suppressed giggle when I say “Jang Mo Jib” informs me that my Korean pronunciation resembles a Texan speaking French for the first time. Her husband is still trying the phone, without success. Their plans are in ruins.

“Have you ever heard,” I ask, “of Waterton Lakes National Park? It's beautiful. And not on fire.”

We sit on the office couch. The husband types details into his phone as I explain routes and options.

“There's a place in Fort Macleod,” I say, “called the Sunset Motel. Not fancy, but charming. I think you'll like it.”