By Brittney Barber
Free Press Columnist
It had been the longest of long days for me. I lay on my back in my bunk at the Raging Elk, head spinning and happy. The bartenders didn’t lie when they said a pint or two of the ‘face-plant’ rang true to its name.
“Finally! I am here!” breathing easy with a smile from ear to ear, I had done it; I had survived the most treacherous and longest day of my life. The trip from Kelowna to Fernie had driven me to my wits end and back. The red gravel roads under the scorching Australian sun now seemed like freshly laid bitumen compared to roads covered in ice and snow. Snow tires didn’t feel enough to calm my racing mind from thinking death would be upon me at any moment, while we only travelled at a mere 50kms/hour for most of the way. How could something so terrifyingly unstable be so normal for the poor drivers behind us waiting to pass?
Despite my recovering nerves, everything I had done to be here had been absolutely worth it. Two weeks of searching Canada for a place to stay a while, was but a prick on the finger compared to the years I had been patient in a city when my patience had run out; there was no job that captivated me or my passions, there were no more friends left that inspired me beyond a trip to a shopping mall or a brunch date.
I am in search of adventure and something real.
With the brown ale still flooding my travel weary veins and my thoughts of finally leaving home, I swayed to and fro with a copy of the Fernie Fix firmly in my grasp; I was no doubt transfixed, by an article telling of the legend of the Griz. For some reason, the story of a 300-pound man with shoulders six feet wide caught my eye…a girl can dream can’t she?
Despite my motivation this legend had me hooked! A mysterious man shoots his musket into the sky and the heavens shower this town with glorious powder. If you ask me, the Griz is simply a man who was seeking out awesome. It is more than just the legend of powder, it’s a legend about a way of life, so let’s find the Griz.
