It was a bittersweet departure. I had just spent ten months at home - the last place in the world I expected myself to be. My family and friends didn't want to see me go, straining to believe I'd be okay but questioning it through drawn-out hugs and nervous undertones. For months, I had wanted to be anywhere but there; but when I'm about to leave, I, too, am looking for any indication or guarantee that everything will go as I hope.

Trains have a knack of starting to move without anyone knowing. Slowly the sound of the engine builds up and chugs its way out of Union Station in Toronto. I wave to my family but they can't see through the tinted windows. My mom resorts to frantically inspecting every window. My sister and dad are sidetracked by something else and stare vacantly in opposite directions. Old railway ties lie on the mounds of gravel that provide a bed for the new tracks to stretch out on. Passing run-down, but still operating, factories and ordinary apartment buildings, I wonder who would choose to live so close to a busy train track and try to figure out how long it would take to get used to the noises. Into the suburbs, I lose interest in the boxed houses.

Gradually, the patches of trees between the houses become larger and the houses become more secluded from each other. The rumble of the train amplifies, as though it is thrilled to leave the city and eager to move onwards. It seems as though the furious chanting has no climax in mind and will just get louder and louder and faster and faster and more intense until it just gives out. But eventually a plateau is reached and we glide into the forest, north-westward, ever anticipating what's to come.

The forest is bright, blurred green and it's impossible to fix my eyes on anything in particular. It careens by, at a speed much faster than I imagine the train to be moving, and occasionally breaks for a moment to provide a glimpse of a lake. It is as though the lake convinces the train to slow down - giving more of a show than the forest did. The stillness of the lake is stunning. I want to jump up and stop the train in fear that its chanting will cause a ripple. It doesn't. I admire the perfect symmetry of the shoreline and wonder if anything can disrupt the tranquillity. But then the forest bounds back in to steal the spotlight and re-launches its whooshing. This pattern of racing forests and dawdling lakes continues. The small, red-headed boy a few seats ahead who asks his mother if we're just going in circles makes a good point.

As we leave Manitoba into my second evening on the train, the sun begins to set and I head up to the glass-domed observation car. Slipping down the sky, the sun trims the clouds with a fiery border. I try to stay focused; in awe of radiance I have never before seen exuded from a cloud, not wanting to miss a second. It's too bright so I squint, hoping this will relieve the discomfort. Not only do I look ridiculous, but it also doesn't work so I direct my attention downwards, to a field that sprawls toward the horizon. A few cows munch away, oblivious to the spectacle playing out above them or to the beast of a train charging past.

Passengers begin to traipse back down into the passenger cars to grapple with the reclining seats - to the victor goes a good night's sleep. Daylight seeps, like honey down a honey jar, below the horizon. The blazing clouds smoulder into darkness. I press my face to the window; my hands create a frame to block out the overhead lights. The sweeping fields of Manitoba tumble into the rolling hills of Saskatchewan. My mind flashes back to the photographs of the Prairies I saw in elementary school. I blink a few times, expecting to suddenly realize that no, those aren't hills but are really the endless wheat fields that I was anticipating. But there are none. By 10 o'clock, four other passengers are still in the observation car with me, three of them discussing Europe and another immersed in a book. I strain again to encompass the sheer vastness and I sit back and wonder, "Why the hell am I in Saskatchewan? At 10 p.m. On a train?" Because I had nowhere else to be, and I couldn't think of any better reason. I go down to the passenger car to sleep and celebrate my triumph over my seat - the engine of the train inaudible.

As we leave Edmonton, the conductor informs us that we will begin to see the Rockies in about an hour. I decide to stake my territory early and head up to the observation car. I graze the horizon for mountains. Delighted to see one, I strain and realize it's a cloud. My hallucinations repeat themselves as others join me in the quest for the first mountain sighting. Finally, after rounding a corner just outside of Edson, Alberta I spot a grey pointed speck, elevated above the horizon. I can hide the minuscule fleck with my fingertip but I look around to verify my findings with other passengers. It's a mountain for sure - Mount Brazeau, elevation: 3740 metres. As we weave our way towards the Miette mountain range, Mount Balinhard joins Brazeau, then the peak of Sirdar Mountain rises over the horizon. Much to my surprise, my eyes water. Finally, the mountains I had longed to see for months are appearing in front of me. I try to decide what is more ridiculous: squinting at a sunset or crying at mountains. The specks of mountains get bigger and more pop up behind them. They move from eyelevel to towering above the glass dome and within forty-five minutes they surround us. The train carves through tunnels, blanketing us in fleeting darkness, and winds around the soaring masses of rocks that continue to expand. Just when you think you've seen the biggest, another one appears as if to say, "Ha! Not so fast!" Milky water fills the Athabasca River, which gushes alongside the fervent train. It grows vaster as the currents flow faster. The dazzling afternoon sunlight reflects golden sparkles on the ripples of the rushing river, scattering everywhere, dancing, hopping from one ripple to the next. Blue, green and grey are the only visible colours but their various shades compose a rainbow.

We meander our way into Jasper where I debark and admire the mountains, snow-capped in August, sheltering the quaint town. I decide to take a tram up to the top of Whistler Mountain. The small, red car attached to the cable (which is hard to believe to be capable of carrying much weight) hoists us up the mountain. I feel the gusting wind up here, a wind that is a stranger to the base of the mountain today. The gusts are crisp, pure, untainted and smell of absolutely nothing. I put up my hood, stray off the manmade walkway and stand atop a boulder. The voices of nearby tourists are swept away with the wind and I feel entirely secluded and isolated. Very little plant life exists here but a few metres down the mountain, small trees descend into big trees and big trees descend into gigantic trees, which cascade into a valley. The surrounding mountains are monstrous. Those in the forefront boast solid, rigid, grey facades. Trees creep up their sides, sneaking into each crevasse, like a five o'clock shadow, unable to reach the summit. Those mountains falling into the distance fade into assorted shades of blue; those tall enough reject Mother Nature's attempt at summer and meet the sky with patches of snow.

Standing on that mountain, my thoughts drift back ten months and I remember hesitantly contemplating what the months to follow had in store for me. I had written to myself, "Regardless of the struggle it may take, by refusing to let adversity get the best of you, you can know that one day you will stand on your own mountain, clouds clearing above you, and feel prosperity to such a higher level than those who have seen nothing but sunshine their whole lives. I can't wait for that day."

I look upwards, above the dusty brown crest of the mountain, to a cloudless blue sky. Below me, the Athabasca River snakes its chalky blue-green water past the town and eventually splits in three directions: north, east and, finally, west. I smile and have no idea where life will take me. But, I am certain of one thing: everything will be just fine.

(back)