Then and Now
By Cynthia Bigrigg
Exactly one year ago today, I was driving fast down the wide-open Trans Canada Highway from Winnipeg to Calgary. I had been on the road for three days already, by myself, with nothing but my tunes and magnificent landscapes to keep me company. It was glorious. On this particular day I watched the prairies fly past me, views that my imagination had never done justice to. Flat land, and the widest expanse of cloudless blue sky. I passed granaries and oil pumps, gas stations with outdated, flip-switch pumps and old men sitting on a bench outside the store, and cargo trains that stretched for miles. In the afternoon, I sat in a Wal-Mart parking lot in Swift Current and had a meltdown. I had made the rookie traveler’s mistake of not telling my bank that I was on the move. My cards were frozen and I couldn’t buy gasoline. After an hour of pleading with the bank, I filled my tank and hit the road again to discover lush, green fields of wheat, fences built with someone’s dedicated, calloused hands and dusty, unchanging, one-light towns. As I hit the Saskatchewan-Alberta border, I saw what I will always remember as the most incredible sunset – dark clouds spouting large drops of rain above me, and beautiful bright light in the distance.
There really was no going back from there. I was hooked. On life, on exploring, on new places and how they could make me feel. I’ve got the wandering gene, and I don’t have a plan. I’m learning that I am less structured than I thought I was, and that flying by the seat of my pants gives me a thrill.
Flash forward eleven months. Victoria, B.C. is the most vibrant place I have ever been. I drove down with two great friends over Easter weekend, dropped them off in Vancouver, and took a ferry to the Island. The air was practically buzzing with goodness. People are so happy there. People are friendly, and they smile at you as you pass. The city is full of good food and cafes with the most unique artwork for sale on their walls. Buskers set up on the sidewalks at sundown. The air is fresh and easy to breathe. The flowers are bright and fragrant and the whole place smells amazing. It is clean and absolutely beautiful, right through to its core. I felt so entirely welcome, and it felt incredible. It physically hurt to leave.
I have unfinished business here in my mountain town – commitments I will keep and experiences to have. But I have an inkling of an idea in the back of my mind.
The days are getting longer here and the town is coming alive again. People – tourists and those who will stay the summer and work – are coming back into town. I can feel the new life they are breathing into it. It makes me hopeful. New people means new opportunities. I thrive on relationships. The winter here was hard for me, but I have come to realize that I can’t change the ebb and flow of this town. I can’t change the coming and going, the here-then-gone. But I can accept that this is how it is and change my attitude. I know I will put in my time here, but I won’t be here forever. I don’t want to look back on this experience and wish it were any different than it is. I won’t be someone who puts up walls – I have no desire to shut anyone out, and I am not a fair weather friend. If you put the effort in, I will match it, whether you are staying a week or a year. I am not afraid to take it as it comes and enjoy it while it lasts, and I am not afraid of that moment of sadness I will feel when it’s gone.
I left for a million tiny reasons, but I came here for one big one: To learn how to live life. That is what my year has been all about. So here is to a new summer, an incredible summer. To new people, new adventures, new opportunities, and new roads not left un-taken.








