Fond memories of summer in the mountains for one Canmore kid
by
Rob Alexander
Finnley, my black-and-white cat, lies in a pool of dappled shade near an open window, desperately hoping for a breeze. I stare out the window at the cool depths of the lodgepole pine forest beyond the small lawn. Disappearing into the welcoming shade of the forest is an alluring thought.
But neither of us can.
Finnley is an indoor cat. The coyotes that haunt our neighbourhood would make a quick snack of him. And I’m off to do errands. As I arrive in downtown Canmore and walk from my car to the store, longing for a light rain, I watch as a small pack of kids lugging long rainbow-coloured Mr. Freeze Freezer Pops laugh as they suck the sweet ice from the long plastic tubes.
I remember doing just that on the same street, only some twenty years ago. A Mr. Freeze was a quarter or maybe a dime. I don’t recall. But I do remember that cold zap in my mouth as I took that first bite, thinking for a moment of winter.
But it is not winter, instead it is the beautiful dog days of summer when the hot, dry days seem to go on forever. For two months, it would seem that the only break we got from the heat would come from the late afternoon thunderstorms that brought sheets of rain and monstrous claps of thunder that would send kids scurrying for safety.
Even though every day seemed to be the same, a Canmore summer was seldom boring.
In the morning, after breakfast, I would run from the house banging the door behind me as I headed off to collect my friends.
Sometimes we would head uptown, passing the old car wash looking for quarters. But usually, it was off towards the forest where we would leave footprints in the thick moss and climb the tall spruce trees with the wide trunks.
Once back on the ground, our knees covered in scrapes, we’d run to the nearby metal-trestle Engine Bridge that spanned the Bow River.
Short trains hauling coal would sometimes appear a couple of times of day, giving us an opportunity to throw dirt clods at the coal cars.
When the coast was clear, we’d climb along the sides of the bridge like a giant horizontal ladder, staring down through the clear water of the swift-moving river, looking for fish.
On the other side of the river, we’d head up stream and work our way towards marshes and creeks where suckerfish swam in shallow water. The water numbed our feet and ankles as we chased the large bottom-feeding fish, hoping to catch one. I don’t know what we would have done with it if we had caught any. But they always moved faster than we could.
Eventually, we’d grow tired of chasing suckers, so as the day grew hotter we split up to head home for lunch and then climb into swim trunks.
Barefoot and shirtless we’d meet up again and ride our bikes down to a swimming hole near the old Red Barn. The barn was converted into a day care years ago, but back then, it was still a real barn, stabling the horses that grazed in the fields.
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The author enjoys a lazy summer day flying a kite in the foothills near Canmore one summer almost 30 years ago.
On our way to the swimming hole, we’d often stop at one of the abandoned root cellars that sat near the barn. Climbing down the steep, rotten and creaky staircase was like descending into a cave as the damp, cool cellar erased the heat. In the single shaft of sunlight descending through the entrance, we would dig through the leaves looking for red-and-black salamanders.
Once out of the cellar and back into the sun, we welcomed the warm wind as we headed to the swimming hole. It was deep, well over my head – which isn’t saying much as I was always a small kid – with a teeter-totter, rope swing and diving board off a large dock.
On the rare day that we couldn’t escape the heat, we’d, pile into the basement to play Atari until my mom kicked us out with the admonishment, “For heaven’s sake, it’s beautiful outside. Get out there and play.”
And play we did. By the end of summer, before we were forced to return to school, the soles of my feet would thick from going barefoot, my skin deep brown from waist up and thigh down and my hair, already blonde, would be nearly white.
Recreating some of these Rocky Mountain summer days is sadly more difficult today. While it a safe place when compared to many, kids can’t seem to roam at will any longer.
Bears, which were never a concern, are now. They’ve lost a lot of their space to houses. They’re closer to town now. The swimming hole has filled in with silt.
The root cellars are gone, also filled in. The Town frowns upon climbing the Engine Bridge, while the Province frowns upon anyone playing in wildlife corridors.
A lot has changed. The town, it seems, has lost its innocence and parents can no longer open the door, throw their kids outside and tell them to be home for dinner. Instead, to keep them safe, happy and active, they seem to shuttle them from one organized activity to another. It’s probably the same in many a small town.
The sense of freedom, at least how I knew it, may be gone, but the creeks, the marshes and the forest are still there, waiting.
But how do you have an authentic small-town Rocky Mountain summer? It’s not much different than any other small town.
Roam. Go barefoot and tromp up a shallow, swift-moving creek. Flip rocks and look for insects and tadpoles. Wade through marshes. Build forts in hidden glades. Make small boats out of driftwood and throw stones at them. Find a pond and build a raft destined to sink shortly after launching.
Wait until dusk and race around the back roads or along the dike playing bike tag, skimming between the pools of light cast from the light poles.
Sit on the corner with a Freezee.
Rob Alexander is not alone in the nostalgia we all often feel in the lazy, hazy days of summer.
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