The one in which I rave about the outdoors and poutine for the 62nd time

Though, as will be seen later in this tale, J's timing isn't always her strong suit, one would have to agree that trading in your car for a convertible three days before road tripping to a bachelorette party is very good timing.

And, off we go, sun sparking off the windows, negotiating chop sticks through corners, winding up the highway to a resort town a couple hours away from the city I'd only returned to for a matter of moments. In perhaps an odd act of symbolism, we are stuck in traffic behind two guys with a disturbingly realistic penis etched in the dust of their back window.

Our hair a little more tousled than before, and our throats a little strained from belting out 

"Summer of '69" (you gotta show love to Mr. Adams), we take over four hotel rooms. We are disappointed to see pull-out couches, but thrilled to see giant jacuzzi tubs in the bedroom.

And then it is scruffy clothes time, for, as part of the surprise for our outdoorsy bride, we are going ATVing up a mountain.

My famous running a motorized scooter into a fence incident, despite being several years old now, is still unfortunately fresh in my partner's mind, so we decide to let her drive. She informs me solemnly that she intends to floor it directly into any mud puddles. 

We strap gear on-- helmets, goggles, masks. I look like my head may be too heavy for my body. The guide tells us such valuable tidbits of information as don't do fishtails and to jump off the ATV if we are veering over a cliff. 

And we're off, and I am soon whooping up a storm. Within moments, we are coated by layers of dust. We whizz by waterfalls, forests, peaks, then snow, barren rocky landscapes, and epic views, with a stop for dinner along the way up.

The Peak is magnificent. It is easier to understand now why people climb mountains, as that top-of-the-world feeling is a little intoxicating.





The more jarring ride down culminates with two black bear sightings, and careening through the world's juiciest mud puddle.

We bid the dust-sodden hoodies goodbye (maybe with a quick jacuzzi stop in between), and change into our apparel for the night... a Western theme, with everyone in black except the bride in white with a veiled cowboy hat.

I'm the taller one. 

(which is something I never get the chance to say)

Of course, sheriff badges and double digit bottles of champagne in a hotel room don't a bachelorette make. The cherry on the cake is always the excessive use of penis paraphernilia. The maid-of-honour proudly outdid herself in this regard, taping the face of groom to a cowboy cut-out on the wall, and playing a rousing blindfolded game of "Pin the Ding-a-ling!", complete with dirty prizes. 

I sadly did not win, veering too much to the left, though I did perform better than the individual who played the pictured round.

Many glasses of champagne consumed later, we teetered across the cobblestone of the central village. Every question that is posed our way by drunken roaming boys is answered with a shriek of "N's getting married!!!" The bars are ridiculously disappointing. It also seems we aren't the only bachelorette in town. N thanks us for not dressing her in a barely there corset with 80s crimped hair. There is inexplicably also a pirate party in town, rife with bad booty puns.

We leave the bars after a few drinks for what is rapidly becoming a bachelorette tradition: poutine. S declares that "Whoever created poutine should win a nobel prize!"

I, in my infinite wisdom, as I am tossing out my last remnants of gravy smeared container, notice the tricky garbage cans meant to stump hungry bears, and shout "It's because the bears want poutine!"

It's back to the hotel room, where we decide that the next logical course of action is to cram as many possible people into the jacuzzi tub with suds, and of course, more champagne. L has brought some random fellow back to the room. He must think he is the luckiest guy on earth, losing his friends downtown, and ending up in a hotel room with 12 women, many in their underwear in a jacuzzi tub. L quickly kicks him out, despite his pleas for a "smooch". S rolls on the floor, and declares her swollen belly to be a child named "Cookiepoutinechampagne".

But then comes the awkward part...

J is very drunk, and having an exceedingly loud conversation in the jacuzzi. Somehow the room ends up silent, and she begins telling everyone about her father's struggle with cancer. It has a relatively happy ending, though, in that it looks like he will have at least five more years (and he is already in his 70s).

Until she decides to cap it off with this line: "The doctor said he would be able to walk me down the aisle!"

J doesn't even have a boyfriend. But that isn't the point.

The bride-to-be's father died of cancer.

In one instant, everything is the room feels as though it had been dipped in lead. The night is now officially over.

***

10 am check-outs are a disaster.

Hollandaise sauce, however, is very nearly a solution. As is wandering the village with an ice cream cone in hand, after coming to a mutual decision to leave healthy eating behind for just one more day. 

Five of us decide to forego everyone else's rush back to the city, and play tourist for a while. L poses beside an RCMP officer on stilts, and we decide that the photo's headline will be "I said I liked tall guys, but this is ridiculous!"

A stop is made at a tiny lake on the way home. We squirm into our bathing suits in a gravel parking lot, attempting to do so under the cloak of a towel, but likely mooning an innocent driver or two. We tiptoe along rocky shores until, one by one, a plunge is made into the crisp water. I take a deep breath as I remember how freeing it is when my toes no longer touch the bottom.

We roll the windows down on the way back, and stare aimlessly at the mountains alongside.