I’ll be the first to admit that I’m late to the party. By now, the wreaths of carnations have dried, the mourners have drowned their sorrows with new ones, and the bus stations of Canada have been repopulated with scrappy upstarts. The public transit I rely on to commute between Hamilton, Toronto, and Osgoode has gotten me thinking about an old—and sometimes reliable—friend. If it’s not too much, or too late, I’d like to say a few words about my fond experiences with our dearly departed Greyhound.
Greyhound Canada used to be a big player in our country, but declining ridership and the centralization of the population into cities left remote routes economically unfeasible. This led to the (most publicized) cancellation of routes in Northern British Columbia, most notably along the Highway of Tears, which sparked national outrage. At the time, the company was in its death throes, and the pandemic was only accelerating the inevitable. Before the company’s ultimate demise, I went on a Greyhound pilgrimage, of sorts, and it seems only appropriate that I should attempt to recount some of the details to you here.
In February 2015, I was in my last year of undergrad at the University of Guelph, and was eager to visit my partner, who had started her master’s degree at the University of British Columbia. At the end of my financial tether, and inspired by the vagabond freedom that spilled from the pages of Jack Kerouac’s works (I know, I know: cliché), I purchased a round-trip ticket from Guelph to Pacific Central Station in Vancouver.
I’m amazed at the person I was back then, not even flinching at the travel time on the bottom of my ticket; eight days on the bus, for four days of leisure in Vancouver. When I told my friends, they thought I had lost it. When I told my mother, she was in hysterics, not having forgotten the tragedy that took place on a Greyhound bus in Portage La Prairie, Manitoba, seven years prior.
After having my comically long string of tickets printed out at the station, I sat on the bus, reviewing all the towns I would pass through. Places like Dryden, Gull Lake, Medicine Hat, Salmon Arm, and Golden (in no particular geographical order). As the bus engine turned over, I could not have imagined the laughter I would enjoy, the people I’d meet, or the beauty of Canada in the dead of winter.
For the most part, the trip west was quiet. Mennonites in Northern Ontario relied heavily on the bus to travel between their remote communities. I remember waking up in the middle of the night, and seeing the approaching glow of an oil lamp on a horse drawn buggy, coming to collect some passengers. I’m still unsure if what I saw was real, or if I was dreaming. When I reached Winnipeg, it happened to be my birthday, so I ran to the airport bar in the frigid temperature to have a beer with my new pal, Ray, a former Military Police Officer. His tolerance for alcohol was matched only by his penchant for incessant talking. On the bus, I fell asleep to his recollections of the “glory days,” and woke just before Swift Current, Saskatchewan, while he was in the middle of a dissertation on advanced combat strategies. It was clear that he had not stopped talking through the night. In Eastern British Columbia, I sat alone, watching the moon crest over the sharp black shadows of the mountains. By the time we were nearing Vancouver, I was eager to stand up and walk.
My time in Vancouver was brilliant; its climate was a stark contrast to the frigid winter of the prairies. I enjoyed the much-anticipated time I spent with my partner, but I couldn’t help but feel that this short time was only a recovery for the trip back.
Before I knew it, I was on my way home; back through the lush green hills of the Okanagan, and slowly into the wind-ravaged, snowy plains of the prairies. Many people understandably loathe driving through the prairies, but I found great comfort and inspiration in their vastness, and in following the passing power lines into the infinity of the horizon. I met a lad who was born and raised in Vancouver (a rarity if you’ve ever tried to find such a person in the city itself), who was moving to Toronto to start a new life, and try to get clean. In Thunder Bay, we stood in a parking lot, shivering and smoking a cigarette, when we both noticed the awful smells emanating from our clothes. On a long, sedentary trip like that, it’s only natural that you will start to stink. My new friend, however, had the idea (no matter how much I protested) to wash his pants in the bus terminal sink, and dry them under the hand drier. When we stepped back outside, he held out his pants, and they instantly froze solid. We laughed—as I’ve never laughed before—at his new “tin pants” that could stand on their own.
As the bus neared the GTA’s network of highways, the novelty of the trip began to wear off, and exhaustion came crashing down on me. The blown-out suspension on the wheels I was sitting above spurred my newfound hatred with each bump. When I arrived back in Guelph, I nearly cried with joy at having made it home, but those tears wouldn’t have been truly happy, for I was also sad that my trip was over.
To this day, I think of my trip—the sleepless nights, the chattering of my teeth and brain from lousy suspension, my subsistence on Tim Hortons food—fondly, though the absence of Greyhound buses in and between our cities push these times of reflection further apart. I couldn’t possibly include here all the beauty and conversation I experienced during those eight days on the Greyhound, nor will I have the chance to experience it again anytime soon.
So, if you happen to see me in the Ignat Kaneff Building and have some Greyhound stories of your own to share: Don’t hesitate, because I love a good story. For now, our memories will have to suffice.