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The big older Pontiac sped along eating up mile upon mile of highway. The driver slouched indolently behind the wheel, his left elbow resting comfortably on the car window fingers steadying the wheel but not gripping it, tapping in time to the classic rock on the radio. His right hand gripped the wheel at almost the top, but even that grip was relaxed, almost lazy. His rich hazel eyes were hidden behind aviator style sunglasses. He had a strong chin with a neatly trimmed goatee which matched his equally neatly trimmed short black hair.
The highway he was on stretched the length of the country, The Trans-Canada Highway, and he was driving west from the prairies towards the West Coast. The Rocky Mountains stretched before him, running north to south, like an impenetrable barrier. But Evan Kirby knew better; the highway found its winding way through mountain passes across the continental divide over several ranges ending in the Pacific Coastal Range and the sea. There by the sea, on the great Fraser River Delta which two million or more souls called Home, lay Vancouver: a port city, a crossroads of the world. But the draw there for Evan was the rich and bountiful entertainment industry. Evan Kirby was a guitar player. He had played with an assortment of bands in prairie towns and cities but, drawn to classic rock and the new innovative sounds coming out of some of the west coast studios, had decided to try his luck in Vancouver. After all, he had reasoned, the weather's warmer there too.
The car was a cluttered mess and a Marshall amplifier took up more than half of the back seat. Some fast food bags and beverage cups littered the floor. On the seat beside him was a Calgary newspaper, a copy of Guitarplayer Magazine and a couple of CD's. As the car cruised further into the mountains the Calgary radio station he had been listening to started to crackle and break up. Evan steadied the wheel with a couple of fingers only and loaded a CD into the player. The car was filled with the sound of Led Zepplin as he cruised through the Banff National Park Gates.
Just west of the Banff townsite there were a couple of hitchhikers along the road. The first two were a grubby looking pair of men which Evan barely looked at. But his eyes were drawn to the slim girlish figure standing alone clutching a small pack to her side almost as though it were a teddy bear. The wind was blowing her long straight blonde hair wildly from beneath her hat, a crocheted close-fitting soft turquoise cap. She wore a pair of flared, faded and somewhat tattered blue jeans and a shirt that was a tight fitting long sleeved soft knit fabric in a darker turquoise than her hat with a dragon boldly painted across the front. Evan whistled under his breath as he pulled over to pick her up. 'Geez, she's just a kid.' he thought, 'They just get younger.'
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