#018: Loose Ends

I have a small gap which I feel I should fill: the four days between the Rockies and the three-offensive-weapons-on-a-plane-to-the-United-States mishap.
I boarded the train at Jasper for the final leg of the mammoth journey. I'm still struggling to comprehend the vastness of Canada. I spent not far off four whole days sat on the train between Montréal and my final destination, Vancouver. Upon arrival there I headed straight for the Provincial capital of British Columbia, Victoria, on Vancouver Island (itself the size of the UK). I chose to travel by bus and, ergo, passenger ferry, across, and saw sea lions or seals in the Pacific waters as we went.
Victoria proved to be awfully wet whilst I was there, so my outdoor excursions were somewhat limited to repeated bouts of sheltering. I did see the coast of the American Pacific Northwest through the haze though, as Victoria lies south of the 49th parallel.
Back to Vancouver then, for a couple of nights enjoying the hospitality of Sarah and Clare - my sister Becky and Sarah went to school together. I think it's fair to say Sarah and Clare like to make the most of Vancouver's burgeoning restaurant scene so, both nights, we deliberated on the merits of various cuisine and establishments before plumbing for Rogue and Hamburger Mary's. We also shoehorned in an impromptu visit to 'True Confections' - a dessert-only restaurant where the cakes are upwards of a cubed foot in volume. One slice was quite enough.

I went Racoon hunting. Well, not hunting as such. That would go against certain misgivings I have about personally doling out death to things what are alive and that. It was more like Racoon looking-for. That's a lot closer to the truth. So I went to the Stanley Park spot Sarah had pointed out as a Racoon spot, but didn't see one Racoon and, thus, continued on my way, quickly forgetting the notion, the Racoon-looking-for notion, entirely.
Minding my own business I was, walking I was, head in the clouds, listening to 'Fuzzy Logic', seeing how many joggers make eye contact as they pass (hardly any; a walker is much more likely to cast a glance than a jogger), head in the clouds, when I damn-near stepped on one of the little fellas (a little fella being a Racoon rather than a jogger). Stopped me dead in my tracks. I said: "Well I damn-near stepped on you, little fella," as I removed my camera from its' pocket sheath.
He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The scorn was plain to see: "You damn-near stepped on me."
At which point he sauntered off into the undergrowth, timing the disappearing of his rear-end perfectly, so as to prevent me from committing any part of him to film.