Lake Louise | TRANS-CANADA HIGHWAY | Canadian Rockies | Calgary

goes road-tripping through the Canadian Rockies in search of a polar bear. What he finds is much better. {Illustrations by Oksana Badrak}

THE FIGURINE SAT ON OUR MANTEL FOR ALMOST A DECADE. IT WAS A SMALL LLADRÓ POLAR BEAR, PURCHASED IN A GIFT SHOP JUST OFF THE MAIN LOBBY OF THE CHATEAU LAKE LOUISE. LOOKING BACK, I THINK THAT BEAR COST ME ABOUT $80, WHICH SEEMED LIKE AN EXTRAVAGANT AMOUNT AT THE TIME. BUT I SPRANG FOR IT ANYWAY BECAUSE THAT DAY IN LAKE LOUISE MARKED THE LAST STOP ON A HONEYMOON ROAD TRIP THAT HAD TAKEN CALENE AND ME FROM VANCOUVER THROUGH THE CANADIAN ROCKIES VIA THE TRANS-CANADA HIGHWAY, A STRIP OF ASPHALT THROUGH THE WILDERNESS THAT IS LINED WITH SOARING PEAKS AND WITH ICE-COLD RIVERS THAT RUN CLEAR.

I had marched into the gift shop searching for a keepsake by which to remember that auspicious journey. Sweatshirts and shot glasses just didn't seem appropriate. That Lladró bear represented Canada, if only just a little, and had a permanence that bespoke a certain emotional heft; it would remind us of our adventurous drive each and every time we looked at it.

For 10 years, it did just that. As we moved from our small condo into our first house, I carefully wrapped that polar bear in newspaper and placed it inside a box for the trip from one mantel to the next. And then it disappeared. To this day, I don't know what happened to that box. I searched and searched but could not find it.

Thus began a quest to replace it. But not just any Lladró store would do, and I certainly couldn't purchase another bear alone. Sooner or later, my wife and I would have to road-trip through Canada once again, if only to visit that gift shop. Not long ago, we finally did just that.

THE TRANS-CANADA HIGHWAY is a 4,860-mile tongue of pavement that stretches from the Atlantic to the Pacific. It's a smooth thoroughfare with wide shoulders that makes Canada's open spaces and rugged wilderness accessible to any driver with a good set of wheels and a desire to put them to use. I have driven on six continents and in dozens of countries since that honeymoon road trip, but none of those journeys has even remotely compared. And yet, I was a bit hesitant to drive in Canada again.

Why? Simple. The Canadian Rockies of my memory were a pristine and inviting wilderness, almost entirely devoid of tourists and chains. What if they were different the second time? What if they were slick and commercial and a little repugnant? But I gave in to the allure of gazing once again upon those unforgettable vistas - and am glad that I did. The Canadian Rockies had grown up, to be sure, hosting more amenities and bigger crowds ogling the spectacular emerald-colored lakes and ominous ­glaciers. But if anything, the mountains were more wondrous than I had remembered.

So, worries quickly set aside, I began to not just absorb the wonder and beauty everywhere outside the car window as the trip unwound, but also to meditate on the very nature of a great road trip. What components set them apart and make them great? Here's what I came up with.

SHORT DAYS AND PLENTY OF STOPS
The trip began upon arriving at the Calgary International Airport and very easily could have lapsed into the standard road-trip format: Get on the road early, drive hundreds of miles, gobble a hurried lunch, drive hundreds of miles more, find some hotel, and collapse into bed, repeating daily until finished. Covering as many miles as possible each day is the primary purpose.

Most family driving vacations are done in this manner, which is probably why family driving vacation and claustrophobic death march have often been used in the same sentence. I admit to being a prime offender. Canada offered me a chance to reform my ways.

The Canadian Rockies are truly worth savoring. They rise abruptly from the windswept prairie outside Calgary, starting first as a series of low, rolling hills carpeted in firs and pines and then jutting upward to form great jagged peaks that block the late afternoon sun. When Scotsman Alexander Mackenzie charted the region on his transcontinental journeys in 1789 and 1793, he made careful note of his surroundings; we did the same. Even though the Buick Lucerne that I was driving was a deceptively powerful car, with all the prerequisites of a great road-trip vehicle (speed, legroom, comfortable seats, and a booming sound system), there seemed to be no point in hurrying.

From the airport, we drove just 40 miles that first day, spending the night at Falkridge, a wondrous corporate retreat. The purpose was to decompress after a day of air travel so that we could start fresh in the morning. Falkridge perches on a forested hilltop, facing west, toward the Rockies. Our bedroom featured picture windows that let in the setting sun, and dinner was served in a small gazebo. Atop the gazebo was a lookout tower that offered a 360-degree view of the spectacular and undeveloped countryside and from which we gazed out across the long wilderness valley leading to the mountains. The setting sun rendered the granite peaks a slowly changing palette of purple and pink and mauve.

Things didn't get a whole lot more aggressive the next morning, when we drove along the Trans-Canada to Banff. Again the mileage was short, just 120 miles. We stopped at the Cochrane Ranche Provincial Historic Site, which marks the location of Alberta's first ranch, established in 1881. Normally, I would never have taken the time to seek out a place like Falkridge or to veer off the highway and wander through the ruins of an ill-fated ranch. But those two simple experiences added inestimably to the trip. They sparked conversation. That all-important road-trip bond between those in the car was strengthened. Calene and I were not just powering across Canada, gazing out the window and pulling over now and then to ogle something spectacular - we were investing ourselves in the landscape and the culture. We were investing ourselves in the journey, in a way that merely opening a map and aiming the car down the highway could never accomplish. All it took was a personal mandate to make the journey, not the destination, the road trip's focal point - as it should be.

PLAN OUTDOOR TIME
My idea of outdoor time during a road trip normally revolves around gas stops and rest stops. Preferably, they are the same thing. But on the most mythic road trips, you need to build time into each drive for play. (Think, for instance, of On the Road.) Which is why, over lunch, we perused a list of outdoor activities in Banff. Banff is a ski town in the winter and a tourist attraction all year, thanks to its artsy and welcoming feel. Its annual film festival is world renowned. The Bow River, which is a deep blue color due to a preponderance of glacial flour, runs through town, adding the tranquil vibe that accompanies running water.

When Calene and I visited Banff on our honeymoon, it seemed that the only outdoor activity was hiking. But this time, we soon discovered a mountaintop gondola ride, hot springs, white-water rafting, mountain biking, a national historic site, shopping, and just plain people-watching. We opted to rent mountain bikes, and we spent a few hours bumping through the forest single file, keeping a sharp eye out for grizzly bears. Hey, the journey thus far had been one surprise after the other, so we wanted to be prepared. By the time we got back in the car and were headed down the highway, I found myself wondering and anticipating what lay ahead rather than staring at the map and dreading the miles between our current location and our hotel. All these years, I'd thought I knew how to road-trip, only to learn I'd been doing it all wrong.

AVOID THE KNOWN
The hotel for our second night was the rugged Simpson's Num-Ti-Jah Lodge, on the shores of mighty Bow Lake. It is an hour and a half northwest of Banff and 100 years back in time. When Jimmy Simpson, a red-haired mountain man, first camped at this location in 1898, he thought it the most beautiful spot in the world and vowed to "build a shack" there someday. Simpson did better than that. By the time it was completed in 1950, his lodge featured a stone-and-log construction and 25 very utilitarian guest rooms. Calene and I slept in a spartan room that offered a view of the glimmering lake. Looking outside the window, we could see the paw of an enormous glacier dangling from the cliffs ringing the frigid waters. The food in the Elkhorn Dining Room, where moose and elk heads were mounted on the walls, was nothing but gourmet. Entrées included fine Alberta beef and local venison, and the broad wine list featured vintages from around the world.

But the lodge's greatest allure was its isolation. There was not a phone or a TV in the room, and checking e-mail was out of the question. The greatest amusement of the evening was when a moose lumbered by outside - we all went out to have a look. At bedtime, we piled on an extra blanket to keep out the chilly night air, and we fell asleep listening to the sound of a cold Arctic wind battering our windowpanes.

There is utter simplicity in such a place, inducing the reflection that great road trips so often inspire.

I have to admit that left to my own devices, I would never have chosen the Simpson's Num-Ti-Jah Lodge. I would have made reservations at some more upscale place in Banff or even down the road in Lake Louise. And the same would hold true for our lunch destination the next day. From the outside, the Baker Creek Bistro looked like a camper's store. The food, however, was incredible - fresh, local ingredients cooked to perfection. There's a lot to be said for avoiding the known and taking a chance on character and charm.

TAKE THE BACK ROADS
Day three was the last day of our trip. We would head into Lake Louise and then drive back to Calgary. Rather than remain on the Trans-Canada and aim directly toward Lake Louise, we followed the slower but more beautiful Highway 93 as it meandered through the forest. We sacrificed speed but gained immeasurably in local charm. The smaller road twisted and turned, passing through dense thickets of pine and allowing us to see wildlife standing along the roadside. We lost all track of time and even a sense of the drive itself. Our banter was witty and knowing, a reminder of how much better we knew each other, and of how much our love had grown, since our honeymoon. I will forever remember that day - gliding down that road, my beautiful brown-eyed wife at my side, the music turned down low so we could talk.

Eventually, we pulled into Lake Louise. The lake was just like we’d remembered, a cobalt jewel nestled between soaring peaks. Calene and I hiked the steep, graded trail in the forest above the lake, putting off that inevitable moment when we’d wander back into the Fairmont Chateau Lake Louise to see if, by some extraordinary chance, there might still be Lladró polar bears for sale.

There weren’t.

But, you know, it didn’t really matter. The road trip had been romantic and charming and wonderful in a way that we could not have imagined. Someday, I will find one of those bears and place it upon our mantel. But until then, searching for a ceramic bear is as good an excuse as any to take a road trip, even when we are in fact looking for each other.