We are adventure seekers. Dreamscapes of sunkissed peaks on sublime December dawns, harrowing rides ‘round limestone creations, peace discovered perched atop wind sculpted monoliths. This, we seek.

But then there are adventures unplanned. Spurred by chance, coincidence or in this case, remarkably poor planning, they challenge us to examine our own reactions.

Or our own stupidity.

Two weeks ago, I had to drive to Canmore for a story/social engagement. I left around 1 p.m. and was burdened with the presence of former Canmorite, who needed a ride out of the valley. Of course this caused me to forget a minor detail (filling the gas tank), so the following events are entirely her fault.

I hit the road with a little less than half a tank of gas, which in my Honda Civic, I’m convinced could likely get me to California.

Yet by the time I reached the Columbia Icefield, my gas light sprang to life, casting an orange glow of doom upon my console. Frustrated I would have to stop at The Crossing, clenched-jawed, I pushed onward. My friend beamed, stating all was well with the world and that positive energy would magically carry the trip onward (She works for a train).

So imagine my displeasure (code for incredulous disbelief and loathsome despair) upon discovering the seasonal closure of The Crossing Gas station. Once my fuel light comes on, I have about 40 kms of gas left. Lake Louise is the nearest outpost, 90 kms away. Nothing sits in between. No cell coverage either.

Most would tell you the common sense approach would be to stay with the car, flag down a vehicle and get a tow truck. The weather was below zero and the car was outfitted with candles, sleeping bags and other safety equipment.

This of course, is wrong. For me, more plausible solutions include:

• make my friend push the bloody car with her ‘positive vibes’.

• fashion a new fuel source out of surrounding lodgepole pines, fermented with remaining juniper bushes and pine beetles. Get rich in the process.

• Go Never Cry Wolf, join a wolf pack and subsist upon caribou for the winter.

As I was contemplating my new life in the wilderness, my friend suggested we continue a little farther to a nearby warden’s station (I shook my head disapprovingly, but obliged). We soon pulled into warden’s lodge about a kilometre past the useless station. A car sat in the driveway, and various woodsheds and buildings appeared abandoned. However there were signs of life.

I knocked once on the warden cabin’s door.

Silence.

I knocked again.

Silence again.

Finally, an elderly woman answered the door suspiciously. Brightly coloured.

Using my most manipulative puppy dog eyes (journalist trick of the trade), I explained our predicament and begged for help.

The woman immediately softened, introduced herself as Mrs. Damm, the wife of a Banff National Park warden. She welcomed us in, explained she had been engrossed in a mystery novel while curled up in bed and hadn’t heard us knock. She had plenty of petrol for sale, offered warm tea and began spinning tales of stranded highwaymen and life as the wife of a warden for 40 years. Forty years of rescuing lost and stranded travellers, such as us. This culminated with the recital of a poem she had learned as a little girl. It was a poem that resonated with her, and was about life at the side of the road, and the good and evil that pass along. Odd how the poem had led to a mirrored existence on the side of an abandoned highway. We learned how Parks Canada was pressuring them to move from Saskatchewan Crossing to Lake Louise. The couple protested the move, noting the need for a presence in the isolated corners of the park – beacons in the wilderness to keep watch for those in trouble. At the moment, I couldn’t agree more.

We were soon on our way, singing the praise of the Damms and the sweetest gasoline ever purchased. Lake Louise was an hour away, and the trip flew by in the shadow of the mountains, and we contemplated the story and random nature of such a meeting.

As for lessons learned? My gas tank hasn’t been below ½ a tank since.