In a Foreign Land - Kicking horse

Under Blue Skies – Kicking horse

The sky is clear today, and as I open my window, I see that far off, the peak of Kicking horse Mountain remains cloaked in an unyielding blanket of white snow, its surface dazzling in the morning light. The early hours are hushed—only the sound of my own breath and the distant toll of a church bell disturb the vast silence of this landscape.

Hoping to find a way to belong here, I ventured to the local church for morning service. The building is modest—a simple wooden structure rather than the grand edifices of movies—and outside, a few grey pigeons linger as if guarding its humble entrance. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, I stepped into a space bathed in a soft, yellow glow. Faces turned in quiet greeting, warm smiles nodding in unison, making me feel not like a stranger but rather a long-awaited friend.

When the hymn began, I joined in, my pronunciation far from perfect, yet the melody itself carried a curious comfort. The pastor’s voice, deep and measured, spoke in tones that seemed to carry the weight of many years. Though much of his sermon eluded me, the interplay of sunlight streaming through stained glass and the murmured voices around me wove a subtle thread of connection between myself and this small town.

After the service, a few elderly women offered homemade treats—loaves of bread still warm, exuding a gentle dairy scent. Their soft, measured inquiry, “Are you finding it all alright?” came like a quiet benediction. I smiled, took a bite, and found in its tender softness a fleeting echo of home. A friendly pat on my shoulder and a whispered, “You’re always welcome here,” further eased the solitude of being a foreigner.

Though the town is small, every corner reveals traces of warmth. At a second-hand shop on a quiet street, I purchased a few wooden bowls and an old photography book. The kindly shopkeeper, an elderly man with a gentle smile, remarked, “Take your time—everything here carries a story.” In that moment, I began to see how the simple rhythms of daily life here were slowly accumulating into a mosaic of memories, making this once-foreign place feel ever more like home.

At noon, I found myself wandering into an unassuming Japanese restaurant tucked away in the shopping district. With its drawn curtains reminiscent of a quiet Tokyo alley, it felt like stepping into a different world. The lady in charge, wearing an apron as she expertly sliced fish, greeted me in Japanese with a warm “いらっしゃいませ.” Without thinking, I replied, “こんにちは.” Her surprise softened into a smile—a rare, unexpected encounter of familiar language in this remote North American town. I ordered a bowl of udon and some pan-fried dumplings. The delicate garnish of scallions on the broth and the supple texture of the noodles did more than satisfy hunger—they whispered of memories and unfulfilled dreams of studying in Japan. “Why do you speak Japanese?” she inquired gently. I responded with a small laugh, “I once planned to study there. But for now, I’m content to explore the world from here.”

This afternoon, the sky was an immaculate blue, so pure that the locals call such days “blue bird” days—a fitting name for a moment of clear, unblemished beauty. I took out my old large-format film camera and, aligning it with the ever-present Kickhorse Mountain, pressed the shutter. I hoped to capture the timeless grace of this scene on silver halide, preserving it like a cherished memory. A light drizzle began, and as the sun’s rays broke through the falling drops, a faint rainbow arched gracefully at the alley’s entrance—a silent testament to the unpredictable beauty of life in a foreign land, where solitude and splendor often dance side by side.

At dusk, a deer emerged tentatively from the nearby woodlands, its presence illuminated by the soft glow of a streetlamp as it sought nourishment in the twilight. As night descended and the temperature dropped sharply, I gathered some peach wood to kindle a small bonfire outside my door. The dancing flames warmed my hands, offering a welcome reprieve from the chill.

On the makeshift grill, I cooked a simple steak accompanied by a modest slice of cheese. As I ate, I looked out across the snowy landscape, where the night spread like an immense, silent canvas—occasionally stirred by a gentle breeze that sent leaves softly swirling.

Later, in the quiet of midnight, a friend who works at Tim Hortons—a fellow traveler from a far-off land—appeared bearing a bag of leftover doughnuts. With a light-hearted remark about needing extra fat to stave off the freezing cold, he reminded me that even in harsh conditions, simple acts of kindness and shared humor can warm the spirit. Together, we sat by the bonfire, the sugar on the doughnuts melting slightly in the gentle heat, filling the air with a faint, comforting sweetness.

In this foreign land, it is the little things—the caring gestures, the unexpected familiarity of language, a rainbow appearing at a quiet corner, the warmth of a simple meal—that piece together the contours of everyday life. As I lift my eyes to the star-dotted sky, the silent Kickhorse Mountain stands as a steadfast witness. I know I am still far from home, yet in this quiet convergence of moments, the place no longer feels entirely foreign.