Galvin crop

Walking gingerly (because of a balky back) and trepidatiously (due to a prudent fear of death-defying acts) toward the Columbia Icefield Skywalk, a couple of pressing issues fought to finish first across my attention span.

The Skywalk — which juts 40 feet out from a cliff 918 feet above the Sunwapta Valley between Calgary and Banff, Alberta, Canada, Earth — was something that in my pleasant dotage hadn’t been in hollering’ distance of a bucket list spot … so why had I agreed to go?

It certainly wasn’t the cost: $45 for a biped to experience the “absolute wonder” of a kilometer-long suspended platform where (we were informed) “a glass floor is all that separates you from the wild and rugged terrain below.”

When my traveling companion (ah, that’s why I agreed to go) graciously offered the opt-out of keeping my feet solidly on terra firma while she traipsed off along the 150-degree curve, I took measure of the situation and fell victim to my traitorous doubts, which made me lose the good I might win by fearing the attempt.

She, though, was all too happy to be a good tourist trapped in a cattle drive of others who had braved an overflowing parking lot and overpriced lunch buffet to experience this absolute wonder, leaving my muddled mind to the other pressing issue — my decided lack of sartorial splendor.

We had reached the moment of vacation where I found myself wearing brown shoes, blue socks, grey pants, a red T-shirt and a green pullover and not (in case you’re wondering) as an ironic fashion statement.

Yes, it was the Who Gives A Rodentia’s Patootie stage of vacation grief. We were there, doing that, and to heck with the optics.

By this time, we had been misinformed about the so-called “flat trail” leading to the Valley of the Five Lakes; a trail that — because of its ensnaring tree roots, erupting boulders, and uphill-both-ways contours — quickly became known as the Valley of the Boardwalk over the First Marsh.

We had persevered across the first two of the six bridges transversing Jasper National Park’s “otherworldly” Maligne Canyon, and gazed at the absolute wonder of dozens of cellphone cameras capturing the sights and sounds of Abracadabraryabbadabbadobadabing Falls — so called because we couldn’t remember its actual name — where we watched bemusedly as a conscientious dog owner stopped to scoop the poop, but left behind the nearby bear scat.

Along the way we had passed innumerable parked or idling vehicles by the side of the road to take pictures of moose, mountain goats, Bighorn sheep and bears that were busy minding their business and wondering if they’d stumbled into a free all-you-can-eat buffet.

Thankfully, none of the creatures whose space was being invaded acted with the apparent effrontery of Ashland’s demonic aggressive deer.

In case you haven’t caught on by now, my enthusiasm for travel — regardless of the cleanliness status of my clothes — is only slightly greater than the thrill of trying to maneuver through the Trader Joe’s parking lot.

Ralph Waldo be damned, as for some of us the journey is not always the destination. It can be one of long lines, incessant waiting, the sinking of your heart and the rumbling of your stomach as you can hear the clock winding away the hours between scattered moments of what we are told will be otherworldly, absolute wonder.

When such thoughts make us question why we put ourselves through this sort of self-imposed torture, solace can only be found in remembering why we found ourselves in this position.

As I stood there in mismatched duds at the precipice of the Columbia Icefield Skywalk, such clarity came into view.

She made it back from surveying the 918-foot drop without incident and with a satisfied smile on her face.

I took her at her word that the terrain below the glass floor was indeed wild and rugged.