We last left off with our protagonist arriving in Whistler after a 1,125km, 19-hour drive through apocalyptic weather, only to find herself 1,125 km away from her preferred geographical location, and 24 hours to get there. Driving was not on the list of preferred travel methods.

OK. So after successfully handing off Dave the Forerunner's sled in Whistler, I now found myself a thousand kilometres away from where I actually wanted to be, operating on two and a half hours of sleep, four cups of caffeine-enhanced beverages and sheer goodwill. The thought that I had to get in the car and drive a mere 45 minutes back to my house was enough to make my stomach turn, so I can assure you that the probability of me driving to Calgary was about as likely as me putting on a bubblegum pink velveteen one-piece jumpsuit and chugging cans of mushroom soup.

Ugh. I think I just threw up in my mouth a little bit.

So, instead, I drove home to my comfy, fluffy, welcoming bed, took a 45-minute nap and, upon awakening, I up and went all Hollywood.

I booked a flight back to Calgary that left in six hours.

Not only was it about as glamourous as I think I will ever chance to feel (although my hairstyle and personal hygiene at that given moment were far from), but it was the first time in my life that a flight booking actually occurred as planned.

That was, hands down, the most exuberant I have ever been while taking off my belt and shoes and holding up a clear plastic bag of travel-sized bottles. Let me tell you, they were running an hour behind schedule and it was STILL the best flight I've ever taken. I would've paid for and hopped on that flight just to stick my tongue out at the Coquihalla as we flew by, and then turned right around and come home, and it would have been worth every single penny.

Thus ends the Epic Saga of the Coquihalla Apocalypse. The moral of the story? You tell me ...