When I picked up this 1990 Lotus Omega the day before from Porsche Centre Victoria, Matt also said, “the second day will probably be the highlight of the trip. You’ll be deep in the (Rocky) mountains all day. It’s going to be so pretty.”

He was right. I’m not sure if it was a raw force of coincidence or a sign from a higher power, but I adjusted to western time instantly. Despite passing out almost right away the night before and not setting an alarm, I woke up at the crack of 9 a.m. I walked out of my motel to the beautiful morning sun gleaming over the picturesque little mountain city — Kamloops was pretty enough at night, but stunning during the day. I threw my bags back into the Omega, settled back behind the helm, and nervously twisted the key, irrationally expecting it to not start. After a half-second heart-attack of hesitation, it fired to life undramatically and we set off to our first destination of the day: the car wash next door.

This was a happy accident I wasn’t aware of when I booked the room. Part of me wanted to not wash the Omega at all, letting it accumulate road grime and dead bugs as a badge of honour through its journey. But it was pretty horrific even after just one day … and a good chunk of my photos would come from this seven-hour leg through the interior of British Columbia and into Calgary, Alberta. I wanted to do it some justice and look at least-semi presentable.

After having bathed the Omega, I took her for breakfast next door. To my surprise, she only drank about half a tank, despite reading nearly empty — add an incredibly pessimistic gas gauge to its list of old car quirks. Also add to that list an unfortunate proclivity for purging after dining; she threw up a bit of breakfast gas. I went back to the car wash next door to tidy her up, and then made sure to check all pertinent vitals — oil, coolant, brake fluid, power steering fluid, tire pressure, anything obviously on the verge of exploding or falling off — and everything checked out. Onwards!

I stopped in downtown Kamloops for coffee and a light breakfast. I cannot stress enough how lovely and pretty this town is. I even messaged my colleagues back home if they were really sure I had to come back; come on guys, the Lotus and I could just stay here. Why not? I felt like I’d stumbled upon a secret and the secret wasn’t trying to keep me out. What a beautiful place.

I didn’t even put an address into my phone. I just said “navigate to Calgary” and set off along the Trans-Canada Highway once again. This was a full day of just driving through the Rockies, popping through picturesque little towns and seeing some of the most dazzling displays Mother Nature has to offer.

The gas station in Kamloops didn’t have super high-test fuel, just 91 octane. When I stopped for a top-up of fuel in Salmon Arm a couple hours later — now not trusting the gas gauge — I filled it again with 91, which it again spat up. Speeding off into the mountains, I noticed a telltale choof of the engine relieving boost before I asked; it was not enjoying its diet of mediocre swill. I suppose the vomiting should have been a clue. She’s got a personality, this one.

I paused at a number of places to grab photos of the car in and amongst the gorgeous scenery. I’d dream about this stuff at home, and even the harsh midday sunlight wasn’t a damper on things — bright sun is really difficult for good car photography — as I had so much room to play and so much beauty to work with. I like to shoot exceptionally long, meaning far away. I spend a lot of time walking away from a car to get the shot I want, only to walk back, turn it around, and go again. It never stopped stunning me, turning around to see this myth of a car in my viewfinder.

I stopped at a tiny little canoe launch on Three Valley Lake, with the express purpose of making a little introductory Instagram story of my journey at the urging of my colleagues. I hate being in front of the camera, but I agreed it was probably worth telling people about what I was doing, if for no other reason than to maybe elicit some help if and/or when things went wrong in the middle of nowhere.

At another fuel stop in Revelstoke, I found some proper 93-octane champagne. Curiously, it was not ejected. I also got a few bottles of octane booster just in case we got stuck with swill again, and also got myself a Perrier and some more (really, really good) jerky for the road ahead. I noted a disconcerting warbling sound and inspected the pulleys and accessory drive to ensure nothing was trying to walk away from me, but found all was straight and apparently in good order. As I put the clutch in to leave the gas station, the noise went away. Note to self: be careful with that throw-out bearing. It might try to throw itself out.

After some time on the road, it dawned on me that I wasn’t very careful when I made that Instagram story. In the flustering process of getting through multiple takes and making that video — I hate video — I left the boat launch without my bag. It’s a beat-up messenger bag that goes everywhere with me and holds my laptop, photography gear, approximately one million chargers and cables, and whatever else that needs to come with.

I had been sitting at a construction stop for 20 minutes. I shut the engine off and opened the hood to let it vent, as I’d been told the Omega doesn’t do well with managing temperatures at low speeds. It wasn’t egregious by any stretch, but it was proving to be a minor concern in the blaring sun of the heatwave apparently following me across the country. I had just been told we’d be moving shortly and closed the hood when I got a phone call from a Saskatchewan phone number. I almost ignored it, thinking it was spam.

I’m glad I picked it up. A relaxed voice on the other end asked if I was N Leipsig. This definitely sounds like a scam, but sure, what can I do for you? He proceeded to fill me in that he found this bag with my name and number on it at this random little boat launch, and that he’d be chilling there “for a while” in a big red semi truck. Just like that, I became beyond thankful for attending the Carnival Hybrid launch last fall; Kia us all a very nice metal luggage tag that never came off that bag.

I thanked him profusely, told him I was about 40 minutes out, turned around, and peeled out alongside the line of people waiting for the road to open. I was well more than 40 minutes out and didn’t want to push my luck with the most important bag, so I leaned heavily on the Omega’s providence as the world’s former fastest sedan to make up the time I didn’t have. Good thing it just had a lunch of high-octane jungle juice, because I needed everything it had now.

I stopped my playlist; I was focused and trying my damnedest to assuage myself that I had nothing to worry about. There’s only good people out here. This is God’s country. The west coast is the best coast. The mountains make people better. Surely no one had raided my bag of its valuables before this guy. Surely this guy wasn’t going to demand a ransom before turning it over to me. Surely. It’s probably fine.

Google had Three Valley Gap, the nearest landmark, pegged as being a 58-minute drive. I arrived at the (now crowded) boat launch 42 minutes later. I clocked the red semi and pulled up in front of it, with a mirage of heat radiating from the very functional vents in the hood. I was hoping for the best, but had prepared myself for the worst — at least as much as an unarmed tourist could.

A man who looked and sounded like a young Brad Pitt got out of the truck with my beleaguered bag in hand. He handed it to me without asking — my laptop was still in the rear sleeve. If that was still there, it was safe to assume my gear inside was safe, and it was. I recall putting it right by the back tire of the Omega to get some video of the display plates in the trunk, but I must have backed over it or dragged it some distance. It was visibly a lot worse for wear and the case on my laptop had absorbed an impact.

I didn’t know what else to say to this guy beyond thanking him like a broken record. I offered the mixed pack of beers I bought the day before, and he said he didn’t drink. I asked if I could throw him some cash to get himself a nice dinner or something, and he declined.

“Just pay it forward, brother,” he said. My cynical ass couldn’t believe it. This is God’s country. I continued to thank him profusely and told him he saved my trip, but didn’t get into the details of what trip he saved. In my panic and haste, I figured he was in a hurry and I was holding him up. This was patently not the case; in retrospect, I deeply regret not getting his name before I got back in the Lotus and hurried off.

It wasn’t until I passed the gas station in Revelstoke for the second time that I put my playlist back on. I was stunned both at the kindness that had been extended to me by this random handsome stranger, and the fact that no one else at this very busy boat launch decided to help themselves to my Macbook, or my beloved camera that’s carried me so far through my own journey of learning how to shoot cars.

Doubling back to Three Valley Lake cost me a lot of time, and while everything worked out, I was now worried that it put my plans of making it to Lake Louise in Alberta with light on my side in jeopardy. Beyond not getting young Brad Pitt’s name, my second biggest regret of the trip is flying past approximately a trillion million-dollar photo opportunities in pursuit of getting to Lake Louise in time. I sped through the gorgeous town of Golden, B.C., right at the beginning of golden hour. In retrospect, I should’ve stopped there. It really earned its name.

I made it to Lake Louise in Alberta with natural light. To my great chagrin — which I was a tiny bit worried about, but was trying to be optimistic — Lake Louise was still frozen and covered in snow despite being the first week of May. The renowned sparkling turquoise waters was relegated to a sad, small patch of brown near the recently thawed shore. It was clogged with tourists, and perhaps most importantly, had absolutely nowhere to put a car for a photo. My fault for not doing more homework. It was still a pretty place to take a breather, I suppose.

I left for Calgary under twilight. Unlike the night before, where I inadvertently perfectly timed arriving in Kamloops just as night fell, I was forced to spend a couple more hours on the highway in the dark. Lighting on old cars is a dicey proposition at best; the Omega’s lights proved to be hardly better than candles, and the Trans-Canada is largely unilluminated.

I spent most of that last leg following the taillights of a Mustang, because I couldn’t see much of anything else in the blackness of the prairies during a new moon. It looked and sounded like a newer Mustang GT, and was confidently storming down the highway at a confident rate. But the old phantom of the autobahn was easily able to haunt its rear-view mirror for most of the 180-kilometre jaunt into Calgary.

I spent nearly nine hours on the road with the Omega and I wasn’t tired of driving it. The seats that were re-countered and reupholstered by hand at Lotus are incredibly comfortable, the thicker-spec carpeting isolates road noise well, and the wind-tunnel shaped body sliced through the air silently. The genius suspension design provides terrific feedback in any and all conditions, and was able to absorb some of the rougher sections of the mountain roads with aplomb. This is a phenomenally accomplished car.

I arrived late at night, checked into a hotel I’d booked while waiting at the construction stop that afternoon, and set off for dinner and a pint. I didn’t fall in love with Calgary like I did Kamloops; I was unnerved that the entire city seemed to be populated by twentysomething men with the same loose black tees and flat-brim baseball caps, but the pub food was significantly better, and it was pretty from what I could see. I wandered back to my motel room, began to scribble out some notes — and promptly nodded off with my laptop on my lap.

Again.