We have decided to forgo the bus for this stretch of dates up here in Northern California, because most of the shows are within one hundred miles of each other. Van travel seemed to make much more economic sense. The only real problem is that we don't have access to our satellite at this most crucial time of the year: the NHL playoffs. So we are scrambling to find the VS channel wherever we can. Although Toronto's season is mercifully over, we have a routing interest in the Montreal Canadiens. Montreal is where we grew up and, like any native Montrealer, Les Habitants are a part of our genetic code. It's hard to get a sports team out of your system when they have given you so many years of entertainment and joy, as the Canadiens did in the 60's and 70's, especially when those years correspond with ones childhood and early teenage years – prime time for the young sports enthusiasts. In the first twenty years of my life (1959 to 1979) the Montreal Canadiens won thirteen Stanley Cups. During that period they were one of the most dominating sports franchises in any sport of any era. And we got to bask in their glow. I still have a very vivid memory of walking into the arena at the Montreal Forum for the first time: the brightness of the lights, the energy and anticipation of the crowd, the intense, unblemished, whiteness of the freshly Zambonied ice surface with the enormous Canadiens "CH" logo in the middle (which us Anglais said stood for "Center Hice", a very un-PC joke which no one reading this, unless they are a Quebecer, would understand). Back then security wasn't such a concern in public spaces. So in between periods, my older brother and I would scramble around the building finding famous faces to autograph our program. We would corner Toe Blake catching a breather in the corridor, Serge Savard who, with another broken leg, was hobbling on to the elevator, we even got John Diefenbaker's (an ex-prime minister at the time) autograph one night, he just happened to be sitting behind us. We'd stand outside the dressing rooms, close enough to hear and smell the players as they headed back to the ice. I still have a very vivid memory of standing outside the Chicago Blackhawks dressing room with my brother John and carefully studying the numbers on the players arms (which were head high to me at the time) as they filed passed. When I finally spotted the fabled number nine, I blurted out, "there he is!" and looked up just in time to see Bobby Hull looking down out at me and giving me a big wink... Go Habs Go.

Today was our longest journey. Three hours to get through the Sierras and into the bountiful Napa Valley. We took the Donner Pass named for the ill-fated pioneers who hit a patch of bad weather while crossing through and resorted to eating each other to stay alive. We decided that if we got a flat or the fan belt broke we would eat Tim first. He wasn't overly pleased, but like any good crew guy he took it all in stride, just part of the job.

I didn't get to see any of downtown Napa. Our hotel bar had the the Red Wings/Avalanche game on so we watched the Wings decimate the Avs. The hotel courtyard was so peaceful and green that, after the game, I hung out until it was time to go to the venue for a very late soundcheck which segued right into the gig. We had an absolutely brilliant gig tonight. It was one of those nights in which the whole band just locked in and let the music take over. Luckily we also had a really fantastic audience who seemed to pick up on the vibe. A great, great night of music.