The Can Ho (known by the tourists as The Canmore Hotel) is a little slice of the old west – alive and kicking plenty hard, carved by hand into the great northern expanse of Alberta.
It's over a hundred years old and, as many a crusty local would tell you, it's held together by blood, spit, vomit, and beer. And oh yeah – the enduring love of both its savory and less than savory patrons.
Canmore Alberta was a mining town once. Copper, I think. Way, way back, the Canmore Hotel was the center of town. It was around before even Alberta was. When you came to make your way in the copper mine, the first place you stopped to was the Ho.
Like any mine, they had to close sometime and this one did. Luckily, people in Canmore realized that it was surrounded by some of the most awe-inspiring mountains in the world. It was a hiker's dream, a skiers fantasy – and only 15 minutes from the renowned Banff National Park.
So, the little mining town became a tourist destination and, through it all, the good ole' Can Ho stayed put. Funny thing is, while their Pilsner has stayed cheap and their room rates cheaper, any old shack on the edge town has shot up in price to half a million and up.
And in the Can Ho's defiance to change lies it's eternal charm.
It's an amazing thing to see; a town full of often frowning, always aloof folks who in a week make more than a country picker like me does in a year – who rarely, if ever, set foot in the Canmore Hotel. They have mountains to climb (or say they've climbed), woven or carved trinkets to buy, rare wines to toast the endless horizon to. But they won't acknowledge where it all began.
And that's fine. Really.
The Can Ho, and everyone in it, like it that way.
About ten years ago, the Can Ho started bringing in bands – guys like us, Corb Lund, Tim Hus, and a who's who of Canadian bands, both country and otherwise. Ask any of them what they think of the Canmore Hotel and you'll likely get a “love to hate it” response. The rooms upstairs are, well, not exactly 5 star quality. You'll wonder what that smell is, you'll wait in line for the communal showers (which run hot or cold but never in between), and you'll try to not make eye contact with that slightly off fella that's just passing through.
Here's the thing. There's a humility to the Can Ho, an unassuming trait that makes you feel at ease the moment you walk through the door. It keeps you honest, grounded. Sure, every thing's fried. Sure, the regulars start to drinking at 10am. But they outright demand that you be yourself in their presence and if you are foolish enough to bring arrogance into the Ho with your designer ski pants, well, tough shit for you. You had it coming.
Musicians and the Ho get along for this very reason. Music makes the same demands of me as the locals do of their regulars. It's a common bond that's celebrated, over whiskey and beer, in a bar older than Alberta, beneath the heavenly peaks of The Three Sisters.
Long live the Ho.
- Alex Madsen
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