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Ice Cube "There are three easy ways of losing
money- Past Provost, we skimmed across the Alberta border and into Saskatchewan. This prairie province didn't even have rolling hummocks. The only protuberances bumping above the skyline were faded grain elevators - some looming five stories tall (and seen from an equal number of kilometres). Few trees obstructed the view. Pancake flat prairie, filled with waving grain fields, swept past the horizon, as far as the eye could see ... practically into tomorrow. "Too bad there's no herds of wild buffalo left roaming the prairies," I said. "At least it'd give us something to look at." I found it hard to believe that of the estimated 30 million bison that had teemed across the great plains of North America before the arrival of the white man, the large animals had been slaughtered to decimation - by 1900 as few as 1500 wild buffalo remained. A park in Unity, Saskatchewan, provided lunch. A kids' summer program was in the midst of a barbecue. A fellow employed by Parks and Recreation trotted over and introduced himself. Keith chatted for a couple of minutes, then waved to the chefs, "Make sure these two get a hot dog!" I liked prairie hospitality! After lunch, we visited my friend Tim's mom and dad. Hard, old Saskatchewan farmers (only the tough survive the prairies' bone chilling winters and searing summer heat), Tony and Helen had retired to Unity. Tall Tough Tony had farmed numerous years in the nearby community of Reward. (I suspect his only reward for tilling the unproductive quarters was that he hadn't gone bankrupt.) Along the way, they managed to raise several wonderful children - most of whom had moved away. Tony joked that he had heard Saskatchewan was the best place in Canada to be from - at least that's what I suspected his son Tim always said when he called from Vancouver. But, kidding aside, it was easy to see why he and Helen loved the dusty province. The absolute grandeur of an unbroken cobalt skyline stretching to infinity; the vastness of acres upon acres of grain rippling in the wind like waves on a rolling golden ocean; and, at night, an overhead panorama of crisp celestial bodies set in the blackest of black velvet tapestries. After catching up on news, we got ready to depart. Of course, Tony and Helen wouldn't let us leave without stuffing our panniers with fresh produce from their expansive backyard garden. "Once a farmer, always a farmer ...," I said, wobbling away. Early evening, 30 kilometres down the road, we coasted into the town of Wilkie, seeking the municipal pool. On a tree-lined residential street, an older couple raked grass in their front yard. We stopped and asked directions. The Kellers didn't intend to just provide us the information and send us on our way. Oh, no, they had to get the entire lowdown on our trip, asking all sorts of cycle touring questions. Once that avenue had been thoroughly explored, they turned to careers, and then to what our parents did. "My mom and dad are farmers," Sharon told them. Mr Keller chuckled. "I'm a poor farmer, too!" he said. "What'd the farmer say when he won the lotto and they asked him what he was going to do? 'Guess I'll just keep on farming till it's all gone.'" The Kellers had ten kids (beating Sharon's mom and dad by one - those farmers sure are into producing!). They recited where each offspring resided, and what each did for a living. We eventually got directions to the pool and said goodbye to the Kellers - them bidding us a safe journey, and Sharon and I wishing them a bountiful harvest. (Seeing the late hour, we should have asked to camp on their lawn.) The Kellers were good with their directions. We located the pool, immersed ourselves in the showers, then struck off, squeaky clean and happy, for the farming community of Landis, 32 kilometres distant. But before anywhere near Landis, darkness overtook us. We had spent too long in the shower. All we needed was a patch of ground for eight hours or so. With empty land stretching in all directions, how difficult could it be to find a spot for our little tent? We were about to find out. A grain elevator hulked in the near distance. On the prairies, we never seemed farther than a stone's throw from one (the number of elevators in western Canada peaked in the late 1930s at over 5,000). We headed for the faded-green structure. "No one will mind if we spend the night beside it," I said. A police car zipped up behind us. Braking hard, it slowed to our rate of travel - 20 kilometres per hour. "He must be wondering where we're off to at such a late hour." "Keep pedalling, Sherlock," Sharon replied. A bit worrisome, the cop stayed on our tails, pacing us for two long kilometres. I kept glancing furtively in my mirror, expecting to see lights flashing, pulling us over. A mud-puddled gravel road appeared on our right, heading toward the grain elevator. We signalled, and turned off the main highway. My rear-view mirror reported the cop had turned off behind us. Oh, great, I thought. The music from Jaws played loudly through my head. Now what? I wondered. For sure we're going to have a lot of explaining about why we're out at dusk riding bicycles with no lights. "Do you think we'll be arrested?" Sharon asked. "Beats me," I shrugged. "At least that'll solve the problem of where we're spending the night." A rambling farmhouse stood on the corner. On its sprawling front yard, a family tossed a football back and forth. They eyed us warily. Sharon and I stopped and gave them big waves. The cop car stopped a few feet behind us. The football-throwing family returned our greeting with smiles and big waves of their own. We were getting ready to be interrogated by the Mountie when we heard the patrol car's radio crackle to life. We couldn't make out what the dispatcher said, but the officer suddenly swung his cruiser around, and sped off, back in the direction of Wilkie. Maybe it was coffee time? When the police car was out of sight, it was Sharon's turn to shrug. "How about that?" she said. "All that worrying for nothing." "Must be our lucky day," I said, and waved again to the still-staring family on the lawn. Shoving my foot back in my toeclip, I began pedalling merrily toward the grain elevator, Sharon hot on my little tail. But, as Lady Luck would have it, we weren't quite home free yet. Within spitting distance of the grain elevator, a battered and rusted two-tone blue Ford F150 pickup, wet gravel scrunching beneath its bald tires, splashed alongside me. A corpulent woman, occupying the passenger seat, flopped her head out the window and barked, "Where are you going?" "Québec," I replied, smiling. "Why did you turn back there then?" she growled in a voice so husky it could have pulled a dog sled. Maybe everyone in Canada wasn't as friendly as I had come to believe? Maybe she thought we were a pair of Bonnie and Clyde cyclists on the lam from the law? Maybe she figured I had a poor sense of direction? "You mean I'm lost again?" I grinned, wondering when the poor woman had last smiled. A distasteful frown drooped the corners of her bulldog mouth; flinty eyes narrowed, pug nose wrinkled - as if getting a whiff of poo. Not the slightest trace of humour betrayed her canine features. My heart leapt; I felt like a postman being targeted by a doberman. "You should'a stayed back in Wilkie," she snarled. Before I could agree with her latest revelation, and ask her: 'What has four legs and an arm?' (a happy pit bull), her husband piped up, "Would you folks like to camp in our yard for the night?" "Sure!" I accepted. "That'd be great!" My eager response didn't improve his wife's disposition one smidgen. Her forehead creased in displeasure; she glowered at me. But, hey, a deal's a deal. We swung our bikes around and followed the truck back down the puddled lane to - you guessed it - the house on the corner where the folks had waved so friendly-like only minutes before. The man parked alongside the garage. His wife bolted from the pickup without so much as a glance our way (I would have hated to have been a fly in that truck's cab on the drive home). She stormed inside the house like a spinster who had just received an unwelcome amorous advance, screen door slapping behind her. Her husband ambled over and asked a few polite questions ... but his heart clearly wasn't in it. After a couple of minutes, he pointed to a mown patch near the garage where he said we could set up our tent, then slouched off to do chores. (I had a feeling he spent a considerable amount of his time outdoors.)
A rooster announced the dawn. I scratched a quick thank you note, and tucked it between the farmhouse's screen door. We headed down the drive, and spotted the good farmer's wife staring out a streaked bathroom window at us; dark and brooding, the ever-present scowl etched plainly on her unvarnished features. Apparently, a good night's sleep hadn't softened her demeanour any. "She really ought to give her face a rest," Sharon muttered. "How does one get such a sour puss?" "Vinegar douche?" I replied crudely with a tight little grin, and waved to our reluctant good Samaritan. |
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