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Oasis "I know a shortcut. But it takes longer."
To beat the heat, we rose at 5:30 am and headed back up the gravel road. It seemed straight up. "This is steeper than I remember," I said, puling like a schoolgirl, already initiating my new T-shirt to the rigors of bicycle touring. On the plus side, my minuscule rate of travel supplied ample time to observe the surroundings. The rising sun streaked through coulees; oblique rays lit monstrous otherworldly formations. Eerie. Awesome. The bold landscape inspired a sense of wonder and awe in us all over again. We attained the top and stopped to catch our breath. I pulled deep on my water bottle, drinking in one last view. The incredible landscape made it impossible not to think how bizarre the whole thing was, plunked as it was amidst otherwise featureless prairie. Something certainly had a sense of humour. I shoved my water bottle back into its cage, and pedalled off into the surprising early morning heat. A tailwind swept us through the farming and ranching community of Brooks, then on to Kinbrook Island Provincial Park. At Kinbrook we found Lake Newell, created in 1911 for irrigation purposes. Sharon and Sue plunged into the glossy water to cool themselves. "Warmer than the Bow River!" they yelped. Must be shallow, I figured. After all, how deep can it be? They just flooded flat prairie to create the lake. "If you think you're drowning," I called, "stand up!"
We camped nearby. Night passed quietly enough, but the morning sun's searing rays woke us early. I crawled out and groaned: we had missed setting our wee tent in the shade of a rather large tree by the merest whisker! "Look at the bright side," Sharon said, squinting at the sun, "our string of early morning wake-ups is still intact." "Terrific," I replied, bleary-eyed. Leaving Kinbrook, we opted for an unpaved shortcut to Highway 36, in the mistaken belief that 30 kilometres on gravel would be faster and easier than backtracking 64 paved kilometres. Wrong. We'd been on worse gravel roads before, but not from choice. The stretch was rough; it rattled and shook us like a coin-operated bed at a cheap motel. A herd of iron horses ran wild over the yellowed prairie grass, bucking hard, pumping oil. A wasteland of hardscrabble soil sat behind Lake Newell. How had anything survived in the area before the irrigation project? I had little time to wonder; our own survival troubles were looming. Handling loaded touring bikes with narrow tires on loose gravel required an intricate balancing act. Wind gusts tossed us like rag dolls across the ball bearing surface - especially ultra-light, skinny as a stick of spaghetti, Sue. Dusty, dehydrated, and darn near done in, we rejoined the paved Highway 36 at the crossroads to Rainier. The well-named Oasis Restaurant caught our attention. We wheeled into the parking lot for a well-deserved break and some rehydration. "My knees ache like they've been clamped in a vise for a week," Sue complained, dismounting. Sue toured without front panniers. Her rear panniers were crammed well past capacity. Her rear rack was heavily utilized - festooned with sleeping bag, pad, tent, fishing rod and 5-pound box of tackle. But that's not all. A mound of clothes - larger than an average 3-year-old - topped the load. With all weight rearward, Sue's bike, like a hell-hound Cerberus, jumped on her at every opportunity. A fierce gust suddenly erupted. It seemed to say: I'll give you something to complain about! The blast of wind hoisted Sue's bike off the ground like an aluminum feather, then hurled it down. A greasy chainwheel spiked Sue's calf. Four fang-shaped wounds appeared, dribbling blood and oozing oil. I felt sorry for her. The poor girl had only a few days left before returning to work and she was a mess. The combination of relentless sun and fair skin had turned her face tomato-red. Her helmet strap had blocked the sun, creating a white strip beneath her chin and producing a perpetual ear-to-ear Cheshire grin. Her slender legs were sunburned and peeling, covered with bruises in various shades of purple and green. Her arms hadn't fared much better, red and blistered as they were. The backs of her hands sported oval burns where cycling gloves had left exposed skin. (How would she explain those?) She was a veritable walking commercial for the benefits of sunscreen. And her latest acquisition: calf perforations (so attractive in nylons) would complement her office look with a row of scabby dots. Not to mention she would return to work exhausted! Sue's fellow workers would wonder what kind of "holiday" her sadistic "friends" had dragged her on. I could hear her plaintive refrain: "Are we having fun yet?" In Scandia, I received my chuckle for the day. I asked a fellow how the hamlet acquired its name. When he didn't know, a nearby 6-year-old came to his rescue. "From that rock over there," she said. Sure enough, marking the town's name, a large granite boulder had Scandia indelibly engraved onto its surface. We arrived at the Bow River provincial campground, only to discover that the campground was an eyesore - and a smelly one at that! We continued on. In Vauxhall, the municipal campground ridiculously saw fit to charge per tent - and there were no showers! Feeling taken advantage of (after all, our two tents' footprints were a fraction of one motorhome), we declined again. Drowning our sorrows in ice cream at a nearby dairy bar we gazed out at the darkening sky in alarm. Grey clouds, saturnine and brooding, spit sporadic drops. By the time we returned outside, the weather had worsened - threatening to drown our sorrows in another manner. In a temporary lull, we made a break for it. About as inconspicuous as a tabby cat with canary feathers protruding from its mouth, we roamed back streets and alleyways, on the lookout for a suitable camp spot. A baseball field with its lush grass looked the most promising. It even sported outhouses! It began to pour. "We can use the dugout for an emergency shelter," Sue decided. Throwing our bikes under the bleachers, we dove for cover. Safe! Between downpours, Sharon stole out. She struck up a conversation with a field maintenance man and asked him if it would be all right to camp on the ball field. She hit a home run! "Another first for our camping log book," Sharon said, relating the good news of her encounter. Sitting on the bench in the dugout, like a trio of benched sluggers, we boiled up a giant pot of chili. After stuffing ourselves with the wonderful concoction, I suggested we set our tents at centre field. Alas, vigorous rain (not to mention my teammates) vetoed the idea. Instead, we pitched our tents inside the snug and dry players' shelter. |
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