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Gas City "Into every life a little rain must
fall, but I think someone's mistaken me for Noah." We reached Bow Island at 7 pm and stalked into a convenience store to buy buns for our leftover chili (always better the second day). We cycled to Centennial Park and claimed a picnic table to reheat the ground beef, tomatoes, and kidney beans. Just as we prepared to chow down, our spirits were dampened. Literally. The park sprinkler system sprang to life, drenching us, our bikes, our stove, our food, and everything else on the table. We hustled our bikes out of the line of fire. Sharon eventually had enough of the wet madness and dashed to the nearest sprinkler. She couldn't turn it off, but she managed to turn the nozzle away from us. We portaged our entire picnic table, complete with cooking gear and supper bowls, to dry land. In a new spot we sat triumphantly, picturing the faces of morning park workers who would discover a picnic table sitting in the middle of the field and a sprinkler watering the parking lot. But our happy victory was short-lived. Another sprinkler head popped up and began watering us. We spent an unrelaxed mealtime being chased around the field as various watering zones popped to life. It was as if someone was intent on giving us our daily shower along with our daily bread. Tired of dodging man-made rain, we set our tents inside a nifty little gazebo at the far end of the field. "Ah," I sighed, finally a dry haven." But I was wrong. Around midnight, sprinklers surrounding the gazebo turned on full blast. Water pounded the roof; water shot in through doorways; water sprayed in through window openings; water seeped in through invisible crevices. It even dripped down the stovepipe. Still half-asleep, Sharon muttered, "Now I know what golfers mean by 'water hazard.'" In the morning, a new battery of sprinklers tormented us. At least it got us off to an early start. Maybe we'd miss some of the hot wind that had blown us across southern Alberta? Nope. Not a chance. As usual, wind and heat gained intensity throughout the morning. We rolled to a weary pause in Seven Persons (the number of people inhabiting the place?) and, following the smell of fresh baked bread, crept into Grandma's Bakery. We zeroed in on cinnamon buns hot from the oven. Six of the sugary beauties set us back less than the usual cost of one in the city! Devouring the rolls faster than a teacher handing out study hall to unruly students, I returned for another half-dozen. They disappeared quicker than a bunny in a magic show. (Only piggy embarrassment stopped me from returning a third time.) Pedalling against a hot wind, an hour later we were in Gas City (Medicine Hat's nickname because of its plentiful natural gas). It was Wednesday. We had plenty of time before Sue's return flight on Sunday. Vicky was scheduled to rendezvous with us Thursday for a ride to Cypress Hills. We headed for Gas City campground, situated at the top of a hill. Why do they do that? At the end of a day's ride, that's the last thing cyclists want to see! We struggled upwards in the blistering heat, perspiration pouring off our faces. After checking in we hit the showers. I'm sure we came perilously close to depleting the cold water supply. Eventually, we reluctantly pried ourselves away from humankind's best ever invention. We hadn't been so clean since our mothers' used to wash our toes in the baby bath tub! Next on our list was the air-conditioned laundry room (humankind's second and third best inventions). As we emerged from the humidity and temperature controlled room the outside afternoon air hit us with a force equalling the opening of a door on a blast furnace. Worse, gazillions of annoying blackflies and sandflies inhabited the campground. The pests flew up our noses and set upon the corners of our eyes. After relieving us of mandatory pints of blood - and souvenir chunks of flesh - they zoomed away to get their buddies. There was no end to the winged clouds. "I vote we abandon 'Gnat City' campground," Sharon suggested. Flailing our arms, smacking our legs, we biked off to explore the city's network of bike trails. The route led us to Caroline's Restaurant. We entered and sat in great relief. No bugs. No heat. No hard bicycle seats. We wolfed down platters of nachos and sucked up buckets of ice tea like three well watered little pigs. Near midnight, we vacated Caroline's restaurant. Maybe the gnats would be asleep? The return route was through an unlit and heavily treed, pitch-black park. It was an adventure in blindfolded cycling. Sharon and Sue must have thought so too. Choruses of Three Blind Mice rang from the darkness around me. |
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