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Forest Phone "Miracles are natural; when they do
not occur, something has gone wrong."
The sky dawned pewter grey. A miserable east wind howled. But at least the screaming kids were gone. "How about a rest day?" I suggested, looking out at the dreary conditions. "What better place than Roblin? Free accommodation; free showers." Sharon agreed. We bundled ourselves in rain gear and hiked downtown to sample Roblin's restaurants. "Now here's a town that's thinking," Sharon said between mouthfuls, over her second breakfast in as many restaurants. "They make the campground free ... travellers stay and spend money in a place they may not even have stopped otherwise. That's what I call smart marketing!" "Amazing more towns haven't discovered it," I said. "The free campground is like a built-in gold mine for local businesses."
The next morning, gale abated, we elected to hit the dusty trail for Moon Lake campground in Riding Mountain National Park before the four winds regrouped. But first we had to make a pit stop at Roblin's bakery. Not that we needed incentive, but the info centre had provided coupons for free cinnamon knots. We picked up our sugar fix. I was greedily stuffing the package of gooey buns into my pannier for later consumption when the bakery door popped open. The counter-girl hurried over. "Do you have room for these?" she asked with a smile while holding forth two rotund brown bags. I peeked inside. The first contained still-warm doughnuts; the second, laden with calorie-rich chocolate eclairs, tickled my nostrils with mouth-watering deliciousness. "Always room for doughnuts!" I assured her, flashing my pearly whites as I accepted her gifts. "We never refuse food," Sharon laughed. (Except, perhaps, cheese omelettes.) "Who needs this many clothes, anyway?" I asked rhetorically, pulling shirts and shorts from my pannier and strapping the bundles to my rear rack to make room for fresh baked goodies. Sheryl introduced herself. "My boyfriend's a cyclist," she confided, "so I know what it's like." She gave a broad smile. "He's always hungry." "A true cyclist," I grinned in return. We spoke with Sheryl for a few minutes, then she excused herself "before they fire me." Sharon and I bid her goodbye, and pedalled off, all smiles. "Just another example of what won't appear on Channel Eleven news tonight," Sharon said. The slender route to Dauphin wiggled and waggled, corner after corner. Compared to Saskatchewan's kilometre upon kilometre of identical straight flatness, anticipation of what laid around the next bend, or over the next rise, spurred us on. I checked my watch and noticed the date: August 17. "It's Mom and Dad's anniversary," I said. "Keep a lookout for a phone. I want to call and wish them our best." Near Dauphin, rambunctious vehicles reminded us once again that cyclists occupy the lowest rung on the traffic food chain. On a straight stretch, two tractor-trailer units - one overtaking the other - thundered toward us at 100-plus kilometres per hour, taking all the narrow two-lane road. "There's no room!" I screamed in a falsetto voice. At the last second, metres before impending impact, we bailed onto the gravel shoulder, skinny bicycle tires squeamish on the unaccustomed surface, threatening to dismount us. "Elbows in!" I bellowed, cold sweat beading my brow. The semis bombed past in a firestorm of rubber and violent wind, tires mere feet from our bobbing heads. "Whew!" I sighed. "That was wheelie close!" "Omigosh!" Sharon breathed as we cowered on the road shoulder. "They have no idea...." The rigs were an omen. From that point on, traffic became a nightmare. Nothing but aggressive mule skinners "shared" the road with us. Even when the opposite lane was traffic-free, vehicles brushed past so close we could smell whether the occupants had used arm deodorant that morning or not. "I think going into Dauphin to find a phone is too risky," I said, still shaking after our 36 wheel close encounter of the worst kind. "Better to abandon my phone search in favour of staying alive to call another day," I said. "Don't worry," Sharon said. "We'll find a phone." We swung wide around Dauphin and headed south toward the park. The parkland, forming part of the Manitoba Escarpment, rises like an island out of a sea of surrounding agricultural land. (Apparently, cyclists weren't the only persecuted animals: Riding Mountain National Park holds the distinct notoriety of the largest-known black bear in North America being killed by a poacher.) Fortunately, once in the park, we left behind madcap double clutchers and brain-dead, road hoggers. Unfortunately, thigh-burning hills replaced them. The scenery improved though. And an added bonus: instead of clenching my teeth and willing my bike to maintain an unwavering line in order to avoid being clobbered from behind, I could actually look around and enjoy the ride. We pulled into Agassiz Lookout - a four-story platform rising above expansive timberland - and gaped clear across the treetops to the prairies' very origin. "See any phones?" I kidded. We followed the park road - really just a swath cut amongst tamarack, Jack pine, balsam fir, and stands of tall white and black spruce. A breeze sashayed through the boreal forest; whispering boughs swayed like waltzing waves of rippling, green silk. Rabid traffic left behind, we pedalled in the middle of a forest ... all seemed right with the world. On a straight section, with nothing but acres of evergreens in every direction, I came upon it. Not even a parking spot. But there it was. I braked to a stop and stood staring. Strangest place for a phone booth I ever did see. "It's for you," Sharon teased, pulling to a stop behind me. I didn't pass up the opportunity. I dialed mom and dad and wished them a happy anniversary. "Sometimes the cosmos works in a truly strange manner," I muttered, hanging up the phone. "Weird how things we need turn up in the most unusual circumstances." I pedalled off, whistling, wondering if the universe was laughing behind my back. |
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