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Big Club in Big Knife "The voyage of discovery lies not
in finding new landscapes, but in having new eyes." We spent a second night in soft beds. "At this rate we'll never toughen up," Sharon pouted, pretending to complain. Before getting underway, we enjoyed more pampering at the hands of Bev. Breakfast was a feast. All was right with the world! One of the clusters Vicky brought didn't fit. She drove us to Camrose. The bike shop there fixed us up with the correct type. With a special cluster removal tool that we carried in our tool bag (and that I thought we'd never use), Sharon and Vicky installed the new clusters. "Bring on those hills," I smiled, surveying their handiwork. Vicky unloaded her bike from her rooftop Thule rack, and joined us as we swept out of Daysland on a smooth backroad, assisted by a fine tailwind. "We have to invite you more often!" Sue gushed, revelling in our first tailwind of the trip. For a change, fields of bright yellow canola were swaying in the same direction we were travelling. Grinning, we cruised along. The only traffic we met were farm tractors, driven by grey-haired sodbusters who passed with bounteous waves. I glanced at my speedometer. Due to our tailwind good luck, pleasant sunshine, and non-slipping new gears, our pace was an easy 30 kilometres per hour. Gotta love those tailwinds! Highway 855 swept us into the small backwater town of Heisler. In the noonday sun, we plunked ourselves down on a curb (almost as hard as a bike seat) and consumed Creamsicles. A fellow, picking up his mail, joked, "You guys riding across Canada?" "Yep," I replied. His smile faded like a two-year-old prayer flag on a mountain top. I guess they didn't get many cross-country cyclists in Heisler. The fellow disappeared down the street. "Did you get a look at his face?" I chuckled. "Yeah," Sharon drawled. "I'm beginning to realize this is more than a jaunt around the block." A strong southerly pushed us onward to our night's destination. The helpful tailwind and good company made the kilometres seem half the usual distance. We arrived at Big Knife Provincial Park in good spirits. We cycled through the packed campsite, looking for a spot. The proximity of adjacent campsites took us by surprise. Surrounded by acres of vacant land, the powers that be had deemed it necessary to squish everyone together - closer even than neighbours in a city. It wasn't exactly what I'd call "getting away from it all." Then I spied a sign: Walk-in sites. Maybe we could get away from the crushing humanity, after all? I dropped my bike to the dusty earth and ran down a path to check out the sites. Not a one was taken. "They're empty!" I called to my riding partners. "That's the place for us," Sharon decided. "Not that we're anti-social or anything." "We just like our privacy," Vicky finished for her. Fortunately for me, few fellow campers were around to observe my inaugural lighting of our new WhisperLite stove. I pumped the plunger several times, pressurizing the canister. Hoping I remembered the convoluted directions correctly, I twisted the silver knob. Coleman fuel spurted, and flowed into a primer cup at the base of the little three-legged stove. I watched the primer cup fill to overflowing. That was my first mistake. My second mistake was to hold a match to it. I learned that a little gas goes a long way. With a jet-on-final-approach roar, the fuel exploded. An orange flame leapt several feet into the air. Arm hair vaporized. Eyebrows disintegrated. Not only was the entire stove engulfed in an eerie ball of blue fire, but the picnic table was aflame as well. "Cool!" Vicky inhaled, like someone who had just met her teen idol. I could tell she was impressed. "I've gotta get longer matches," I exhaled. Once the fireball quelled, we fried a pound of ground beef in record time. The stove blasted like a mighty blowtorch. If I ever needed any soldering done, it could surely handle the job. We warmed our tortilla shells by merely waving them in the stove's general direction. Water boiled in the blink of an eye. Simmer could be a problem, I realized, smoothing down the remnants of one eyebrow. (Maybe I could help Bob light the barbecue at the Teachers' Annual Corn Roast?) Tents assembled, dishes cleared, table fire extinguished, I felt like a true outdoorsmen (albeit, one with thin eyebrows). We strolled around the campsite, enjoying the tranquil evening, keeping a watchful eye out for folks lighting Coleman stoves. Other campers sat around campfires, chatting, toasting marshmallows - white goo stuck to their lips. "There's one camping implement we failed to pack," Sharon said, nodding toward a redneck special. The fellow was middle-aged, clad in Nike sweatpants, lumberjack shirt, and ball hat. I could tell right off he was a baseball fan. Not because of his attire, mind you. Nope, the dead giveaway wasn't the baseball cap, but rather the baseball bat. And he was wielding it in a most menacing manner. We stopped to watch. By his own rules, he had devised a perverse game of 'Bash the Mole.' Legs spread wide, bat held high overhead, he stood rooted over a gopher hole waiting for the unsuspecting occupant to stick forth its furry little noggin. Ringside seats were sold out. Four family members sat on lawn chairs, encircling the spectacle, nursing cans of Budweiser. "Saturday night entertainment on the lone prairie," Vicky cringed. "I hope he has a couple of aspirin taped to the end of that," Sue winced. "Must be a CritterVille Slugger," Sharon opined. "Whack the brat with a baseball bat," I said, and decided that my strategy for travelling through strange lands would be to sharpen my powers of observation. Who knew what I might see? |
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