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Where We're Not From "Sometimes I wake up grumpy; other
times I let her sleep." Sunday morning, Sue, Vicky, and I sat around the picnic table examining scorch marks. Sharon was still sleeping, performing a remarkable feat of imitating Sleeping Beauty. At 8 am, I woke her - not with a kiss, but by shaking her shoulder and explaining that an independent study revealed that 75 percent of all campers in walk-in site 1A were up. "And you wish to make it unanimous?" she growled, rolling over. "Who says this is a majority rules, democratic campsite?" I revised my tactic. Summoning my best officious Russian accent, I spouted: "Comrade! Time to get up!" Sharon groaned and rolled over again. "Is it possible to wake up more tired than when I went to bed?" We were still reeling from our lack of training and poor physical condition. Not only did we have to become accustomed to the demanding chore of pedalling a fully loaded eighty-five pound touring bike all day, but we were relearning how to sleep on the ground, as well. Usually, in the past, in preparation for trips, we'd spend a couple of hours a day on a stationary bike (except for my ill-fated first ever bicycle touring escapade). The exercise bike saddle time not only increased aerobic threshold and toned leg muscles, but, more important, it helped toughen the old heinie. We packed up and limped out of camp by 9 am - a new record. The road dipped into a valley. We approached a bridge spanning the Battle River. Silver mist spiraled off the water's surface. Morning fog enshrouded a canoe, floating around its bow, making it seem as though a spirit vessel was materializing from another dimension. Silvery coils swam across my vision like schools of surreal piranha. Abruptly, we climbed out of the valley, leaving the water and visions behind. The hill leading out of the river valley provided a real-world test for our new gears. Not one skip. "Yeah!" I yelled. "Maybe I'll be able to pedal those Pyrenees after all!" Passing a trout pond, I motioned to Sue. "I'm getting hungry. Maybe you should try that fancy rod of yours." I licked my lips in anticipation of a tasty fish fry. Sue fished for half an hour getting nary a nibble. The only bites were from mosquitoes. (Her casting technique was flawless however.) The slippery creatures taunted us - leaping left, right, and centre, snapping up little airborne gnats. "Did you see that one stick out its tongue and give us the fin?" Sharon asked. Two boys fishing nearby nabbed a small fish. "Hey, what are you guys using for bait?" I called to them. "Cheese!" they yelled back. Drat. That was possibly the only thing not in Sue's bait box. "Maybe we can make salad," Vicky said, watching Sue reel in some delectable-looking weeds. When Sue tired of catching watercress, we hopped on our bikes and headed off in search of better odds for lunch. The fishing expedition's only good news: We didn't lose any bait. At Paintearth Mines, along the banks of the Battle River, immense hydraulic shovels stood, sentinel-like, ready to chomp buckets of coal from the coarse open-pit mining area. Bumpy, lime-green hills, resembling dragon scales, constituted a reclaimed area. I gazed in lust at the machine operators' thickly padded ergonomic chairs. We pedalled on in silent contemplation, on the lookout for that elusive lunch spot, while not-so-silently cursing the sadist who invented the ill-shapen bicycle seat. Those folks who rode recumbents were sounding mighty intelligent to me. An enormous black water tower on spindly legs, looking like some extraterrestrial invader from War of the Worlds, heralded our arrival into the windswept prairie settlement of Halkirk, population 131. Halkirk's claim to fame? One summer's afternoon, a deluge bucketed 175 mm of rain on the community and surrounding farmland in a single hour - fully half the region's normal annual precipitation. The resulting torrent swept away telephone poles, roads, crops, fences and anything else in its path. In summer months, the old-time Prairie Steam Train makes a scheduled stop at Halkirk. Local service clubs serve up an abundant meal to the lucky train passengers. But on this day not even a fly stirred. It brought to mind those old cowboy movies where everything is so quiet just before the guns start blazing. The stores weren't quite all boarded up, but the place was about as close to a ghost town as one could get without going to a Casper and Friends convention. "This is beginning to look like another fishing expedition," I said, grimacing as my stomach rumbled. The only establishment showing any sign of life on this fine Sunday afternoon was the Halkirk Hotel tavern. We locked our bikes near a window and strode up the creaky wooden steps (spurs would have been a-chinking), and poked our noses into the dim and smoky interior. Not detecting any cooking odours, I wondered if they served food. Three regulars occupied a far table - they shifted round in their chairs and stared at us. "We're closed," a gruff bartender polishing glasses over yonder in the dimness bluntly informed us. Sue clutched her abdomen. "Are you folks looking for something to eat?" he asked, his demeanour softening somewhat at seeing a maiden in distress. "Most intuitive," I mumbled. "Yes!" Sue exclaimed. "I've got four roast beef subs left." "Sold!" we shouted in unison. We wended our way to a table next to the locals and flopped down on the tattered, overstuffed chairs, ready to be imparted with homegrown words of wisdom. The locals didn't disappoint. Not only were our beef sandwiches the best we had ever eaten, but a heaping helping of good ol' boy erudition accompanied our food as well. "Where did you say you were from?" one patron asked for a third time. "Edmonton," we replied yet again. He shook his head. "That can't be where you're from," he finally stated flatly. "I saw youse ride up on them thar bicycles." "What's your route?" another regular astutely cut in. "Well," Sue sighed, "you know that place we're not from? We're cycling from there to Medicine Hat." Everyone nodded. Bellies sated, entertainment quota filled, we spilled out of the dim Halkirk Hotel into eye-piercing sunshine. Vicky gazed at the sun's position. "Aw, gee," she griped. "Looks like I'll have to start heading back." She had to work the next day and still had a good three or four hours' ride back to Daysland to retrieve her car. "Thanks for the new clusters," Sharon said. "And the tailwind!" Sue added. "How about joining us next weekend in Medicine Hat for a ride to Cypress Hills?" Sharon invited. "Sounds good!" Vicky replied, swinging a leg over her bike. I grinned. "I'll look forward to a ride back to Edmonton in your comfortable bucket seats." "I'm sure you will," Vicky agreed. "Cheerio!" she called as she tootled off out of town, absconding with our tailwind. |
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