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Food for Thought "You got to be careful if you don't
know where you're going, because you might not get there."
"Is it my imagination, or is everyone in camp wearing high heels this morning?" Sharon grumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Our record for longest streak of noisy campgrounds continued. Unchallenged. Unequaled. The sleep thief on this particular occasion was the washrooms' raised platform. As each camper entered, footsteps crescendoed, reverberating on the wooden deck. Then, the grand finale: two doors slammed together, cracking like a pair of giant wooden cymbals. After a brief rest, the process began in reverse. Even ear plugs failed to block the constantly repeated movement. The musical campers (and sunshine!) prompted us to get a move on. "Want to get anything?" Sharon asked as we passed a food store on our way out of Drumheller. "Nope," I replied. "We'll just have to lug it up that steep hill out of town." My snap decision would prove to be a mistake we would all pay for later. Pedalling past our old campsite, a familiar beeping caught my attention. The backhoe! They were still working on repairing the transformer. Behemoth motorhomes sat trapped, mud up to their axles. Ha! It was my turn to laugh and point. We warmed quickly as we pedalled the kilometre-long hill out of Drumheller. A herd of pronghorn antelope grazed peacefully on the hillside as we ground our way slowly upward. The males in the group were particularly attractive with black cheek patches and foot-long pronged horns. Natives called the little animals 'Prairie Ghosts' - perhaps because of their camouflage, or perhaps because of the little animal's uncanny ability to disappear so quickly. Pronghorns can reach a zippy hundred kilometres per hour. Their velocity easily outdistances any predator audacious enough to try to catch one for its dinner. We attained the top. Our reward was a sweeping panoramic view of the surrounding valley and farmland. On a distant crest, we spied the old Rosedale Suspension Bridge from bygone coal mining glory days. (At one time, more than 120 coal mines were active in the area.) Riding past field after field of butter-yellow canola, rolling to the distant horizon and beyond, we arrived in Dalum shortly before noon. The entire place consisted of one ramshackle gas station, a clapboard church, and two dilapidated houses. The gas station didn't appear too busy. Its grey-haired proprietor dozed - arms folded across his chest - roosting on a scuffed wooden chair just outside the doorway. Like a bored school kid, he had the chair tipped back. It balanced precariously on its two hind legs like a trained circus dog. "Got any pop?" I asked, as we pulled to a stop near him. He opened one eye and surveyed our sudden appearance. "Sure," he drawled after squirting a stream of brown tobacco juice the length of his arm. He jerked an oil-stained thumb toward an antiquated Coke machine inside the station. Leaving him on his recliner, we entered and discovered the machine's money slot taped over. "Owner-operated," he called as his chair thumped down onto all four legs. He rose and hobbled inside like someone who had sat too long on a wooden bicycle seat. "What's your flavour?" he asked. Satisfied with our choices, he plumbed the depths of a greasy overall pocket, and fished forth a shiny silver key. Twisting the machine open, he extracted our dusty effervescent selections. I passed the old gent a fiver, took the change in chocolate bars, and sauntered back out into the sun. On the church's sun-bleached steps we flumped down and popped open our drinks. Imbibing the cold liquid in warm sunshine, we extolled the virtues of bicycle touring. At 12:01, a resounding clang, not unlike a large pipe wrench being thrown on metal, echoed from the gas station. The station owner sallied forth, studiously locked the station's front door, hopped in a faded red pickup, fired up the vintage beast in a trembling belch of grey exhaust, revved 'er twice ... and drove to a house 30 feet yonder. Didn't even get out of first gear. "Must be time for lunch," Sharon mused. "World's shortest commute!" I guffawed. "Nice to see some folks don't spend long fighting traffic," Sue chimed in with a belly laugh. She paused. "Do you think there's a washroom?" she asked. "I need a washroom." "Looks like a fine spot over there," I suggested, waving toward the adjacent graveyard. Sharon reproved me dourly. "That's not what's meant by 'paying one's last respects.'" "Has anyone tried the church door?" Sue wondered aloud. I watched in amusement as the Lycra-clad cyclist got up and knocked on the old wooden church door. She waited. Then, when there was no answer, she tried the knob. Like magic, it silently glided open. "My God! It's true!" I exclaimed. "Knock, and it shall be opened unto you." We traipsed inside the church. Its dim interior was a cool and welcome respite from the soaring outside temperature. Kaleidoscopes of stained glass lined exterior walls. Thick tan ropes drooped from steeple bells in the loft overhead. "Bells!" I cried. "I wonder what they sound like?" "Restrain yourself," Sharon said, cautioning me with a look similar to the one I reserved for misbehaving children. Hells bells. All the fun taken out of my church explorations, I slouched back outside to sulk in the sunlight. "Too cold in there anyway," I shivered. Before long, strains of Amazing Grace were resonating from the church piano, spilling out into the peaceful afternoon, washing like a tonic over the sleepy countryside, raising my spirits. When the two maestros had exhausted their combined repertoire they rejoined me on the church steps. "Did you find a washroom?" I enquired. "Yep," Sharon answered. "No showers, though." "I guess we'd better go look for some then," I said. I stood and rubbed my stomach. "I'm beginning to feel a little peckish, too." We struck out for the gas station where we had abandoned our bikes. They were still there: in the exact spot we had leaned them against the rust-stained and peeling beige wall. Thirty-two kilometres later, we rolled into Hussar, past hungry, on the lookout for a grocery store. A row of grain elevators stood off to one side. But there was little else. "Not exactly on the mainstream tourist route," Sharon noted, glancing at the lack of habitation and amenities. A lone cowpoke earnestly studied our arrival. "You folks lost?" he called. Grinning, we flung him two wraps and a hooey, and reined to a halt in front of Tom's General Store - the only store in town. "Looks like this is our choice of eating establishments," I said, laying my bike curbside and striding ten feet to push open the door. Somewhat rudely my nose squished against the glass. "Must be out," I said, stepping back, bemused. "By any chance," Sue asked slowly, "is this Wednesday? Because if it is," she said, surveying the posted hours, "they closed at 1 pm." "Oh. Terrific," I managed, consulting my digital watch, and confirming the time was indeed later than 1 pm and the little black triangle was pointing to 'W' for the day of the week. "Maybe the post office knows where we can get some food," Sharon suggested. "If they're not closed too." We trundled into the post office feeling like starving hoboes. A woman behind the counter smiled kindly. I enquired about food places. The woman sadly shook her head. "Tom's is the only place in town." Oh, my. We stood transfixed, the postal clerk's portentous words sinking in like fire on ice. Sue cursed under her breath. We must have looked about to cry. The postal worker spouted, "If I was home right now, I'd fix you bunch a sandwich." "I can man the post office while you run home and fix us something," I said, only half-kidding. "Hang on a minute," she said, not taking me up on my offer. I guess she didn't think I was serious. "I'll phone Tom and see if he can open up for you." She dialed as we looked on hopefully. Alas, Tom didn't answer. The postal clerk, looking ruminative, thumped the receiver back onto its cradle. "You know," she said, "I usually have cheese and crackers here. But today I don't have any." The invisible offering made us feel no less hungry. Maybe more so. "I'm starving," Sue whined, clutching her bare midriff. "I've cycled over 50 kilometres and all I've eaten is some crappy cereal, a pop, and a stale chocolate bar." Hunger brings out the best in one. "Hey!" the postal woman said, beaming. "The gas station sells pop." Then her face twisted, as though remembering something wonderfully sinful. "I shouldn't tell you this," she said, giggling like a prepubescent school girl, "but just before you came in here, I ate a chocolate bar." At that confession, something inside the postal worker snapped. Unable to contain her mirth, she broke into fits of laughter. She came perilously close to toppling off her stool. "She doesn't realize how serious food is to famished cyclists," I whispered to Sharon. "We best get Sue out of here before she tampers with a mail clerk," Sharon whispered back. "No doubt, that's a federal offence." Leaving the mail lady alternately holding her sides and wiping tears, we escorted Sue outside onto Hussar's main street. "Before she goes postal," Sharon grimaced. "It may put Hussar on the map, but not in a good way. I can see the headline: Hussar Hunger. Crazed Cyclist Stamps Postal Worker." Not having the strength to get back on our bikes, we pushed them to the gas station. No chocolate bars, no chips, no junk food of any kind greeted us. "What kind of country is this?" I whined. Only a few soft drinks were available. I snickered when Sue selected a diet variety. "I'm sorry," I apologized, "but that's hardly the boost you need. I think we'd better find somewhere to cook our emergency rations." Dejected - and bellies growling - we rode to the town's fairgrounds. One lone picnic table squatted in the weeds. Waiting for the water to boil, we lamented our 'luck' of arriving late on the only day the only store in town closed early. Sue guzzled her allotted portion of noodles. "That was a good appetizer," she said. I noted the sharp look of hunger still haunting her eyes. I scoured deep into my panniers and discovered a forgotten packet of oatmeal. Sue devoured the steaming porridge. I hoped its carbohydrates would tide her over until we found an open food store. Over 40 kilometres stood between us and the next town of any size on our route. Two hours later we arrived in Bassano. We besieged the nearest dairy bar and inhaled double mozza-bacon burgers, double chocolate-banana milkshakes, and double-scoop chocolate ice cream cones. Finishing our feeding frenzy, I proposed we hit the IGA for groceries before they closed for the day. We prowled IGA's well-stocked aisles, buying packages of pasta and glass jars of tomato and mushroom sauce. Hang the weight! We never wanted to feel hungry again. After forking over our money for the multiple bags of grocers, we treated ourselves to the city campground and its opulent hot showers. Our Shangri-La was disturbed only by passing freight trains that rumbled past every hour. |
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