On April 1, 2005 I set off across Canada on my bicycle. Or at least I'd planned to cross Canada. These pages are an account of that trip, as told through travelogs I sent to friends. I hope you enjoy the ride!


Moose Jaw

Hey Kids,
Back in early September 01, when GW looked like a lame duck, and the world was looking forward to four years of internal stalemating in the US, along came 911 and next thing GW had 60 Billion Dollars to arm the world with.

I thought, that's one lucky cowboy!

Last week, just as the guy was about to be basted in the international media, and by the whole world, for his stand on the environment, what happens, bombs go off in the London Tube and international terrorism, GW's one and only platform, steals the show.

After all we've been through these past four years, I see one of three things. Either GW is the luckiest man in the world, or he's got Osama Bin Laden operating out of the West Wing, or he's a monster of biblical proportions.
That's all I got to say on that. Except he seems greasier than an uncapped oil well.

Anyway, I survived Pontiex, despite all night sounds of teenagers without mufflers and splintering picnic tables being fed to crackling fires. Road out of there in a 20K barrage of dust, the road was being repaved, and killer Saskatchewan humidity.

Continuing along with my eastward grind another 20K I came up the village of Hazenmore, called that because the haze makes it seem like there is more there. As I pulled into Hazenmore, I was chased in the street, in a non-threatening manner, by a fellow I'd moments before noticed knocking a golf ball around town with a putter. He was an interesting character, his father was Chinese and his mom Cree. He'd learned Asian Cuisine in Hong Kong and now owns the local eatery. He was chasing me to offer me water, good water from his well.

In the ten minutes or so that I was in this little town, that reminded me of a Canadian TV show called Corner Gas, I met 17 of the 50 odd residents and would have stayed, but they had no campground. Just before I left Hazenmore I heard a loud rumbling bang. I thot perhaps it was thunder, but there we no clouds anywhere. Then a water pumper truck from the local fire hall let out across the prairie, to the south of the highway.

Then I saw smoke to the east.

Fifteen K, and about 45 minutes later, I was pulling into the hamlet of Meyronne, which the book said had 55 people, but I later found out had only 33. The Mayor of Meyronne, who was also the fire chief, the garbage collector, the postmaster, preacher and campground attendant, later informed me of the proper census, and lamented the good old days when there were actually 55 people in town.

"We had a store then," he said.

Then he told me he'd been mayor since 1983, and that he was only related to about half of the town's population, the other half were his sister's kids! He'd just come back from fighting the fire, which had been caused when a train derailed and collapsed a trestle just west of town. The fire had finally been broken by a stream and would put itself out overnight, when it rained. After our short chat, the Mayor of Meyronne ran around town in his town pickup, and found me a table and chair to use at the campsite. I was the first camper of the year.

That night, while being dinner to ten million mosquitos, I cooked my supper on the the little table, which had once belonged to the local whorehouse, which had been in operation for over 60 years, until it burned down in the 1950s, with its dwarfish madam inside. It’s burned out shell stands on the edge of the village, right beside the rail line, looking like a tombstone. Anway, while being feasted upon, I feasted on some left over tomato sauce and noodle, that quite nearly got fetid in the heat.

It rained again that night, and thundered, and lightning cracked around me, as I lay safe and dry under my tarp, stark naked, enjoying the cool the rain brought.

The next day the Mayor of Meyronne came by and thanked me for the visit, then asked me to tuck the chair and table into the John before I left.

That day's ride was awesome. The rain had cut the humidity and my journey took me over some high prairie. I saw fox, and dear, and more fox, and more dear and, at the end of that 20 K, I came upon the town of Kincaid, another dust bin that appeared to be lifted right out of the heart of Texas.

The town’s one real saving grace was the view from the bottom of its main street, miles and miles of canoli spread across the bowl-like country, and smack in the middle, a grain tower. Had to take a photo, again pure prairie.

Because the weather was finally cooperating I kept going, and round about suppertime came on the hamlet of Limerick, another 20 K along. Stopping into the grocery there, just as it was closing, the grocer, who had a nasty gash on his forhead that appeared to have been stictched up in a mirror, directed me to the overgrown and partially abandoned campsite in the center of town, next to the brand new United Church. It was a bug hatchery but had magnificent water. I cooked dinner amid the swatting, beans, then tucked myself into bed early as the rain returned.

Next morning I was up bright and beautiful as the day. I cooked, got eaten up good by the bugs, and got out of town. Having travelled nine days in a row, I was looking forward to making Assiniboia and taking a day off.

Fighting a stiff southerly crosswind, I made the trip in just over an hour to find Assiniboia, a filthy little berg full of diesel dust and racing SUVs, with a campground wedged between the mountie station and the local chlorine pool, packed with Winnies and wanting only $16 a night for the priviledge of bathing with thousands of Yuppie larvae. I took a pass. Rode out of town a K east, got sick of the wind in my face, and turned north, to ride the wind.

Two and a half hours later I came upon the tidy berg of Mossbank, about a third of the way up to Moose Jaw. I pulled into the local Kinsmen camp, which was right in downtown and offered almost no shelter, but did have a lukewarm shower. I paid the $8 camping fee to a fellow named Leon, who claimed to the be the camp caretaker. He unlocked the shower for me. I had a hot dinner, a warm shower, and bedded down as the sky turned crimson and purple. Later that night, during a pee break, I got up to find the aurora borealis dancing away. It warmed me.

Next day I raced through an area known as the Dirt Hills. A high rolling land featuring a few steep climbs. After all the slow dips and rolling I was happy to be in hills again, and to use my somewhat stiff low gears. So enthused by the ascents and descents, and the views that went with them, I powered through the first 30 K in just less than two hours.

At the same time, I could see behind me several storms moving across the prairie, dropping great black sheets of rain all along the route I'd just escaped when I turned north. A sense came over me that going to Moose Jaw was a good idea. I finished out the remaining 45 K in just over two hours of rolling down into, then up out of, two wide shallow coulees, finally emerging in a stiff west-cross wind on the odd city, with its depression era architecture, its odd character, and its tourist gimmik of claiming to be the hiding place of the notorious Chicago gangster Al Capone. Sitting Bull once lived here, why don't they make a fuss about that?

Anyway, after checking the place out a bit, I rode out to the Prairie Oasis Tourist Complex, a motel, superstore, campground, waterslide, gas staton that somehow has provided me with a grassy knoll and a few trees to hang out under.

Here I've also met my first fellow cyclist in 10 days. His name is Faz. He's a new immigrant from Iran, and he's learning about his new country by cycling across it. Faz is a little fried, dealing with the twin issues of culture shock and road madness. I'm also the first cyclist he's encountered is some time. Poor guy, he's been in my face, telling me all about his time on the Iranian National Cycling Team, his crazy suicidal ex-wife, his confusion over our language, and more, really, than I need to know. I'm trying to calm him down, maybe see if I can bring him to a slow enough pace that we can actually talk, and maybe ride awhile together.

Tomorrow I'm off towards Weyburn, then further east, at least that's the plan. So, I'm going east, no matter what I said in that last cyclelog.

I am having fun, hope you are too,
Will


 
 

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