I'm Back!
No, not back home, back on the road.
Ten days in Calgary were fun filled. I repaired a couple bikes for my hosts, dug some in Grandma's garden, did some riding, ate some great food, slept a ton, and even dusted up with a couple rednecks along the way.
One redneck was in a fire-engine red truck parked in the middle of a street I was trying to go down, along with several automobiles. As I passed the red truck I looked at the driver. He must of been a mind reader because he understood completely what I was trying to say: "Man, you crazy or something, stopped in the middle of the street in rush hour traffic?"
He bolted up behind me, went around, doing his best to cut me off, and put on the brakes. I simply dipped by on the passenger side and got ahead of him again. He repeated his offense, then stuck his head out the window.
"Fuckin' old man, mind your own fuckin' business," he bellowed.
I dipped around him again and he repeated the offense.
"Mind your own business or I'll fuckin' run you down!"
I couldn't resist.
"Buddy, when I'm trying to ride the road and you're blocking it, it becomes my business." I barked."
I'll get out of this truck and kick your ass! You gotta a problem!", he snarled.
"Buddy," I replied, feeling a little like after all my peddling I might actually have a chance to get in a fight. "You're the one parking in the middle of the street, then chasing a cyclist down like a maniac because he looked at you. Methinks you have the problem!"
I ducked around him again. He was midway through repeating the offense a fourth time, when I spotted a lane leading towards the river bicycle trail. I ducked down it. He was gone, but I could feel him trolling the neighbourhood for minutes after.
The other redneck was actually a Canada Post employee in a Canada Post truck. I was crossing Centre street, at a pedestrian light, with a pedestrian crossing the same way as me. The Canada Post driver made eye contact with me, then drove straight into the intersection directly in front of me. I came to a stop just outside his driver's side door, which was open.
"Buddy," I said in a calm voice. "Ya really ought not be pulling into the intersection while there's a pedestrian and a cyclist in it and the pedestrian light is flashing."
"Fuck off ya little bastard!" he shouted, completely taking me by surprise.
"Look buddy, I don't care. You should know better." I responded, then tried to drive around him. He jerked the truck forward, but I managed to make my way in front of it.
As I came to the passenger door I yelled.
"What are you, fuggin' nuts?"
"Shut up or I'll come out there and teach you to fuck with me."
I finished my ride across the intersection as the guy continued to yell at me. Traffic was backing up from a light further on and he was basically stuck in it. I was peeved off and pulled my bike over, pulled out my book and pen, and started to write the guy's license number down.
He jumped out of the truck, leaving it in traffic, and came rushing towards me. A pedestrian made eye contact with me, and said, "he's in too much of a hurry."
I said, "I know."
Then a guy in a car shouted, "He's going to throttle you!"
The post man was about three meters away. I stood my ground.
"What are you going to do, assault me?" I asked, loud and clear. Then I looked at the driver of the car who'd shouted.
"Are you getting this, the guy is about to assault me?" I asked.
He nodded.
Then the postal worker realized there were other people watching. A light seemed to come on. He growled something under his breathe, then stomped away yelling obscenities.
"Buddy," I called out, still the bulldog I've always been. "I'll be calling this one into your office. No wonder the term "going postal" is so well known."
Last I saw him he was still ranting and flippin' the bird in my direction. I took the time to call in his plates and description, and to file a formal complaint. They probably are sitting on it, thinking because I'm travelling I won't look into it, I will.
In Europe last year it was grumpy policemen. In Calgary it was middle aged males in trucks with limited vocabularies.
My favourite part of Calgary was Grandma's compost. It hadn't been turned in years. What a delight to knock over all three heaps and find bucket loads of rich black loam just waiting to get get screened and spread on her lovely flower beds. It reminded me somewhat of my favourite farm on Hornby Island, where I sometimes go to camp and have to turn over the manure pile for my keep. It was just less stinky that's all.
Now the best thing about Grandma's compost heap wasn't the heap at all. It went something like this.
Grandma wanted to reward me for doing her compost heap. She offered to feed me.
"What would you like to eat Wee Willy?" she queried (they all call me wee willy, but only Grandma does it to my face.
"Well, if it was Christmas I'd ask for Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding, but it ain't Christmas, so I'll settle for whatever you're having," I responded, joking around.
Next thing I knew Grandma had a roast on the counter and was whipping up a pan of Yorkshire Pudding! And this was on what was probably the hottest day of the year in Calgary. I couldn't believe it.
"Grandma," I told her sharply, "you should have said, Willi, I don't care how hard you worked or what a great job you did, I'm not cooking anyone Roast Beef and Yorkshire Pudding on the hottest day of the year!"
Grandma smiled.
"Too late!" she said.
Some of you will remember that I visited Grandma and the gang a couple years back. I told you then about visiting Uncle Tom, who had just celebrated his 100th birthday. Sadly, I just got news today that Uncle Tom passed on. Tom lived a big life down in Texas. Among other things he was a genuine cowboy at one point. He told me the biggest thing that had changed in his lifetime was transportation, the way people and goods are moved around. Some say Tom's moving around to Alberta from Texas, and back, is what put him on the slippery slope. But Tom was 104 and we all gotta go sometime. From what I know Tom lived a full life and was an example to all those around him. I'm sad he's gone. Didn't know him well. Only met him a couple times. And he's not my uncle, but I've only ever known him as Uncle Tom. I liked the guy, though he found me a little odd.
Its the same with Grandma. She ain't my Grandma. I've always known her as Jane, but these days everyone calls her Grandma, mostly because she's everyone's Grandma, even mine at times.
Hell, that whole darn family feels like relatives to me, relatives I got to pick, who are much more to my liking than the band of strangers I was born into.
Then there's Uncle Mehbs. He's sort of the newest of the clan. For the last few years he's been hanging out with Cousin Becky. Heck, he's more than hanging out, he's parking in the garage, leaving his toothbrush in the sink, and wandering around the house in his red silk bathrobe. Sneaky guy Mehbs. He's won over the whole clan with his stellar chicken curry! To tell the truth, the guy even won me over, so I guess he's my cousin or something.
So, with all these Grandmas, Mama's, and cousins, and all the kids grown up and still living at home, I was getting to feel like I belonged or something, so I knew it was time to go.
Last Monday I almost got going but a storm blew in so I waited until last Tuesday.
Now, for some days I'd been trying to get information from the city about how to get out of the city, heading north on three wheels. Calgary has this new system where if you need any information about how to do such things as get out of town, or find your way around town, or find your way into town, or find something in town that you can't find on your own, you're supposed to call 311.
The first thing that happens when you call 311 is they tell you, if its an emergency, you should call 911! Then they tell you to stay on the line, if its not an emergency. After a while, I'm not sure how long, maybe half way through the CD you have in the player, someone comes on the phone and you get to ask your question.
"How do I get out of Calgary using the bike paths heading north?"
"Gee, I'm not sure. There is a bike path that goes north. Have you tried that?"
"Yes, I'm aware of the bike path. I want to know where it connects to a paved road heading north towards Airdrie, or Edmonton."
"Gee, I'm not sure if it does that. Let me look in my book.'
The other half of the CD plays while she looks in her book.
"Sorry, we have no information on that. Would you like the number of our supervisor overseeing bicycle trails."
"Yes."
She gives me the number. I hang up and call it.
"Hi, its this day or that, at this time or that, and I'm not available to answer the phone, but if you leave a message I will get back to you. I should be in the office at this time, or that, if you feel you need to speak to me in person."
I hang up, not knowing the number where I am, and not really comfortable giving it out anyway. I call back a few times, with the same result.
I give up.
On Tuesday I head out of town along the Nose Creek bicycle path heading north. As I reach Beddington Trail underpass a lovely tall blonde woman comes jogging up to me all smiles. I smile back and she stops.
"How far are you going?"
I make up some big lie about riding from the Kootenays to Winnipeg and then most of the way back. Wait a minute, that's not a lie, that's fact! Then I ask the big question.
"Do you know how to get from here to a relatively safe paved road north towards, say, Airdrie."
Meeting tall beautiful blonde women for the first time just as I'm leaving town has always been something of a good omen to me. It happened when I was 16 and was leaving my hometown with a sleeping bag under my arm and a 20 dollar bill stuffed in my shoe. It happened when I went to Texas for the first time. It happened when I went to Europe last year. And it was happening again.
"Sure," she said. "Just stay on this trail another three to four K and you'll see a driving range on your right. Then you'll come out on a major road, Harvest Hills. Just go north on Harvest Hills all the way, up, up. It will take you about 20 K north where you'll come to Big Hill Springs Road. Turn east on that road and you'll be in Airdrie!"
I thanked her. The information she provided affirmed to me what I'd suspected all along, even though the old map I was using didn't show it, Harvest Hills Road went all the way!
After ten days of only light riding, I was feeling the load. It took Wheels, BoB, and I a long while to get reaquainted. The bike wobbled, and bobbed, and I was a good halfway through my day before I started to feel okay.
Reaching Airdrie, I turned north up Main Street, which became Stevenson Highway, which eventually merged onto Highway 2A, just south of Carstairs.
About 5 pm I pulled into Carstairs. I'd left Calgary at 11 am, travelling about 70 K in six hours. I pulled up the infocentre, something I should never do, adjacent to the Carstairs municipal campground. The elderly lady manning the place immediately recommended that I check out Highway 21. Cousin Mehbs had also mentioned that road. I filed it for future consideration.
Then the lady went on a half hour rant about how Alberta has been ruined by the money and people no longer care for one another because of it, and there's an "attitude of entitlement" that everyone's getting that is destroying the social fabric of the place, and its going to be Alberta's undoing. This was coming from an Albertan of the highest order, born and raised, a woman who could remember not only Preston Manning but his father, a dyed in the wool conservative, a reformer of the grassroots, a horse riding gal. I was stunned to hear it from such a source, and in the local tourist bureau to boot.
Eventually she directed me to the campground host, who balked that I would want a regular campsite and said I would have to pay $18 if did, but could have a space in the overflow for $10. I chose the overflow, then found out it was the local doggy walk, and the doggy walkers don't always use their doggy pales and shovels. Ten bucks to sleep in a dirty doggy walk I thought, starting to get what the matron had been on about. Folks, if you're going to run a campground and rent out the doggy walk, make sure you rake it once in a while!
So I found a reasonably clean patch to put my tent on, cooked dinner, and had an early night my first night out.
Next morning I was up with the birds and out of Carstairs before I could think much about it. It was 9 am when I hit the grocery store down on the main drag. About noon I pulled into the town hall at Olds. Travelling the 2A wasn't bad. There had been a nice wide shoulder and the traffic, though thick at times, was polite. There was no reason to leave that road, other than the fact my map showed I'd eventually have to go out on Hwy 2, the main highway, or find some way around to Red Deer.
The wind wasn't in my favour turning. The patch where I'd have to go on the main highway was still a day ahead of me, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I did turn. I turned east at Olds. Maybe it was what Mehbs told me about Hwy 21, maybe it was the lady in the infocentre, I don't know. I turned, and that was all there was to it.
For the first bit the road was no fun, then it crossed over Highway 2, and got real nice and quiet. Rolling land, a few coulees, dips and dives, but pretty nice, even with a bit of an adverse wind.
Shortly after 2 pm I pulling into Torrington and up to the General Store. There were a few people sitting outside so I said high. One lady responded, so I asked.
"Is this where all the Tories are?"
"What do you mean," she asked, not getting my pun.
"Well," I responded. "This is Torrington, I thought maybe I'd find Tories here."
She still didn't get it. Then the fellow sitting beside her piped in.
"Ain't many Tories left," he said, then pointed at a man walking towards us from the street. "But here comes Lefty!"
Lefty, and some others who suddenly appeared, soon joined us, and we all sat around for about an hour gabbing. Mostly about cycling, and crazy people in pickup trucks.
I wanted to stay in Torrington, a place that has chosen as its claim to fame to have the only "Gopher Museum" in the world. There was something about it, and it wasn't the gopher museum, which featured about 100 taxidermied gophers modelling various human behaviours; stuffed gophers playing pool, hunting, having lunch at the diner; gophers in Mountie uniforms, golfing, plowing the land, riding motorcycles. I'm telling you folks, it would have been almost funny if I wasn't being sick to my stomach at all these poor dead gophers, stuffed, wearing doll clothes!
Yep, there was something about Torrington, and the road that goes north from there. A road I should have taken. A road I anguished a half hour over, before passing by. I don't know, maybe it was the exposed campground right beside the road, maybe it was the stuffed gophers, but something made me move on, even tho' my instincts said stay, and something made me pass by the road north, though my instincts screamed to follow it. But move on I did, east, to Trochu.
Upon arriving in Trochu, and wheeling up the main street, I encountered a boy about 12 years old on a one of those shiny Canadian Tire bicycles that looks like an Easy Rider chopper. He spotted me from a ways off and rode right up to me.
"Are you looking for a place to camp? Lots of cyclists come here. Cyclists love this place. They stay in the campground. If you're looking for a campground, just follow me. I'm going right there right now. So just come with me okay."
He paused for a breathe, but before I could tell him I already knew the way by the road signs, he started up again, question after question, run-on sentence after run-on sentence.
When we got the campground it was much the same.
"This is the campground. You have to pay here, at that little booth. The tenting section is back there. Lots of cyclists camp there. Sometimes the whole field is full of bicyclists. They are all very nice and come to eat at the diner my family owns. You put your money in the envelope and you drop in the slot. Sometimes a lady will come by and take the money. She has a nice garden. Well, her husband does all the gardening. She takes care of some of it too. She also takes care of the campground. Thats why its so nice. Do you think its nice? Want me to help with the money? Would you like to come eat at the restaurant, my family owns it. . ."
"Hey buddy," I interupted, nearly losing my mind do to the kid's verbal onslaught. "I think I can handle this. You need to give me a little space so I can figure it out."
The poor kid was devestated. He rode away, and though he appeared a few times on the road later in the evening, he didn't come back near me. Had to be the lonliest kid I ever saw, and he was so happy there was someone else in town on a bicycle. I just couldn't be whoever it was he needed.
I paid my ten bucks and camped away on the west side of the field, where there was some shade from the setting sun, which by this time was boring a hole in my skull. I'd done well over 70 K and was not amused. As I sat cooking dinner I realized my short ride up Hwy 21 into town had not been fun. The road was much more narrow than the 2A, traffic was about the same, but much much faster. It was scary fast.
I'd realized a few things pretty quickly after turning onto Hwy 21. First of all, neither Cousin Mehbs, nor the lady at the Carstairs Infocentre, had ever done any long distance cycling. Secondly, where there aren't a lot of towns, there aren't a lot of cops, and where there aren't a lot of cops, people don't worry about speeding. I knew right away I would have to get the hell of Highway 21.
That night I slept, until about 2 am, when a train came along and I actually jumped out of my sleeping bag, concerned that I might have set my camp on the tracks. I hadn't noticed the train tracks right next to my campsite, on the other side of a row of shrubs, even though I'd crossed the tracks on my bike getting into the place. Between the chatty kid, the bad road, the sun boring a hole in my brain, and all my usual befuddlement, I'd missed the train. It was loud and it shook the ground beneath me, rumbled by for a good five minutes, then all went quiet again.
In the morning I was visited by the campground hostess. She told me about her husband's garden, and assured me that cycling on Hwy 21 would not be fun. She also admitted to coming over to my campsite because she couldn't figure out what sort of vehicle I was driving.
"We don't get many cyclists," she said, totally contradicting what the kid had said the night before.
I left Trochu early too, thinking maybe I'd get a jump on traffic if I went early. As it often is, when I decide I don't like a road, or that its a bad road, the road turns out pretty good. Yes, traffic was a little speedy, but there were some quiet times. I had some wind and did quite well until I was just north of a place called Elnora. I turned west again. My decision to do so came after doing a very scientific study, wherein I stood at the side of the road counting the number of cars going north on Hwy 21 versus the number going west down the side road. Sixteen cars went north to eight going west. I went west, into the wind. Then 15 K along I went north. Another fifteen K along I went west, then north, then west again, through some lovely up and down country, past some lakes and swamps, up some long hills, down some. Did a scary little ride along Hwy 41 for a bit, then north again, finally emerging on Highway 11, which took me into Red Deer! I hadn't planned on a long day but, when I reached Red Deer, I was up around 100 K and my butt was sore. I found the campground and pulled in.
"Sorry, we're full up," said the lady in the little booth. "You'll have to go to Blackfalds up Highway 2A."
Asking directions, I followed them up the steep hill out of town, heading north.
I'd no sooner climbed out of the Red Deer River valley, and was riding along the east service road, when a black pickup truck raced up beside, then ahead of me, made like he was going to turn directly in my path, then slammed on the brakes. The driver yelled: "Gotta Problem?"
I looked back and smiled.
"No man, there's one of you guys in every town! See ya!" I said, and just kept riding.
It was getting late, about 7:30 when I pulled into Blackfalds. As I arrived I found out the campground was a few K north of the town. I was famished, and I wasn't really sure I was going to get to camp anywhere I could cook. If this next campground was full, I was going to really have to rough it. I decided to stop into a Subway fast food joint for something to eat, a large roast beef sandwhich.
Feeling better after eating I pushed on. A half hour later I saw the sign for the Wapiti Tipi Camp. I pulled down the rough one K road, and around the corner to the campground. Turning in,there was a road up to a house, where I could see some guys hanging around. I rode up, not noticed by the fellows in the yard until I was almost on top of them.
"OH!" said one of them when he spotted me, "Are you here for the Pride Weekend?"
"The Pride what," I asked.
"The Gay Pride Weekend, we're having a party this weekend!" he responded.
I laughed.
"No, I was just hoping to get a place to camp for the night," I replied. "Do you have room for me and my bike."
An older man standing beside the fellow I'd started talking with, perked up.
"If its just for tonight, I have a place for you, but you have to leave tomorrow, we're full up all weekend."
"Its just for tonight," I assured him.
This turned out to be a great campgound, on private land, with large private sites, a great wash area, inside the owner's house, lots of toilets and other facilities, a large compound full of wild boars, and a well kept landscape. It may well have been one of the nicest private campgrounds I've seen, and it was also one of the cheapest on this leg of the journey, only $13! I made tea, set camp, went for a shower, and was done.
Early the next morning I was rolling again. In no time at all I found myself in the bustling berg of Lacombe, a busy little town with businesses that actually shut down for lunch. Oddly, there was a lot of traffic but not a lot of people in the street. I waited outside the local information centre until the young woman inside was done with her lunch hour internet search. Nice young woman, was honest about knowing nothing about the town or the surrounding area. Unlike other infocentre clerks I've come across, she wasn't about to send me off on a tour she herself knew nothing about. She called her supervisor, who managed to convince me my best bet was to stay on 2A and do the "short" run along Highway 2, into Ponoka.
Not sure why I wanted to go to Ponoka. I'd been there before, a few times. Once did an alcohol treatment there for 28 days. All I'd ever seen of the town was from a Greyhound. Things look different through the windows of a Greyhound. Any place looks good from the windows of a Greyhound, especially if you've been on it long enough.
I did as was suggested and wound up spending a rather nasty half hour dodging semi-trucks and winnipegos out on Highway 2. It was ugly folks, but still not as ugly as the TransCanada around Brandon, Manitoba!
Nothing is as ugly as the TransCanada near Brandon, especially if you're on a bicycle.
Highway 2 between Lacombe and Ponoka is comparable. There are other ways around. I just wasn't patient enough to find them. For some reason I wanted to go to Ponoka. So I went to Ponoka.
Pulled into a motel on the highway, just to check prices. There was a small gang of men, women and children, all dressed in black, sporting tatoos, looking sortof unhappy, out on the lawn. They watched me closesly as I pulled up, parked my bike, walked by them saying "Hi" and right up to the office door before one of them, a rather large woman of about 25, with a bad complexion and something spilled all over her t-shirt, got up and walked towards me. I was about to open the office door when she identified herself as the clerk.
"Rooms are $50 but we don't have any," she informed me, "we've had a lot of people stop by. No better deal in town but we got no room."
"Thanks," I said, sort of happy they were full up. The way I've been making decisions lately I might have stayed. It would have been a "remember when" to remember.
That's when I turned into downtown Ponoka. I rolled down the main street as people stopped and stared. I waved and smiled. Their expressions did not change. Rolling down the main street, I circled the block, and rolled down it again. Then I rolled up and down the one cross street. Then I rode all the way up the cross street, turned east, and crossed a bridge, where I found another motel. The parking lot was empty and full of broken glass. I left, found a trail, and took another route back to downtown Ponoka, soon finding myself on the main cross street, which is called Railway Avenue. I rolled down it and checked the local dive hotel. Same story, fifty bucks, no rooms.
I headed for the grocery store. Some turkey in a little red sport car cut me off on a corner. There's one in every town!
Finally I gave up and headed for the stampede grounds, where there was supposed to be a campground. I pulled in, pulled up, and approached the host's trailer.
"You lookin' to camp," asked the old cowhand sitting on the porch.
"We don't allow tenting," piped in his wife, who was sitting beside him.
"Tell me it isn't so," I said, beeseechingly.
"Should have gone to Wolf Creek," said the woman. "Not another one until Wetaskwin, 35 kilometers."
I was begining to dislike the woman, but then she looked at her husband, who seemed to be communicating something to her telepathically.
"You gonna make an exception," she asked him!
"Yeah," he replied, simply and plainly. I was begining to like him!
"We'll make an exception for you," the woman, turning back to me, announced. "We've had so much trouble with tenters. You let in one and next thing you know you got five set up beside it. Then the riggers come, and invite their friends, pretty soon there's twenty people on one site and the place is trashed."
"Gee thanks, I appreciate it. I really couldn't roll any further. The weather's going weird and I'm beat. Headwinds all the way," I said, almost in one breathe, desperately trying to win them over and keep their favour.
"I'll put you in the back corner in the trees," said the old cow hand, then, turning to his wife for a nod of approval, “follow me."
He hopped in a golf cart. I hoped on Wheels, and followed as I was told. He stopped at one table near some RVs.
"You can camp here," he said, then pointing across the field to a grove of cottonwoods with a picnic table in the middle, "or you can camp over there."
I pointed over there and proceeded. He followed me on his cart.
When I'd set Wheels against the picnic table he asked me for $13. I paid up and he told me to jump in the cart. I jumped in, and we raced back across the campground, pulling up suddenly outside an out building.
"That's where the shower and water tap are," he said pointing. "Now we'll get you a receipt."
When we reached the office his wife had the receipt ready. The cowhand drove me back to my camp.
"Have a good sleep," he said, as I jumped out of the cart.
"Dinner first!" I responded, as he sped away. We would not meet again, although he waved as he went by from time to time, showing new RVers to their stalls.
At one point a car drove in and the occupants got out and set up a tent. Within minutes the cowhand was there, taking the tent down. They were quite serious about the "No Tenting" business.
Cooking dinner that night was a magical feat. The wind was up near 50K an hour. I was forced to tarp the picnic table and cook on the bench, creating my own wind barrier.
I'd no sooner eaten and cleaned up when a power storm hit. I was asleep by nine, whilst the storm raged around me.
I'd found but one port in the storm in Ponoka. I'd also lost my desire to go to Ponoka!
By 8 in the morning I was gone. I stopped by the office on my way out. The cowhand wasn't present but his wife was.
"Hey," I said in salutation.
"Good morning," she said. "On your way?"
"Yeah," I said, "but I wanted to say thanks, and tell you that most camps just put up a sign that says, "camping fees are per unit", and that resolves it. And us cyclists, most of us are too tired to cause you any problem. We want to eat, sleep and be on our way."
"Tents are manager's discretion," she replied. "Have a good ride!"
I rode off, liking her just a little bit.
Head winds, head crosses, easy traffic, but hellish weather, by noon I was in Wetaskwin. I pulled into Safeway as the sky opened up. In minutes the parking lot was flooding.
I went in and picked up some groceries. Then came back out to eat a snack and watch the weather.
While I was standing there in a little alcove, half out of the rain, a fellow with a European accent approached.
"Touring?" he asked.
"Yes," I replied.
"Where to where from?" he asked.
I made up the big tall tale that is actually the truth again.
"Good," he said, and abruptly walked away.
Moments later a native fellow, who was smoking a cigarette nearby, waiting for his wife, approached.
"Where'd you get your trailer?" he asked, then explained he makes his living collecting bottles and cans off the side of the highways.
"There's so many nowadays I need a trailer," he explained.
I told him what the trailer is called, BoB, and how to find one.
He thanked me, then his wife showed up. He tried to introduce us. She wanted no part of me!
They were gone as fast as they'd showed up, the rain was still falling.
I went back into Safeway, looked up the phone number of a nearby campground, and called.
A woman answered.
"You got room for a man on a bicycle with a tent," I asked.
"Yeah, I have sites. Fifteen dollars." she responded.
"I'll be along shortly," I replied. "Thanks."
"Okay," she said, and hung up.
Braving the rain and wind, Imade the two K run west to the Prairie Breeze Campground and Inn. Prairie Tornado is more like it! The place was bald prairie with not so much as a stick to tie a tarp to. It did have a picnic table and a patch of grass, which is all I really need.
Setting up in the rain and somehow managing to keep it dry, I decided to take a nap. It was still early in the afternoon. During a lull in the storm later in the day I managed to cook dinner. A couple beautiful rainbows appeared in the eastern sky. Again I was asleep by nine, listening to CBC, the wind, and the rain.
There was a heavy dew in the morning, as most mornings of late, and it took some time to dry my tent fly and tarps. Mercifully the rain had stopped and a light west wind blew. I was gone by 10 am and had a good ride. Although the road, 2A, was narrow, there was very little traffic. I rolled through Millet before the road got even more narrow and the traffic thickened. By time I reached Kavanagh, a little after noon, the road was downright scary. Too many Sunday drivers, no shoulder to flee to.
After a light lunch along the service road, I threw caution to the wind and turned east along the first paved road I found. It was a good decision, and led me to Hwy 814. I turned north, ran a coulee, came down the other side, and was in the middle of a long climb when I reached Hwy 623, Rolly View Road. I pulled up near a fence post at the side of the road.
As I did two dirt bikers suddenly appeared from a nearby ditch. They pulled right up to me and shut off their engines. These were two rough guys, and under some circumstances they might have been difficult to deal with. Today however, it was early, there was plenty of traffic around, and they'd not been drinking. We all stood there smoking cigarettes and chatting for a good half hour. Turns out they were on their way to the local dump to do some scavenging, and were genuinely interested in what I was doing, although they did ask me some scary questions, like, "What's your weapon of choice?" to which I simply smiled and said nothing.
"What's your trailer worth?" was another. I said it was a bent up old piece of crap that probably wouldn't work with a good bike. For these boys, I basically made like I was a homeless guy who got tired of staying under a bridge. It worked, and we had a good visit.
It was 2:30 in the afternoon by time the boys roared away. I made my way into the edge of Leduc, turned into the Lions campground and paid $18 for a spot in their overflow, along a barbed wire fence, overlooking a fallow field, atop the septic flood plain. I don't know where the Lions Club gets off charging $18 to camp on a septic field, with no water or facilities within 300 meters, but they do! As my neighbour in the place, a geologist who lives in Eastern Manitoba later put it, while pointing out the field of RVs to the west of us, "those guys are what matters."
That was a nice night. I discovered a series of paths behind the site that led into downtown Leduc, and through some very nice bird habitat. Unfortunately the birds were pretty much toast because the whole site is in the flight path of the Edmonton International Airport, with big jets, and even F14s, taking off and landing every few minutes. I would have got a good sleep there if it weren't for those planes.
Next morning, holiday Monday in these parts, I toured the industrial area around the international airport. Those wide roads, usually congested with big rigs, were empty and clear. It was a marvellous spin, and something to see such a busy place dead as those ground hogs back in Torrington!
I followed those roads up to the 625, then turned east towards Beaumont, where I'd heard there was another Lions Campground. When I got there I took my lunch while reading and rereading a sign that said: "Self Contained Camping Units Only."
Was this another way of saying, "No Tenting." I sat there for a long time, eventually determining that the moment I set up a tent, I was going to be under seige from the local Lions. I was tempted to test my pre-suspicion but decided, because it was only two in the afternoon, I may as well go into the big city, Edmonton.
Venturing back out on Highway 814, which had now become 50th Street, Edmonton, I found it full of holiday traffic rolling home. Stopping and talking with a couple Rural Crime Watch folks, who were idling on a corner, I got them to show me on a map how to get into town a back way, along Township Road 510, then north along Parsons Road.
Here again I encountered another of those fools who just has to send a message to us cyclists. He was waiting for me at a crossroads. When I was midway across it, he suddenly leaned on his gas and cut out in front of me. I looked the other way and kept on peddling. A few minutes later he was pulled off on the side of the road, making some sort of emergency repair. I was concerned for a moment this one was going to be a real jerk, but when he saw me getting close, he quickly jumped in his van and drove off. I was relieved.
My route led me to the interesection of Parsons Road, Ellerslie Road, and Highway 2, right at the south end of the city. Ellerslie had a clear bicycle lane. I checked my map, turned west on Ellerslie, then south at 111 Street, and before I knew it I was heading into the center of the city. Some blocks along 111 Street a car came whipping out of MacDonalds, and onto the cycling lane, almost taking my front end off. I bellowed. The woman driver looked at me quickly, then stepped on the gas. Her male passenger flipped a bird. I was miffed this time and bellowed: “Get Out Of The Car.
I think my bellow must have scared them because they really hit the gas. Half a mile later I was coming up on a red light and there they were again! The passenger was craning around to look at me. As I pulled up behind them, keeping a respectable distance, they ran the red light to escape. I saw a cop rip around the corner after them.
Just then, the cycle lane took a detour away from the road. There's one in every town, and I'd just escaped another.
The detour had led me to a cycle path along the Whitemud Freeway. I stopped near a school yard to check my maps and get my bearings. For all intent and purpose I was headed for the University area, and Old Strathcona. While there, a guy who was atop a fence around a nearby home, apparently cleaning his pool, asked if he could help me find anything. In the end he gave me a vague idea where I was, and where things were. Then, just as I was leaving I asked him: "What about Campgrounds?"
"Oh, there's a very nice campground just four blocks from here!" came his reply.
That campground was the Rainbow Valley. Overpriced, over populated, bowl of dust and diesel fumes, it was, but surrounded by a very nice forest down in the Whitemud Coulee.
It was there I began this travelog last night, sitting up into the wee hours. I am finishing it almost 24 hours later from a room in the Commercial Hotel, aka The Blues On Whyte, where I have shacked up for the night, to get out of the rain.
The Folk Fest has apparently found a yard for me to camp in for the festival, but I've not been able to make contact yet. So tonight I'll get out of the weather, then tomorrow go visit the folk fest folks and find me a place to stay.
I'm sure that will be an adventure, but one for another day.
Hope you're all well.
Will
Return to Travelog Mainpage
Return to Will's Homepage