Hi Folks,
I know this is quick, and a number of you have yet to read #7 but, here goes.
When I left Consul the drunks were gathered 'round trying to find lost keys, shoes, beers. What's more the wind was blowing my way, so off I went.
I rolled at 10:30 in the morning and pulled into Eastend just ahead of a vicious storm that ripped at the trees, pounded hail, and did everything it could to keep me up all night listening to its howl.
There's not much between Consul and Eastend but wind and grass and gophers. Saw a few Pronghorns. They can sure run fast. But if you really want fast, check the gophers out. Those little critters can go from a standing start, and they do stand up on their hind legs just like humans, to sixty in about two meters distance. Over the generations they seem to have learned to stay off the road more than they used to, but the little turds are still out there challenging the traffic and sometimes losing, only to be ravaged by small birds and tire treads. Even faster than the Pronghorns or the gophers, are the hawks. I watched one swoop down on a racing gopher and rise up again with the thing squirming in its talons, before the gopher even knew it was there.
Sadly, the Eastend Campground was crap, although they did have a picnic shelter I hung out in through the early part of the storm. Too boot, the actual campground was a rather nice setting in some low shrub land near the Frenchman River, with Cottonwoods all around, but it was unkempt and I wouldn't have used their shower even if I'd been honest and paid. No one came to ask for the $15 camp fee, and when I got up at the crack of dawn to make my getaway, I simply overlooked it.
That town extracted its justice though. I spent a good $70 getting out of there, between groceries I didn't really need, a mail out home, and over priced coffee. I also spend $6 on breakfast, because the rain had not allowed me to cook coffee or porridge comfortably. It was a good breakfast, at Jake's, and many people there took an interest in what I was doing, including a table full of ladies in their '80s, six of them, all crammed in an old style restaurant booth like teenage girls.
"We been doing this for 68 years," one old gal told me, "since we were freshmen at high school." They were so cute, and I imagine holy terrors back in the day.
The great wind I'd had on my hide the day before had now turned, and was blowing hard from the northeast, creating a head crosswind that slowed me right down. It took as long to do the 30 K to Shaunavon as it had the 75 to Eastend. But did it I did, and I pulled into Shaunavon just ahead of what appeared to be another storm.
So I set up camp in the local tourist park, right in the center of town, in a city park. I'd camped there before, and though it was small and cramped, I'd had a good time with other campers. This time though the city had rented several spaces to oil riggers with giant fifth wheels and those pick-up trucks that rumble like thunder. You know the ones, diesel hemis that can be heard a mile away. Luckily, most of the evening, the riggers were out somewhere and I didn't have to put up with them, which was a relief, considering the number of beer bottles scattered around their sites.
One did show up and start to have a very loud cell phone conversation, right when I was in the middle of listening to the neighbourhood owl hoot. At first I said rather loudly: "Please man, go inside your trailer with that, I don't want to listen to the conversation." When that didn't work, I placed my shotty staticky, transistor radio out on my table, mis-tuned it, and turned it around, with the volume up, to face the guy. It worked! He moved his cell-convo inside right away. I turned off the radio and went back to listening to the owl.
When darkness fell I was in bed, and its a good thing I was, because at 6 am the next morning the oil riggers showed up, enmasse, and did a diesel dusting of the entire campground, with their engines revved like they were trying to reach the space station in half an hour.
I came out of my tent like a Grizzly awakened half way through the winter!
"What the blazes is the matter with you boys. Can't you see there are people sleeping! Why the hell are you making so much noise at six in the morning?!"
One guy challenged me, acting tough, he yelled at me: "What's your problem, you got somethin' to say."
"Yeah, I got something to say," I bellowed, startling his bigness that such a tiny man would keep on coming. "This is a freaking public campground, not a trailer park. We're not in your backyard, Boy, we're in a public place, and like you, I paid to be here. So cut the crap!"
He shut up, but then he and his buddies got out of their trucks and proceeded to crack several beers. By 7:15 they were all smashed, but that didn't stop them. They kept it up, f-this, f-that, going on about the grossest crud, even while little kids on their way to school walked by. When the f-ing got too much at one point, I yelled again: "Get a vocabulary!"
About 8 am the little girl, who's summer job it is to take care of the camp, showed up with a receipt for me. She informed me I'd have to complain to the city, she could do nothing, and then apologized, hinting strongly that I should really complain to the city.
By shortly after nine I'd finished up, packed up and was rolling out. As I left one of the drunken fools yelled, in a very pleasant but pretentious tone: "Have a nice day!"
I turned to him.
"You boys need to learn some manners. I'm sorry your Mama's never taught you any, but one day you are going to have to learn some, who knows, maybe today."
The retort came quick.
"Come back here and I'll shove your bike up your ass," shouted the biggest one of the bunch, who seemed to be the leader, mostly because he was supplying the beer.
"And that would be the height of your intellect," I responded, as I made my way up the street and directly to the town office.
I was calm when I walked into city hall.
"I just wanted to inform you I have, in the past, stayed in your village campground and quite enjoyed myself," I began. "However, I am very sad to inform you that last night I unfortunately stayed there again."
In seconds the city clerk, a councillor, and several others were gathered around. They knew they had a problem, and seemed relieved that a camper was finally officially complaining, instead of just driving away mad. By time I left, a little force of city workers and RCMP were heading to the park to evict the boys.
I don't know if the boys learned any manners as a result, but I know I felt a little vindicated.
Guess where those boys were from, Alberta, land of big trucks and little dick heads.
You'd think that would be enough excitement and justice pursuit for one morning, but no, not for me!
My errands, on the way out of town, took me in search of fuel. I use white gas, or camping fuel as it is known. I set out to find some. The last can I'd purchased, somewhere in Alberta, had cost me $2.49. At the "True Value" hardware store in Shaunavon they wanted $6.79 plus tax for the same two-litre sized can of the stuff! I was appalled. They don't even charge that for it at the little gouge and gourge camping stores in remote regions of BC, how dare a big chain store try to milk me for it here!
So I went to their competition, the Co-op of Saskatchewan. They wanted $9, including tax, for a full gallon of the stuff. Great deal, but such a can weighs six pounds and takes up a space about a quarter of the size of my BoB trailer!
I forwent the purchase and rode in a headwind up to the next store in line, and the store after that, none of them had anything that even resembled camping gas. Finally, I relented and turned back, but there was still no way I was going to let True Value Hardware gouge me. I stopped at the Co-op, went in, bought the gallon of the stuff, and somehow managed to squeeze onto the BoB.
Off I went, into a headwind, then 30 K of cross headwinds, with a full load of groceries, and a giant can of gas! It was a mighty slow go, with BoB overloaded, 30 to 40 k winds, and a steadily rising and increasingly rough road, getting tougher by the hour.
Why so much food and and extra weight?
I'd learned in Eastend, that when Sitting Bull came to Canada and he and the Ogala Sioux spent two years in the Cypress Hills region. Crazy Horse, the war chief, in search of a new home and hunting grounds, took a party of warriors out to explore the Frenchman River valley, which winds its way from the Cypress Hills to Grasslands National Park, where it crosses the border and eventually empties into the Missouri River on its way to the Gulf of Mexico. The thought of following the hoof prints of Crazy Horse and his warriors intrigued me. I decided I would go south from Shaunavon, to Climax, and Grasslands. From what I could gather in Shaunavon, the road south was a barren land, with empty towns, no place to restock, and very little water. I left Shaunavon with a week's food, a couple days water, and of course, the can of gas!
Maxxed right out I was, as I turned into the head cross winds and began the slow steady climb. I'd also been warned of a very steep hill once I reached the Frenchman Valley, and of rattlesnakes!
It was a long hard ride, that took about four hours of low gear grinding, to reach the bluffs above the Frenchman River. But, rounding a corner, and coming out on a high bluff above the valley, spotted with sage brush, sand, and a brown vista much like the Okanagan, made it all worthwhile. I stopped a while, snapped some photos, then began my descent.
That's where the fun really began. The road through the valley is as snaky as the muddy little river at its bottom. Winding down the long curves, I was unable to open up and let the bike glide because the crosswinds were moving at more than twice the rate they were up on the bald prairie. To make matters worse, as the road turned and weaved, the cross winds became full blown headers. Then, as I reached the bottom of the valley and began the four K climb, at eight percent grades, the wind became a turbine engine, threatening to turn me side over side, and ass over tea kettle. It was everything I could do to keep myself in the lane, let alone climb the hill.
But climb the hill I did, without so much as a single stop brake. I just put my head down, slid into my lowest low, and ground that hill to dirt! It fought me, it tried to toss me several times, but . . . my bike came through. In fact, it was somewhere half way up that hill that it happened. Wheels took over!
I just kept my little piston legs pumping, and by time I reached the top of that grind, where I let out a war hoop that would have scared Crazy Horse, and was probably heard in BC, I fell totally in love with my bike!
Up until now I've been questioning whether or not all the dough I've spent on Wheels was worth it. I doubted its mettle as a bicycle, and have at several points threatened to throw it off a cliff. But not anymore! Wheels is a magnificent beast, a worthy steed, a champion, and the way it took that hill out of my hands and put it beneath the rubber, Wheels is the best bike in the world!
When I let out that war hoop at the top of the hill, the wind must have heard it because it settled right down, and for the remaining 20 K of the day's ride, it blew gently to my rear and off to one side, allowing me an easy spin over the narrow easy rolling landscape and into the town of Climax.
Climax was a treat. The people were sweet. Even the town hooligans, in their noisy little pick-up, with beer in their laps, stopped to visit, and to see if there was anything I needed. One burly fellow offered me a ride a couple blocks to where he knew for sure there was an unprotected wireless internet signal. Another, the storekeep, of a good-sized grocery, where I could have got everything I needed, including a reasonably sized can of gas, gave me free bananas.
"Here," he said, "take these bananas, you'll need to potassium in the heat."
What's more, the camping was free, on grass, undisturbed by any noise, at all, except for the sound of two owls hooting in harmony, one with a clear tenor voice, and the other a bass. They were amazing, singing back and forth, and in total harmony. Even the other birds shut up to listen now and then.
I slept well and, at 9:30 this morning, rolled out of Climax in a very slight breeze, barely noticeable, but quietly from the north west. Three and half hours later I'd covered the 60 plus K into Val Marie, on the edge Grasslands National Park.
Here, I've been treated very nicely, in what appears to be a small town in the middle of nowhere, filled with strikingly beautiful women (although that could be road weariness). Nonetheless, I've been treated very well, smiled at a lot, and have even had a few very elegant looking females cruise me on their bicycles. I'm the new guy in town, and boys and girls, I'm feeling lucky.
I've just had a big dinner, cooked with my abundance of gas, and am all fed up, but unfortunately have had to pay $15 to pitch a tent in a mosquito hatchery. So bad are the bugs, I am covered head to foot and have netting over my face. About the only thing keeping them from attacking my hands is the speed I type!
So here I am, in the hoof prints of Crazy Horse, who never let himself be photographed and never lost his spirit, thinking maybe I might take a day off in this town and explore the park before I continue.
Speaking of continuing. I've just heard from both the Winnipeg Folk Festival and the Edmonton Folk Festival. Looks like I'll be working them both! So, when I leave here I'll have to turn up the gas, and get my buns to Winnipeg. I can be on the Manitoba border in less than a week, if I really put the pedal down and the wind is on my side.
More to come. Hope you're all well.
Will
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