Garrett here!
The four of us have reunited in Calgary! Kristi and I cycled in at sunset on the 22nd after covering our largest distance yet: 131 km! With no tailwind it was a bit of a slog, but I enjoyed a perpetual enthusiasm fuelled by the promise of our arrival.
As we passed the city limits the sun set directly ahead over the centre line of the Trans-Canada. With barely a transition, it dipped below the Rockies, and suddenly the dramatic sawtooth peaks struck a bold silhouette: pastel evening blue mountains stood in stark contrast to the blazing orange sunset sky, like two dichroic facets of the same brilliant landscape. They looked surprisingly massive and close, and I felt giddy as my nose went tingly and my eyes watered. I'm
so excited to cycle among those mountains!
First, though, what has come before: the journey to Calgary has probably been the most memorable singular stretch of this tour so far. Having parted ways with Justin and Viera until Calgary, Kristi and I left HELP International in Weyburn, Saskatchewan into the brunt of a westerly wind. The wind was strong, and remained so for several days. I quickly learned how uncompromising and bloody-hell
frustrating a prairie wind can be. It's relatively steady, but with enough sudden gusts so as to prevent you from ever achieving a steady cycling cadence. Our speed was cut down to one-third of our typical pace -- some days to
one-quarter. The landscape around us seemed fixed in place as we fought the headwind, and a daily distance of even 40 km felt like a significant achievement. With the lack of velocity and scenery to provide the typical sensory cycling pleasures, Kristi and I focused inwards, on each other and on our own thoughts and musings.
Our morale was buoyed by the consistent generosity and hospitality of the Saskatchewanians we encountered. One of our first nights along this leg of the journey was spent in the obscure but archetypal Saskatchewan small-town of Lang: an island of poplar trees on the horizon, surrounded by a sea of sweet green and yellow grasses, enclosing the town in a ring of rattling leaves and wind relief. Get closer, and the requisite grain elevator comes into view. It looks perhaps two km away, but you're gradually reminded of the vastness of this landscape as the image remains on the horizon, perhaps for another hour or so, before you pass the first poplars. Anyways, the important thing is the people. The owner of the local grocery store kindly invites us to camp on her store's lawn, and as we prepare dinner over our camping stove, local gent Ray Beck pulls up in a pick-up and extends even greater hospitality; he and his wife Judy run a hunting lodge, but as duck hunting season has not quite begun, the lodge sits empty. After a day of strong headwinds and driving rain, we're invited into the comfort of a warm cottage. We shed our wet gear with a series of dull splats and don our PJs. Kristi sets a pot of chicory tea to brewing on the kitchen stove, and we get better acquainted with our hosts.
Next snippet: we're west of Moose Jaw with a blissful tailwind that's predicted to last several days. The land has begun to undulate, and it feels as though it's sloughing us westward with a serpent's motions. From the very modest elevation of the hilltops, we can see immense grassy plains that stretch into the next set of hills in the faded blue distance. To my uninformed imagination, it looks alternately like the wild grasslands of eastern Africa and the stark desert hills of western China... but it's right
here, and it's stunning. We arrive in another small town (Saskatchewan has a great slew of them, but most include little more than a few houses and a gas station). This time, the town's called Morse. It's dinner time, and we enter the highway-side cafe in which a total of one couple is dining. We ask the server about good places to set up a tent, and before the server can think of the ideal spot, the woman over at the table at the far side of the room puts down her fork and walks over to us, smiling. She's Gloria Weppler, the Morse town administrator, and she's handing us the key to the local community centre. Kristi and I now have another warm place to bed down (night-time temperatures are getting down into the single digits at this point) and a spacious kitchen in which to cook. So if you're heading along the Trans-Canada in western Saskatchewan, stop in at the Morse town hall and say hello to Gloria
for us!
Another instance of unabashed kindness: not far beyond Morse, we've entered Swift Current, the last major city before the Alberta border. It's early evening, and right at the edge of town is the East Side Church of God. To be honest, it looks a bit like Las Vegas material (I'm not sure, but the cross might be made of neon bulbs) -- yet churches have been consistently hospitable in allowing us to camp on their properties, so in I go. There's a choir practice happening: upbeat piano and folksy acoustic guitar accompany a small group singing in the sanctuary, and I mill about for a few minutes, not wanting to interrupt. The song ends, and I peek my head into the room. Broad grins greet me and beckon me in; we're welcome to get warmed up until the church closes up at 8pm. We can camp on the lawn, absolutely, and there's a garage we can set up in too if we like. Pastor Dave even offers to call some friends who might host us. I ask if I can play the piano. It's the absolute best piano I've ever played (not that I've played a lot), and the acoustics in the sanctuary are fantastic. Halfway through a song (
Nuvole Bianche by Ludovico Einaudi), Mary Henderson, one of the singers, comes right over and invites Kristi and I to her home nearby. She and her husband, Steve, are unbelievably kind. As avid campers, we find we have much in common, and their daughter shares some of the wisdom she earned cycling through Mexico and Central America. We're given the spare room, and have yet another cozy slumber thanks entirely to the outgoing kindness and trust of others.
Another: a bit farther west, in Gull Lake, we stop in for dinner groceries, and are approached by local farmer Earl Line. He's 87 years old, and he's consistently working
sixteen hour days on his farm and cattle ranch. He invites us in for dinner, and we end up making a vegan concoction for the three of us. Kristi and I are unsure of whether this freaky food will be appreciated by our rural rancher host, but Earl enjoys the departure from the usual fare.
We've also found camaraderie with fellow travelers. In Chaplin, just west of Moose Jaw, we stop at a cafe to have a cup of tea and warm our toes. Just as we're leaving, up saunters Justin Young, a First Nations youth from Kamloops, BC. He's
walking the length and breadth of North America during a four-year odyssey: from Kamloops to Winnipeg to Halifax to Mexico and back to Kamloops. He's walking for self-healing and to help motivate others to overcome challenges and reach their full potential. Each day, he dedicates his walk to a different cause, and he gives motivational talks at schools. Before we leave, Justin hands us a gift: a braid of sweetgrass for smudging. We burn some of it several days later on my birthday, to celebrate and to relieve our exhaustion. It's the smell of kindness and perseverance.
Farther along, at another cafe in Sidewood, a cyclist pulls up and gives us a jovial greeting. We haven't seen any cycle tourists since Manitoba... possibly since Ontario! Even more remarkable, he's headed west like us, and he began in Waterloo, right next door to our very own Guelph! So we join up with this Ian for a few days, and we enjoy it so well that it feels like weeks. We all make the landmark crossing into Alberta together. The terrain at the border is incredible. We careen down the biggest hill we've seen since Lake Superior, surrounded by surreal slopes: domed grassy mounds so uniform in shape they look like a hobbit housing complex.
Ian's arranged for a place to stay in Medicine Hat through the online cyclist's network, WarmShowers.org. We're all invited to stay with Doug and Bonnie, and their hospitality is unprecedented -- a hot meal, warm showers, and our own rooms await us immediately upon arrival, and Doug does our own laundry for us! Their motivation for accommodating bicycle tourists resonates well with us; a few years ago, they cycled the US and Mexico for nine months, and were floored by the generosity shown to them everywhere they went. They decided to pay it forward by joining up as WarmShowers hosts. I have every intention of doing likewise.
Now, Doug's a physiotherapist, and the next morning he does an assessment of my knees and Kristi's too; he offers to custom-fit our seats and pedals so as to better account for our tendinitis. I've found the difference quite significant since then, and I owe both Doug and Bonnie a great deal of gratitude.
We parted ways with Ian after that, and here we are in Calgary, in plain sight of the Rockies' powdered peaks... or are those what they call the foothills? If those are foothills, the thought of
mountains gives me shivers of excitement.
