My notes during the portage are a bit disjointed, but this newspaper article had it together:Written by April Scheinoha for the Northern Watch Online | |
He is biking and canoeing his way to New Orleans Five hours. Usually, the 17-mile trip from Newfolden to Thief River Falls doesn’t take that long. For Kevin Saff, it did. “At one point, I was a mile or two away, and I thought I was not going to make it,” Saff said. He was probably grateful that Hardware Hank and Anderson Power and Equipment are located on the west side of Thief River Falls. Saff is traveling via bike and canoe from Calgary, Alberta, Canada, to New Orleans, a trip of about 2,500 miles when traveling on roads. He rides the bike when he can’t travel by canoe. Prior to heading out, Saff put his rig together. The rig consists of the bike, a boat trailer and the canoe. The bike folds up for those moments when Saff can actually canoe. Besides the rig, Saff brought along a tent for those moments when he wants to sleep. He also brought along other necessities like a journal. This is the first time that Saff has participated in anything of this magnitude. In Missouri, he participated in a nine-day bike trip. He has also participated in “little bike trips here and there.” On June 22, Saff began the largest bike – and canoe – trip of his life thus far. In his words, he threw his boat into the Bow River in Calgary. It took him three months to travel to Winnipeg, a trip of about 825 miles when traveling on roads. From Manitoba, he made his way into the United States. Saff plans to travel down the Mississippi River to New Orleans. He expects that the Mississippi River leg will take about three months. “I’m just hoping I beat the freeze,” said Saff, who has read about similar travels on the Mississippi River. However, in Saff’s case, he may face difficulties that those travelers haven’t faced – darkness and colder weather. Saff has already faced some formidable foes that would have forced less hardy folks to abandon the trip. There was the foe known as the Red River. Saff was traveling upstream, when he encountered a set of rapids. Of course, then a wind gust blew him 20 feet backwards. The next day, it rained, and Saff was so sore that he decided to stay in his tent all day. Later, Saff continued making his way to New Orleans. On Sunday night, he found himself in a different city with “new” in the title: Newfolden. Saff was staying at the Newfolden City Park, when he was approached by Pastor Phil Rokke. “I thought I had to see this thing,” recalled Rokke, who noticed Saff’s rig. Saff looked like he needed to warm up, so Rokke invited Saff to his house for food and a place to spend the night. On Monday, Saff was off again on his trip. That’s when an axle broke on his boat trailer. It was hard for him to pedal, but he made it to Thief River Falls five hours later. At about 4 p.m. Monday, he arrived at the businesses Hardware Hank and Anderson Power and Equipment. Employees tried to find Saff the necessary parts to fix his trailer. They were unable to find the parts in Thief River Falls. Then employee Jim Voytilla salvaged some parts from his farm in Viking. Some spare tires were also given to Saff. By the time the parts were found and put into place, it was about 8 p.m. It was too late for Saff to put up a tent. Instead, Saff stayed overnight at employee Scott Hemingsen’s home in Viking. In the meantime, Saff’s bike and canoe were safe at Anderson Power and Equipment. On Tuesday morning, Saff was off again, leaving an envious employee, Lyle Hanson, in his wake. However, before leaving the city, Saff went to the Thief River Falls Public Library to check his e-mail and write in his blog, “Kevin’s Little Floating Adventure.” The blog is available by logging onto http://kevinfloat.blogspot.comOne thing she didn't mention was Jim's side of the story. He had seen me at a gas station and driven a good ten minutes down the road before thinking "That guy's canoe said Calgary. I bet he's in a lot of trouble." He turned back for me and in the end it was the bike wheel in his garden that had what I needed to make it to Itasca. Day 114 ended: Scott Hemingsen's home in Viking |
Showing posts with label Cities and Towns. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cities and Towns. Show all posts
Thursday, April 11, 2013
October 13: Kevin's little floating adventure
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
September 26, Part 2: Of people and paddles
"It's leatherman!" the teenage girl said. She was working the counter at the donut shop up from the boat club. She waved her arms in front of her, the left elbow went down while the right was up, and vice-versa. It was a motion that resembled the hypnotic action of a TV show magician. I guess it is also the motion teenage girls use to greet middle-aged men dressed in leather.
"Is it all leather?" she asked him. Yes, it was. I couldn't help but overhear him explain that every article of his clothing was 100% leather.
The woman at the next table leaned over to me. "Are you a kayaker?"
She must have been asking because I had a two-meter long kayak paddle leaned up against the wall next to me. "Ah, no, I'm actually going to try to sell this paddle." She nodded at this strange explanation, in which I failed to explain that I had been canoeing across Canada and for three months had not used this paddle since the first day. It was time for it to go.
The bus stop was right out the door. School must have been out because three kids were trying their skateboard tricks there. It is a mystery to me how skateboards have maintained their coolness factor when I don't believe I've ever seen a successful trick performed on them in real life. You would think so much public failure would drive kids away from the machine.
My bike was in the shop to get cleaned up, so I boarded the bus with the others. At the next stop, a young black couple were arguing. She kicked him and hit him, and the bus was not a moment too soon for the young man. He calmly boarded and paid the fare, and looked back towards us on the bus, desperate, and alone.
One of his eyes was red, red where it should have been white.
MEC had advertised a gear swap. I explained to the head gear swapper that I wasn't sure when I was leaving town, and I was looking for advice on selling this kayak paddle. I would have had to pay something like $10 just to enter it in the swap, and it was unclear whether I would be able to retrieve any money. He suggested I just take it to Salvation Army.
I walked for some time in the direction he pointed, but I must have looked lost carrying a kayak paddle through downtown Winnipeg because a businessman on his lunch break asked where I was going.
"Salvation Army," I said, "but I'm not sure where that is."
He dialed up 411 and I heard this part of the conversation.
"Winnipeg."
"Winnipeg."
"Win. Ni. Peg."
"Salvation Army."
"Salvation Army."
"Sal. Va. Tion. Ar. My."
"Yes, I'm at the corner of xxxx and yyyy and I'm wondering if there's a Salvation Army nearby. Winnipeg. Xxxx and yyyy. Yes, Salvtion Army. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, thank you. Bye!"
He directed me south on the next street and my walk continued.
On the way down I saw a man in one of those hooded jackets with patterns on them, white and puffy with repeated images of skulls and things. It's a fashion I associate with people who have a need to look tough like rappers and high schoolers. He was walking a tiny terrier on a pink lead.
I arrived at the Salvation Army. "Do you take this?" I asked the dishevelled old woman at the counter.
The answer was "Yes." I wouldn't need to just drop my paddle off in an alley after all.
Just before sundown I found the Hostels International downtown Winnipeg location. It was about a block and a half from the Quest Inn where I had started the day. I met some interesting people there I will mention later, and according to my journal:
Day 97 ended: HI-Downtown Winnipeg
"Is it all leather?" she asked him. Yes, it was. I couldn't help but overhear him explain that every article of his clothing was 100% leather.
The woman at the next table leaned over to me. "Are you a kayaker?"
She must have been asking because I had a two-meter long kayak paddle leaned up against the wall next to me. "Ah, no, I'm actually going to try to sell this paddle." She nodded at this strange explanation, in which I failed to explain that I had been canoeing across Canada and for three months had not used this paddle since the first day. It was time for it to go.
The bus stop was right out the door. School must have been out because three kids were trying their skateboard tricks there. It is a mystery to me how skateboards have maintained their coolness factor when I don't believe I've ever seen a successful trick performed on them in real life. You would think so much public failure would drive kids away from the machine.
My bike was in the shop to get cleaned up, so I boarded the bus with the others. At the next stop, a young black couple were arguing. She kicked him and hit him, and the bus was not a moment too soon for the young man. He calmly boarded and paid the fare, and looked back towards us on the bus, desperate, and alone.
One of his eyes was red, red where it should have been white.
MEC had advertised a gear swap. I explained to the head gear swapper that I wasn't sure when I was leaving town, and I was looking for advice on selling this kayak paddle. I would have had to pay something like $10 just to enter it in the swap, and it was unclear whether I would be able to retrieve any money. He suggested I just take it to Salvation Army.
I walked for some time in the direction he pointed, but I must have looked lost carrying a kayak paddle through downtown Winnipeg because a businessman on his lunch break asked where I was going.
"Salvation Army," I said, "but I'm not sure where that is."
He dialed up 411 and I heard this part of the conversation.
"Winnipeg."
"Winnipeg."
"Win. Ni. Peg."
"Salvation Army."
"Salvation Army."
"Sal. Va. Tion. Ar. My."
"Yes, I'm at the corner of xxxx and yyyy and I'm wondering if there's a Salvation Army nearby. Winnipeg. Xxxx and yyyy. Yes, Salvtion Army. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Okay, thank you. Bye!"
He directed me south on the next street and my walk continued.
On the way down I saw a man in one of those hooded jackets with patterns on them, white and puffy with repeated images of skulls and things. It's a fashion I associate with people who have a need to look tough like rappers and high schoolers. He was walking a tiny terrier on a pink lead.
I arrived at the Salvation Army. "Do you take this?" I asked the dishevelled old woman at the counter.
The answer was "Yes." I wouldn't need to just drop my paddle off in an alley after all.
Just before sundown I found the Hostels International downtown Winnipeg location. It was about a block and a half from the Quest Inn where I had started the day. I met some interesting people there I will mention later, and according to my journal:
Watched debates: same stupid talking points from 3 months ago plus news that Russia invaded Georgia!
Day 97 ended: HI-Downtown Winnipeg
Sunday, February 22, 2009
September 26, Part 1: Leaving Amber
In the morning, Amber insisted again that I take a pair of baggy jeans, as if that would make up for threatening me for cash the previous day. "You know I didn't spend that money on anything good," she said.
She also welcomed me to spend another night or two, saying she didn't feel like going anywhere all day. She was too tired to go anywhere except for maybe lunch later.
I said goodbye and she must have known I did not intend to come back. She said she didn't like goodbyes; we might see each other again, if only in the next world.
I wandered the city until I found the Winnipeg Information Center. I asked for a bus map and a good place to grab breakfast. The woman there recommended the "Underground Cafe". Brightly colored murals there depicted jazz musicians and Salvador Dali. The layout and hosting confused me as to whether I was meant to order at the counter or the table, but somehow I got my meal.
I didn't record what I ate, nor do I remember it. It wasn't anything special.
When I left the place, about ten, I headed to Mountain Equipment Coop, where I hoped to find gear that would make the rest of my trip easier.
While waiting for the walk light at Ellis Avenue, a familiar person was walking up the road towards me. It was Amber!
She asked if I wanted to go get drinks.
Day 97 continues.
She also welcomed me to spend another night or two, saying she didn't feel like going anywhere all day. She was too tired to go anywhere except for maybe lunch later.
I said goodbye and she must have known I did not intend to come back. She said she didn't like goodbyes; we might see each other again, if only in the next world.
I wandered the city until I found the Winnipeg Information Center. I asked for a bus map and a good place to grab breakfast. The woman there recommended the "Underground Cafe". Brightly colored murals there depicted jazz musicians and Salvador Dali. The layout and hosting confused me as to whether I was meant to order at the counter or the table, but somehow I got my meal.
I didn't record what I ate, nor do I remember it. It wasn't anything special.
When I left the place, about ten, I headed to Mountain Equipment Coop, where I hoped to find gear that would make the rest of my trip easier.
While waiting for the walk light at Ellis Avenue, a familiar person was walking up the road towards me. It was Amber!
She asked if I wanted to go get drinks.
Day 97 continues.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
September 25, Part 2: Meeting Amber
The phonebook listed a Woodbine Hostel as a potential place to stay. It might be cheap, and the location was 466 Main Street, which sounded downtown enough. When I arrived there the first thing I noticed is it was Woodbine Hotel, not Hostel. I walked in and so no one at what I took for the front desk: a kind of white, drywall counter. I felt foolish just standing there, so I went back to the street, walked around the block, and the second time saw 466 1/2 Main Street by the first door I had tried.
This door led immediately to a stairway leading straight up to the second floor. A dingy middle-aged couple were talking a half flight up and it was too narrow to pass them. I waited for these important people to disperse before I could get upstairs, where I squeezed through the hallways hoping to figure out what was going on here. It was still early afternoon but loud voices and televisions shouted through the scratched doors until I accidentally found myself downstairs again, back out in the street.
Once again I entered 466. This time I did not stop at the empty counter but continued into the bar behind it. There was a couple there indistinguishable from that I squeezed by on the stairs, and a plump blonde girl talking to them until I entered and grabbed everyone's attention.
I said my name was Kevin and I asked if there were any rooms available; no, there were not. But the blonde said she had an extra room available at her hotel, and without having time to think about this we were walking down the street towards it.
I asked for her name. "Amber," she said, "and wht's yours?"
"Kevin," I said, and then because I had already said this, added, "Still."
Tears filled her eyes and she said she suffered from memory loss due to a car accident in 1996.
She was on permanent disability since then.
Then, she explained that she didn't really have a second bedroom.
Or a second bed.
But this would be okay because we would take the mattress off of the bed and she would just sleep on the boxsprings.
Before we arrived at the Quest Hotel, she warned me that there were a bunch of old people sitting out front who "had nothing better to do" than watch people come or go. She thought it would be best if we went in separately because the people at the front desk were "really nosy" and she didn't want anyone to think she was having people over.
Compared to the easy pace of the river her statements hit me like a supersonic train and I did not have time to think. A minute after she entered the hotel I followed her through the gauntlet of wrinkled Indians, avoided the front desk, and found her at the elevator, which we rode to the second floor.
When we got to her room I paid $40 for staying two nights. She told me to make myself comfortable, take a shower, make some phone calls, and that I looked like the guy from Nickelback and could use whatever makeup I wanted.
I took my shower, and made a couple phone calls but when she returned an hour later she didn't seem to think I was comfortable enough. Not that what she was about to say was going to help this. Allow me to quote from my journal:
Although Amber told me she would be back at the hotel "way before" 10, I got there about a quarter after nine, and there was no response to my increasingly heavy knocking. Now I was the the one wanting to kick her door down. I couldn't believe I had become so naive to be taken in by just anyone I happened to meet downtown.
I sat outside the hotel, on a stone wall around the nearby park. I thought I would catch her as she went in and force her to live up to her part of the bargain. I realized she was not in; her room was dark, and the curtain left as I had seen it.
After some time of the old people at the entrance staring at me, I gave up my post and went into the lobby. There were four public phones in the Quest Inn, the leftmost lower than the rest like a children's urinal. At the right one I could keep an eye on the stairs and elevator.
I hoped to get in touch with Luke, who said he knew someone who might live in town, or Kathy, who might have contact information for a mutual acquaintance who had moved to Winnipeg a couple years previous. Instead I got in touch with my friend Richard.
"Hey Richard, apparently I'm not very smart..."
"So you're saying you're a dumbass?"
(I know Richard cares deeply about me but sometimes his timing is off.)
All of a sudden around the corner came Amber, who grimaced in the direction of the front desk and said she was going upstairs. She took the elevator and I took the stairs, to appease the all-seeing eyes of the "high maintenance" people at the front desk. She asked if they'd given me any trouble.
At the hotel we take the mattress off the springs and she asked me if I wanted to do anything. I just said "Sleep."
She lay on the box springs, saying, "Don't worry, I'm comfortable up here."
...
Minutes later, she said, "How do you sleep?"
"Well," I said, "sometimes I lie on my stomach like this; sometimes on my side, my back; whatever's comfortable."
She said, "Do you toss and turn alot?"
She said, "Okay, this is not comfortable so I'll just come down there and sleep by the wall, and you can have that side." She brought down her blankets, lying beside me.
She said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to try to do anything sexual to you!"
With finality, she said, "Good night!" She reached out and slapped me in what turned out to be the most ironic place possible.
Day 96 ended: Room 2xx, the Quest Inn
This door led immediately to a stairway leading straight up to the second floor. A dingy middle-aged couple were talking a half flight up and it was too narrow to pass them. I waited for these important people to disperse before I could get upstairs, where I squeezed through the hallways hoping to figure out what was going on here. It was still early afternoon but loud voices and televisions shouted through the scratched doors until I accidentally found myself downstairs again, back out in the street.
Once again I entered 466. This time I did not stop at the empty counter but continued into the bar behind it. There was a couple there indistinguishable from that I squeezed by on the stairs, and a plump blonde girl talking to them until I entered and grabbed everyone's attention.
I said my name was Kevin and I asked if there were any rooms available; no, there were not. But the blonde said she had an extra room available at her hotel, and without having time to think about this we were walking down the street towards it.
I asked for her name. "Amber," she said, "and wht's yours?"
"Kevin," I said, and then because I had already said this, added, "Still."
Tears filled her eyes and she said she suffered from memory loss due to a car accident in 1996.
She was on permanent disability since then.
Then, she explained that she didn't really have a second bedroom.
Or a second bed.
But this would be okay because we would take the mattress off of the bed and she would just sleep on the boxsprings.
Before we arrived at the Quest Hotel, she warned me that there were a bunch of old people sitting out front who "had nothing better to do" than watch people come or go. She thought it would be best if we went in separately because the people at the front desk were "really nosy" and she didn't want anyone to think she was having people over.
Compared to the easy pace of the river her statements hit me like a supersonic train and I did not have time to think. A minute after she entered the hotel I followed her through the gauntlet of wrinkled Indians, avoided the front desk, and found her at the elevator, which we rode to the second floor.
When we got to her room I paid $40 for staying two nights. She told me to make myself comfortable, take a shower, make some phone calls, and that I looked like the guy from Nickelback and could use whatever makeup I wanted.
I took my shower, and made a couple phone calls but when she returned an hour later she didn't seem to think I was comfortable enough. Not that what she was about to say was going to help this. Allow me to quote from my journal:
When she came back she was distraught and asked for $20 more.
"Do you drink?" [she asked] -- "Sometimes."
"Ever do any drugs?" -- "No."
"How old are you?" -- "28."
"Smart. I did something 1 time and now I'm in trouble.... if I don't get $20 to this guy he's going to kick in the door."
She was very worried about being seen w/ me & although I gave her $20 I am extremely suspicious of her at this time. Hope I can contact someone to stay somewhere else tonight. Her address is Rm 2xx, Quest Hotel, (Quality Inn) ph. (204)956-xxxx
I took photos inside her room to prove I had been there. Her full name is Amber xxxxxxx.
When I left, I took all my things, just in case -- I almost hope I can find someone else to stay with, even if I'm out my $60. I feel like the rube from the country.
....At the laundromat now. I hope I can find someone other than Amber to stay with ASAP
Although Amber told me she would be back at the hotel "way before" 10, I got there about a quarter after nine, and there was no response to my increasingly heavy knocking. Now I was the the one wanting to kick her door down. I couldn't believe I had become so naive to be taken in by just anyone I happened to meet downtown.
I sat outside the hotel, on a stone wall around the nearby park. I thought I would catch her as she went in and force her to live up to her part of the bargain. I realized she was not in; her room was dark, and the curtain left as I had seen it.
After some time of the old people at the entrance staring at me, I gave up my post and went into the lobby. There were four public phones in the Quest Inn, the leftmost lower than the rest like a children's urinal. At the right one I could keep an eye on the stairs and elevator.
I hoped to get in touch with Luke, who said he knew someone who might live in town, or Kathy, who might have contact information for a mutual acquaintance who had moved to Winnipeg a couple years previous. Instead I got in touch with my friend Richard.
"Hey Richard, apparently I'm not very smart..."
"So you're saying you're a dumbass?"
(I know Richard cares deeply about me but sometimes his timing is off.)
All of a sudden around the corner came Amber, who grimaced in the direction of the front desk and said she was going upstairs. She took the elevator and I took the stairs, to appease the all-seeing eyes of the "high maintenance" people at the front desk. She asked if they'd given me any trouble.
At the hotel we take the mattress off the springs and she asked me if I wanted to do anything. I just said "Sleep."
She lay on the box springs, saying, "Don't worry, I'm comfortable up here."
...
Minutes later, she said, "How do you sleep?"
"Well," I said, "sometimes I lie on my stomach like this; sometimes on my side, my back; whatever's comfortable."
She said, "Do you toss and turn alot?"
She said, "Okay, this is not comfortable so I'll just come down there and sleep by the wall, and you can have that side." She brought down her blankets, lying beside me.
She said, "Don't worry, I'm not going to try to do anything sexual to you!"
With finality, she said, "Good night!" She reached out and slapped me in what turned out to be the most ironic place possible.
Day 96 ended: Room 2xx, the Quest Inn
Monday, February 16, 2009
September 25, Part 1: Enter Winnipeg
Winnipeg doesn't seem so big from the river.
If anything, I was surprised how many more places there were inside the official city limits that might have made good camping. Large wooded areas indicated isolated city parks. Islands formed in the river, around bridge pilings both current and past.
The houses and fenced yards gave way to apartment buildings. A man at river left threw a plastic bag into the river, and I saw where it accumulated with his other droppings. He had a tent made out of tarps there, living in the city. Not the first such rat I'd seen, but it seemed so much more wasteful, so blatantly predatory, compared to Calvin of Brandon.
Improvised dirt trails braided around the sides of the river, just missing the litterbug's tent, and grew into paved riverwalks and plazas filled with people, some out jogging, others out on lunch break.
I was in downtown Winnipeg, city founded at the meeting of the great rivers of southern Manitoba. Here the Assiniboine empties into the Red River of the North, which flows on into Lake Winnipeg and then the Hudson Bay.
My route, however, lay south. When I arrived in the city, as soon as practicable I had stopped to buy a map and try to figure out where I could store my canoe. I was interested in seeing the city, and also uncertain how I was going to get south to the Mississippi River. There was some possibility I could find a trucker to take me to Minneapolis, or I could get out of the water and try to bike some distance, or I could head upstream on the Red River.
I would start the upstream trip immediately. I found a listing for a Winnipeg canoe club about two miles south on the Red River, so it was time to press upstream for the first time during my trip.
The Red River is wide and powerful. A wind from out of the south did not help. I paddled hard. I had to cross the Transcanada Highway yet again. This time, the arches tunnelled the wind against me and it took all my strength to keep the boat under control and push through the bridge.
The two miles took 45 minutes of paddling, which isn't too bad, considering. When I got to the canoe club I parked my boat out on the dock, got out and walked up to the club. I walked all around the club building and checked out their dragon boats before deciding that they must be closed. So then it was back north on the Red to the canoe club neighbors, the Redboine Boating Club. There I received permission to leave my canoe out by their blue shed.
I would have to find someplace to spend the night in this city, so I filled my backpack with clothes and books, and was securing my food in front when I saw something crawling around in my oatmeal. It scurried into a plastic bag, which I tied up and pulled out of the boat, coming face to face with a giant rat.
I should have just stabbed it there but I took it out on the docks where a worker was repainting the white stripes. He said we should just try to drown it, and so he took the rat bag from me, and held it under the water, under the dock. The first try was no good so he pulled it out and retied it, then submerged the rat again. The creature went wild under the river, thrashing it around. When he pulled the bag back up there was nothing in it but holes.
We had just released a rat in this dock with all these expensive motorboats, my gift in exchange for letting me stay.
I wished String was there. She would have known what to do.
Day 96 continues.
If anything, I was surprised how many more places there were inside the official city limits that might have made good camping. Large wooded areas indicated isolated city parks. Islands formed in the river, around bridge pilings both current and past.
The houses and fenced yards gave way to apartment buildings. A man at river left threw a plastic bag into the river, and I saw where it accumulated with his other droppings. He had a tent made out of tarps there, living in the city. Not the first such rat I'd seen, but it seemed so much more wasteful, so blatantly predatory, compared to Calvin of Brandon.
Improvised dirt trails braided around the sides of the river, just missing the litterbug's tent, and grew into paved riverwalks and plazas filled with people, some out jogging, others out on lunch break.
I was in downtown Winnipeg, city founded at the meeting of the great rivers of southern Manitoba. Here the Assiniboine empties into the Red River of the North, which flows on into Lake Winnipeg and then the Hudson Bay.
My route, however, lay south. When I arrived in the city, as soon as practicable I had stopped to buy a map and try to figure out where I could store my canoe. I was interested in seeing the city, and also uncertain how I was going to get south to the Mississippi River. There was some possibility I could find a trucker to take me to Minneapolis, or I could get out of the water and try to bike some distance, or I could head upstream on the Red River.
I would start the upstream trip immediately. I found a listing for a Winnipeg canoe club about two miles south on the Red River, so it was time to press upstream for the first time during my trip.
The Red River is wide and powerful. A wind from out of the south did not help. I paddled hard. I had to cross the Transcanada Highway yet again. This time, the arches tunnelled the wind against me and it took all my strength to keep the boat under control and push through the bridge.
The two miles took 45 minutes of paddling, which isn't too bad, considering. When I got to the canoe club I parked my boat out on the dock, got out and walked up to the club. I walked all around the club building and checked out their dragon boats before deciding that they must be closed. So then it was back north on the Red to the canoe club neighbors, the Redboine Boating Club. There I received permission to leave my canoe out by their blue shed.
I would have to find someplace to spend the night in this city, so I filled my backpack with clothes and books, and was securing my food in front when I saw something crawling around in my oatmeal. It scurried into a plastic bag, which I tied up and pulled out of the boat, coming face to face with a giant rat.
I should have just stabbed it there but I took it out on the docks where a worker was repainting the white stripes. He said we should just try to drown it, and so he took the rat bag from me, and held it under the water, under the dock. The first try was no good so he pulled it out and retied it, then submerged the rat again. The creature went wild under the river, thrashing it around. When he pulled the bag back up there was nothing in it but holes.
We had just released a rat in this dock with all these expensive motorboats, my gift in exchange for letting me stay.
I wished String was there. She would have known what to do.
Day 96 continues.
Friday, February 6, 2009
September 16: Bob Crain
Bob Crain builds glass houses.
I suppose one day he was taking out the trash and noticed all the bottles. He realized he had a problem and decided to make something of himself. Or just the bottles.
Somewhere in southern Manitoba he started stacking them up. I don't know what he used for mortar, but he built a house with his addiction. When that was done he built a church out of bottles, and I guess that fixed him because he stopped there, with his house and church whistling in the wind.
I don't know how they are positioned, or how the sun glares off the surface at dawn or dusk. I don't know how tall, or wide, or deep those buildings stand. I don't know if they are close to each other, or far.
I did know they were ten miles from the Assiniboine and my bike had a gimpy tire.
The tire could have been fixed, or at least managed. The distance was not great but harder to negotiate. I did not want to see Bob Crain's glass bottle houses, so intriguing on my map and I did not see them.
I negotiated with myself. It's okay not to see everything. If you try to, you won't anyway. I could build something myself. A tribute to Bob Crain and his construction out of destruction.
Once while at a retreat stationed around a muddy lake, I went down to the lake and saw all the twisted rebar and concrete slabs there, and decided to build. I started with sundials and ended with cities five foot tall. I was the master of time and space, and pants of mud covered my legs.
It was joyous to build, knowing that these buildings would not last. In those days I hated photography and every attempt to preserve the passing world as if anything were permanent.
I could do it again, I thought, bargaining on the river. I won't go to Bob but I'll bring his spirit here.
The bargain made I passed under the bridge to Bob's house.
And, you know, I did not build my cities after all.
Day 87 ended: 49*45.265N, 098*29.262W
I suppose one day he was taking out the trash and noticed all the bottles. He realized he had a problem and decided to make something of himself. Or just the bottles.
Somewhere in southern Manitoba he started stacking them up. I don't know what he used for mortar, but he built a house with his addiction. When that was done he built a church out of bottles, and I guess that fixed him because he stopped there, with his house and church whistling in the wind.
I don't know how they are positioned, or how the sun glares off the surface at dawn or dusk. I don't know how tall, or wide, or deep those buildings stand. I don't know if they are close to each other, or far.
I did know they were ten miles from the Assiniboine and my bike had a gimpy tire.
The tire could have been fixed, or at least managed. The distance was not great but harder to negotiate. I did not want to see Bob Crain's glass bottle houses, so intriguing on my map and I did not see them.
I negotiated with myself. It's okay not to see everything. If you try to, you won't anyway. I could build something myself. A tribute to Bob Crain and his construction out of destruction.
Once while at a retreat stationed around a muddy lake, I went down to the lake and saw all the twisted rebar and concrete slabs there, and decided to build. I started with sundials and ended with cities five foot tall. I was the master of time and space, and pants of mud covered my legs.
It was joyous to build, knowing that these buildings would not last. In those days I hated photography and every attempt to preserve the passing world as if anything were permanent.
I could do it again, I thought, bargaining on the river. I won't go to Bob but I'll bring his spirit here.
The bargain made I passed under the bridge to Bob's house.
And, you know, I did not build my cities after all.
Day 87 ended: 49*45.265N, 098*29.262W
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Day 40: Dear Rubber Ducky
Dear Rubber Ducky,
Who knew that the day we met would be the day we parted? I was floating down the river, evading fallen trees in my dashing Tilley hat. You were lost among the river trash of Lumsden, waiting for someone who would take you from that place. You, with your yellow plumage and rubber skin.
Things proceeded quickly. You showed me the tattoo on your bottom, "CM 2008". I took a photo of my new mascot, happy to show the world.
You did not want me to see Lumsden. You said the library is closed on Thursdays, there would be nowhere to leave a boat to bike to Regina. I still wanted to look around and was shocked by your insistence.
I climbed up that steep bank and after looking for some time, did find the library, and was amused by its sign "The Library". Along the way I had seen ads for a drugstore. These ads were ducklike characters, but I thought nothing of it.
I then hiked along the tops of the steep river banks looking for a place to park a canoe. It was odd, having trails along that channelized section of river, as if to form a kind of amphitheatre. I noticed a painting of a duck on the road, labeled "21st, September 1, 2008". I still did not unerstand.
But when I went to get groceries, there was a rack of shirts. Most of these shirts bore embroidery or printing that said "Lumsden 20th annual duck derby, 2007." And that is when I understood. You knew if I went into town I'd find out that in exactly a month, there would be hundreds, thousands of rubber ducks floating down the river. And maybe then you wouldn't be special. Maybe you wouldn't be the one.
I took three trips to carry the groceries back down to the canoe, and then got out my pliers to remove the leaches from my feet. Neither of us said anything. You were afraid I'd dump you there, but I was merely saddened by your lack of confidence and candor.
The river became high and slow. Approaching a fork, with no current to guide me, and not enough detail on my map, I was lost. But you helped, you really did, you said "Follow the arrows, they'll show you where to go." I looked and I saw bright orange arrows posted on either side of the right channel. Having no other clues, what could I do but follow?
We continued on until another fork, again with one channel marked with arrows. I did not want to follow this time. My map clearly showed that the left one went to Last Mountain Lake, whereas the right went to the dam, and beyond that, back to the flowing river. You were insistent, "Just follow, don't say no!"
But I was going to portage the dam. The banks were steep, so I had to take everything out of my canoe, and there was a lot of stuff. I don't remember how many loads I had taken when I returned to find my canoe missing. You were trying to run off with my boat! I saw you making your way out on the orange barriers before the dam. Fortunately I had my life vest, and doggy paddled out to the boat, recovering it.
I had too much stuff and could not bear the thought of more portages like this one. I had to get rid of anything unnecessary, superfluous.
I'm sorry, Rubber Ducky. You made bath time lots of fun, but I'm awfuly through with you.
Doop doop dee doo,
K.C.
Day 40 ended: 50*42.402N, 104*47.987W
Who knew that the day we met would be the day we parted? I was floating down the river, evading fallen trees in my dashing Tilley hat. You were lost among the river trash of Lumsden, waiting for someone who would take you from that place. You, with your yellow plumage and rubber skin.
Things proceeded quickly. You showed me the tattoo on your bottom, "CM 2008". I took a photo of my new mascot, happy to show the world.
You did not want me to see Lumsden. You said the library is closed on Thursdays, there would be nowhere to leave a boat to bike to Regina. I still wanted to look around and was shocked by your insistence.
I climbed up that steep bank and after looking for some time, did find the library, and was amused by its sign "The Library". Along the way I had seen ads for a drugstore. These ads were ducklike characters, but I thought nothing of it.
I then hiked along the tops of the steep river banks looking for a place to park a canoe. It was odd, having trails along that channelized section of river, as if to form a kind of amphitheatre. I noticed a painting of a duck on the road, labeled "21st, September 1, 2008". I still did not unerstand.
But when I went to get groceries, there was a rack of shirts. Most of these shirts bore embroidery or printing that said "Lumsden 20th annual duck derby, 2007." And that is when I understood. You knew if I went into town I'd find out that in exactly a month, there would be hundreds, thousands of rubber ducks floating down the river. And maybe then you wouldn't be special. Maybe you wouldn't be the one.
I took three trips to carry the groceries back down to the canoe, and then got out my pliers to remove the leaches from my feet. Neither of us said anything. You were afraid I'd dump you there, but I was merely saddened by your lack of confidence and candor.
The river became high and slow. Approaching a fork, with no current to guide me, and not enough detail on my map, I was lost. But you helped, you really did, you said "Follow the arrows, they'll show you where to go." I looked and I saw bright orange arrows posted on either side of the right channel. Having no other clues, what could I do but follow?
We continued on until another fork, again with one channel marked with arrows. I did not want to follow this time. My map clearly showed that the left one went to Last Mountain Lake, whereas the right went to the dam, and beyond that, back to the flowing river. You were insistent, "Just follow, don't say no!"
But I was going to portage the dam. The banks were steep, so I had to take everything out of my canoe, and there was a lot of stuff. I don't remember how many loads I had taken when I returned to find my canoe missing. You were trying to run off with my boat! I saw you making your way out on the orange barriers before the dam. Fortunately I had my life vest, and doggy paddled out to the boat, recovering it.
I had too much stuff and could not bear the thought of more portages like this one. I had to get rid of anything unnecessary, superfluous.
I'm sorry, Rubber Ducky. You made bath time lots of fun, but I'm awfuly through with you.
Doop doop dee doo,
K.C.
Day 40 ended: 50*42.402N, 104*47.987W
Friday, September 5, 2008
Day 34: Little Chicago
I locked up my motel room and decided to walk downtown. The neighborhood I am staying in was clearly up and coming 30 years ago. At one intersection two furniture stores grin at each other across the street, both promising "real oak", and both closed permanently. The residential section has fared no better. All the paint is peeling, and every other house has a "Beware of Dog" sign posted. From behind their locked front doors the horrible screaming arguments of people in need is overheard without eavesdropping.
I had a feeling of apprehension about my visit to town. It took two hours of thirsty pedaling to get here from the east side of the park, I could have sworn the attendant at the first motel refused me a room because of my scummy appearance, and here I was shacking up for the night in the slums.
And then a thought of correction made its way into my head. "Kevin, you always hate a town the first night. Give it a chance this time!"
A man hailed me as I walked by on the sidewalk, asking if the bus was still in service. Looking at the peeling orange paint and unkept appearance of the bench, it seemed doubtful to me. But I had no idea, and told him I had just arrived in town. So had he, and he was quite excited about it. He had just bought a house for $68,000, and being a professional carpenter he was going to fix it up and sell it in a year for twice as much. He'd lived in Calgary and Regina, but didn't enjoy the price of staying in those towns.
When I told him I was walking downtown, he quite animatedly told me "You'll love it. You know what they used to call this town in the 1920's? Little Chicago. Al Capone came up here sometimes." Apparently, to run his business when things got uncomfortable in the States.
I walked by a grand building, a library/gallery/museum/gift shop, according to its sign. It sits next to a little park with a creek running through it, and here are many strange things to look at, even with the library closed. There was one path running into the park, posted with three signs. The first two read "Pedestrians only" and "Service traffic only", and I spent some time in confusion over whether the conjunction or disjunction was implied here. The third was easier to understand: "Waterfowl can be aggressive." Most of the waterfowl were mallards.
There are also two time capsules celebrating Moose Jaw's centennial, both to be opened a hundred years after their sealing. The first was to be opened on Moose Jaw's bicentennial in 2082, and the second to be opened on the occasion of Moose Jaw's bicentennial in 2103. And that took a bit longer to figure out.
So much for the park, except there was one entrance dedicated to the memory of a man surnamed "Gate". I kid you not.
This being a Friday night, there was not much for me to do downtown. I have never been one for the bar scene, and feel awkward in a situation where I know the names of neither the people nor the drinks. It probably wouldn't help that I had mud on my face, and was wearing jogging pants and a bright green t-shirt both made baggy by my paddling diet. But then again, I could be wrong as well. As I say, not my scene.
Most of the places I would visit the next day, a borscht sampling salon, a smoothie bar, and the Tunnels of Moose Jaw, were closed. I spent some time in Reader's Book Shop, which is a used bookstore that also has Internet terminals, and seem, with its wall of manga and Magic: the Gathering cards, to be transitioning to serve a geekier audience. I scanned the shelves searching for my current two favorite authors. John Steinbeck and Tom Stoppard. They've become favorites by writing the only two entertainment books I have with me, "Travels with Charley" and "Arcadia', respectively, both well worn and falling apart from the rigors of adventure and rereading.
Finding nothing to my taste, I return to my motel room. Although the sign reads "Newly Renovated!", every surface but the carpeted floor is covered in wood paneling - and poorly, I might add, with white paint showing behind every knot. On the wall was what appeared at first glance to be a framed cross-stitch of John 3:16, but on closer inspection proved to be a photocopy on certificate paper.
Although I have a bed available to me for the first time in over a month, it seems the comfortable toilet seat was a greater blessing to me. For, I have painful diarrhea all night long.
Day 34 ended: 50*35.691N, 105*24.672
(These are the canoe's coordinates, at the park boat launch. I do not have the coordinates of the motel.)
I had a feeling of apprehension about my visit to town. It took two hours of thirsty pedaling to get here from the east side of the park, I could have sworn the attendant at the first motel refused me a room because of my scummy appearance, and here I was shacking up for the night in the slums.
And then a thought of correction made its way into my head. "Kevin, you always hate a town the first night. Give it a chance this time!"
A man hailed me as I walked by on the sidewalk, asking if the bus was still in service. Looking at the peeling orange paint and unkept appearance of the bench, it seemed doubtful to me. But I had no idea, and told him I had just arrived in town. So had he, and he was quite excited about it. He had just bought a house for $68,000, and being a professional carpenter he was going to fix it up and sell it in a year for twice as much. He'd lived in Calgary and Regina, but didn't enjoy the price of staying in those towns.
When I told him I was walking downtown, he quite animatedly told me "You'll love it. You know what they used to call this town in the 1920's? Little Chicago. Al Capone came up here sometimes." Apparently, to run his business when things got uncomfortable in the States.
I walked by a grand building, a library/gallery/museum/gift shop, according to its sign. It sits next to a little park with a creek running through it, and here are many strange things to look at, even with the library closed. There was one path running into the park, posted with three signs. The first two read "Pedestrians only" and "Service traffic only", and I spent some time in confusion over whether the conjunction or disjunction was implied here. The third was easier to understand: "Waterfowl can be aggressive." Most of the waterfowl were mallards.
There are also two time capsules celebrating Moose Jaw's centennial, both to be opened a hundred years after their sealing. The first was to be opened on Moose Jaw's bicentennial in 2082, and the second to be opened on the occasion of Moose Jaw's bicentennial in 2103. And that took a bit longer to figure out.
So much for the park, except there was one entrance dedicated to the memory of a man surnamed "Gate". I kid you not.
This being a Friday night, there was not much for me to do downtown. I have never been one for the bar scene, and feel awkward in a situation where I know the names of neither the people nor the drinks. It probably wouldn't help that I had mud on my face, and was wearing jogging pants and a bright green t-shirt both made baggy by my paddling diet. But then again, I could be wrong as well. As I say, not my scene.
Most of the places I would visit the next day, a borscht sampling salon, a smoothie bar, and the Tunnels of Moose Jaw, were closed. I spent some time in Reader's Book Shop, which is a used bookstore that also has Internet terminals, and seem, with its wall of manga and Magic: the Gathering cards, to be transitioning to serve a geekier audience. I scanned the shelves searching for my current two favorite authors. John Steinbeck and Tom Stoppard. They've become favorites by writing the only two entertainment books I have with me, "Travels with Charley" and "Arcadia', respectively, both well worn and falling apart from the rigors of adventure and rereading.
Finding nothing to my taste, I return to my motel room. Although the sign reads "Newly Renovated!", every surface but the carpeted floor is covered in wood paneling - and poorly, I might add, with white paint showing behind every knot. On the wall was what appeared at first glance to be a framed cross-stitch of John 3:16, but on closer inspection proved to be a photocopy on certificate paper.
Although I have a bed available to me for the first time in over a month, it seems the comfortable toilet seat was a greater blessing to me. For, I have painful diarrhea all night long.
Day 34 ended: 50*35.691N, 105*24.672
(These are the canoe's coordinates, at the park boat launch. I do not have the coordinates of the motel.)
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Day 14: A place where buzzing ever happens
I had not been impressed with my first day in Medicine Hat. It did not seem like a good place for cycling, for living. And I had felt like an enemy of the place most of the day, as they were either going to steal my boat or cuff me and confiscate my boat.
So it was with much enmity towards the town that I went in the next day. I proceeded to get thoroughly lost, and ended up at Medalta Potteries*. I took the $10 tour there, saw some ceramic factory buildings in a romantic state of disrepair, and was almost disappointed when told they planned to renovate it all to working condition. They also had many examples of the pieces that were made there; all, in the words of our guide, were "pretty cool".
I found the bike trail out of there and my heart softened a bit. It ran by a pleasant creek, was relatively well connected, and had an interesting conversation.
"You better look out," the man said, "there's some big snakes around here."
"Oh snakes," I said, "big ones?"
"Little ones."
And then I was off. I saw the Saamis teepee, which was somehow not as impressive as I hoped, and what was, according to the map, a "giant chessboard", which was also somewhat disappointing. But overall, seeing the town through the eyes of a tourist out looking for fun rather than a guy running errands, I began to see why people might want to live in the town. This is the only city where I have literally helped a little old lady cross the street. I didn't know that ever happened outside of films.
That night I found an unbelievable camping location. Plenty of sand to lay on and pull my boat up on. Gravel for cooking, with larger rocks to hold my tent pegs if necessary. An elevated, smooth location between trees perfect for a tent. I looked around and saw no signs of human existence other than a few staggered posts high on one of the cliffs, as if smoeone had started to build a fence but quickly gave up. And all I heard at first was a lonely moo, which I couldn't place.
But that night things were not so quiet. Any time I think of the river as isolated I see some great powerline crossing the river, connecting what towns only its engineers may know. And all along the river are great pumps to irrigate fields, to fill ponds, and I guess to service homes as well. They reach down into the water with great tubes or even miniature waterwheels, have rambunctious motors that feed the water way up, up over the cliff to its dry destination. And here, in what ought to have been my private heaven, I heard the rumble of these machines all through the night, sounding impossibly close for a location where none could be seen.
Day 14 ended: 50*08.773N, 110*38.852W
* - Medalta is short for "Medicine Hat, Alberta". I often see Alberta abbreviated this way, as alta. I guess people are just trying to take the brr out of Alberta.
So it was with much enmity towards the town that I went in the next day. I proceeded to get thoroughly lost, and ended up at Medalta Potteries*. I took the $10 tour there, saw some ceramic factory buildings in a romantic state of disrepair, and was almost disappointed when told they planned to renovate it all to working condition. They also had many examples of the pieces that were made there; all, in the words of our guide, were "pretty cool".
I found the bike trail out of there and my heart softened a bit. It ran by a pleasant creek, was relatively well connected, and had an interesting conversation.
"You better look out," the man said, "there's some big snakes around here."
"Oh snakes," I said, "big ones?"
"Little ones."
And then I was off. I saw the Saamis teepee, which was somehow not as impressive as I hoped, and what was, according to the map, a "giant chessboard", which was also somewhat disappointing. But overall, seeing the town through the eyes of a tourist out looking for fun rather than a guy running errands, I began to see why people might want to live in the town. This is the only city where I have literally helped a little old lady cross the street. I didn't know that ever happened outside of films.
That night I found an unbelievable camping location. Plenty of sand to lay on and pull my boat up on. Gravel for cooking, with larger rocks to hold my tent pegs if necessary. An elevated, smooth location between trees perfect for a tent. I looked around and saw no signs of human existence other than a few staggered posts high on one of the cliffs, as if smoeone had started to build a fence but quickly gave up. And all I heard at first was a lonely moo, which I couldn't place.
But that night things were not so quiet. Any time I think of the river as isolated I see some great powerline crossing the river, connecting what towns only its engineers may know. And all along the river are great pumps to irrigate fields, to fill ponds, and I guess to service homes as well. They reach down into the water with great tubes or even miniature waterwheels, have rambunctious motors that feed the water way up, up over the cliff to its dry destination. And here, in what ought to have been my private heaven, I heard the rumble of these machines all through the night, sounding impossibly close for a location where none could be seen.
Day 14 ended: 50*08.773N, 110*38.852W
* - Medalta is short for "Medicine Hat, Alberta". I often see Alberta abbreviated this way, as alta. I guess people are just trying to take the brr out of Alberta.
Friday, August 1, 2008
Day 13: What were they thinking?
As I came into Medicine Hat, I saw the Transcanada Highway cross over the river, and I saw some towering smokestacks to my right. Then I felt the wind change, grow bolder and colder. The waves picked up and my canoe was driven in any direction the wind chose, as the trees on shore bowed to the power of the wind. Using just my paddle and will, I was able to reach a shoreline and hold onto the vegetation there until it was safe to proceed.
It is strange in these windstorms, that they make the water feel much warmer than the land, because it does not draw away your body heat so quickly.
I parked the boat under the Transcanada in a region of pathways that was apparently closed for the summer. I rode into town on my folding bicycle, and ran my errands. The library, for internet. The bank, to pay my student fees and health premium. The grocery store, for food, and the hardware store to get supplies to make a few repairs to my equipment.
I also made many phone calls to friends and family.
When the day was done, I felt like I hadn't really seen the city. I would probably never see the town again, and here I had only done my errands and ridden around in places I could have seen in any city of that size.
So I decided to stop somewhere, so I could see the local attractions the next day. This presented some difficulties. If you are driving across the country, you have several different options as to where to stay. You can visit hotels of varying qualities, stay at a campground, or if you are really cheap, find some Walmart or other bigbox store and sleep in the parking lot.
When traveling by canoe your options are more limited. I had spent most of the day away from the boat and did not enjoy the feeling that nearly all my resources could disappear without a warning. So I wanted to sleep somewhere near the canoe. There is a campground in Medicine Hat, but they do not have riverside camping.
I also needed a place to stay so that in the morning I could float downstream to some point where I could still get into the city. My loaded wilderness canoe does not very much like trying to go upstream. So I would effectively need some place to camp inside of the city.
There are a few parks, but I'm not sure about the legal status of camping in city parks. I suppose, if I could have found a phone at this time, I could have called the police and asked them if they had any ideas.
I stopped to have dinner at a nice takeout point by a park apparently owned by the Lion's Club. It is at this point that a motorboat went by, back and forth on the river a few times. Now maybe they were just fishermen or something, but I imagined that I had caught their eye somehow, that they had suspicions I was up to no good or something. They parked the boat down the river, just the right distance where they might not be conspicuous, but could still keep their eyes on me.
I figured I couldn't stay in Lion's Park, so I took to the water and headed downstream, wondering where I would stay, and what this boat was up to. As I approached, they started the motor, and went upstream, again stopping in a place just within sight.
At this point, taking it personally, I became really frustrated. If they had a problem with me, why didn't they just come over to me and talk about it? I started thrashing at the water, paddling as hard as I could to try to get to them. But it was no use; the river current was too strong and I succeeded only in treading water, staying in one place.
Now, my eyes are no good at distance, so I got out my weak binoculars to try to look over this boat that seemed so threatening to me. And little sooner than I did, but the boat pulled away, up river, leaving me alone. I wonder if I had it wrong all along, if they weree the ones up to no good, hiding from me!
It began to rain and I still had no campsite. There was a very small island, but it was no good - pure mud and shrubs. A little further there was a little piece of land jutting out from underneath one of the cliffs. It was thoroughly inaccessible from land, may even be considered navigable waterway under the 'usual high water line" rule. i checked it out. There was a game trail running around the base, and just enough space on top of some weeds to pitch a tent. The sun came out, a rainbow appeared, and I saw two or three fishermen sitting in Police Point Park, directly across from me.
My location was probably one of the least conspicuous in the city. Bends in the river protected me from view of buildings both upstream and down, and my canoe and tent would be relatively small and hidden on this island of weeds but for those people across from me. I decided it didn't matter. I unpacked my stuff, set up my tent, and with a bow and tip of the hat to the people across the river, went in to bed.
But all night I wondered what they were thinking, and imagined I could just barely make out their voices, coming to me over the wind...
"...I know why he camped there..."
"...he looked at us!..."
"...I wonder what he's up to..."
"...he's on the run from the law..."
"...but the real question is..."
"...what is he thinking about us!"
Day 13 ended: 50*02.337N, 110*38.226W
It is strange in these windstorms, that they make the water feel much warmer than the land, because it does not draw away your body heat so quickly.
I parked the boat under the Transcanada in a region of pathways that was apparently closed for the summer. I rode into town on my folding bicycle, and ran my errands. The library, for internet. The bank, to pay my student fees and health premium. The grocery store, for food, and the hardware store to get supplies to make a few repairs to my equipment.
I also made many phone calls to friends and family.
When the day was done, I felt like I hadn't really seen the city. I would probably never see the town again, and here I had only done my errands and ridden around in places I could have seen in any city of that size.
So I decided to stop somewhere, so I could see the local attractions the next day. This presented some difficulties. If you are driving across the country, you have several different options as to where to stay. You can visit hotels of varying qualities, stay at a campground, or if you are really cheap, find some Walmart or other bigbox store and sleep in the parking lot.
When traveling by canoe your options are more limited. I had spent most of the day away from the boat and did not enjoy the feeling that nearly all my resources could disappear without a warning. So I wanted to sleep somewhere near the canoe. There is a campground in Medicine Hat, but they do not have riverside camping.
I also needed a place to stay so that in the morning I could float downstream to some point where I could still get into the city. My loaded wilderness canoe does not very much like trying to go upstream. So I would effectively need some place to camp inside of the city.
There are a few parks, but I'm not sure about the legal status of camping in city parks. I suppose, if I could have found a phone at this time, I could have called the police and asked them if they had any ideas.
I stopped to have dinner at a nice takeout point by a park apparently owned by the Lion's Club. It is at this point that a motorboat went by, back and forth on the river a few times. Now maybe they were just fishermen or something, but I imagined that I had caught their eye somehow, that they had suspicions I was up to no good or something. They parked the boat down the river, just the right distance where they might not be conspicuous, but could still keep their eyes on me.
I figured I couldn't stay in Lion's Park, so I took to the water and headed downstream, wondering where I would stay, and what this boat was up to. As I approached, they started the motor, and went upstream, again stopping in a place just within sight.
At this point, taking it personally, I became really frustrated. If they had a problem with me, why didn't they just come over to me and talk about it? I started thrashing at the water, paddling as hard as I could to try to get to them. But it was no use; the river current was too strong and I succeeded only in treading water, staying in one place.
Now, my eyes are no good at distance, so I got out my weak binoculars to try to look over this boat that seemed so threatening to me. And little sooner than I did, but the boat pulled away, up river, leaving me alone. I wonder if I had it wrong all along, if they weree the ones up to no good, hiding from me!
It began to rain and I still had no campsite. There was a very small island, but it was no good - pure mud and shrubs. A little further there was a little piece of land jutting out from underneath one of the cliffs. It was thoroughly inaccessible from land, may even be considered navigable waterway under the 'usual high water line" rule. i checked it out. There was a game trail running around the base, and just enough space on top of some weeds to pitch a tent. The sun came out, a rainbow appeared, and I saw two or three fishermen sitting in Police Point Park, directly across from me.
My location was probably one of the least conspicuous in the city. Bends in the river protected me from view of buildings both upstream and down, and my canoe and tent would be relatively small and hidden on this island of weeds but for those people across from me. I decided it didn't matter. I unpacked my stuff, set up my tent, and with a bow and tip of the hat to the people across the river, went in to bed.
But all night I wondered what they were thinking, and imagined I could just barely make out their voices, coming to me over the wind...
"...I know why he camped there..."
"...he looked at us!..."
"...I wonder what he's up to..."
"...he's on the run from the law..."
"...but the real question is..."
"...what is he thinking about us!"
Day 13 ended: 50*02.337N, 110*38.226W
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Day 8: We have these things
Don't blame me if this entry is a bit disjointed. The whole Eastern Irrigation District resists narrative.
"And here," she said as she slid open the secret panel, "we have these things." I had terrified her minutes before, as the Eastern Irrigation District Museum in Scandia gets few visitors. I was her first in two weeks of working there. Now, she was opening doors previously invisible to me to reveal the museum as much larger than I had thought at first.
Indeed, there were many things. Old telephones, clothing "falling apart from the inside out", a stuffed hawk. An old shower. The original register of the Scandia Curling Club, which must have admitted every able-bodied man in town. Cabinets, even a display case of "japanese things". All of these things were unlabelled, except perhaps for a small tag to indicate who donated it. My guide knew little about any of these things, other than they were all "pretty cool".
But it isn't her fault, really. The Eastern Irrigation District contains many towns; indeed all their names are carved into separate stone boulders at the museum. These towns all contain many people and things. But the irrigation district is a vortex which strips allthings of meaning. It is a collection of objects stripped of their relationsips to one another. Why is a place called the "Eastern Irrigation District", without any qualifier on "eastern", found deep in western Canada? How come each time I try to write about it, I end up with a mess of descriptions, concluding with some meaningless summation like "Such is the human condition" or "It is representative of the postmodern condition"? Why is the boulder engraver's granddaughter my tour guide?
Outside was a collection of antique farm equipment, with dubious names recorded only on a secret decoder scrap of looseleaf paper held by my tour guide. Potato bug sprayer. That's the only one I remember. I don't recall if its purpose was to spray potato bugs, or spray something to keep the potato bugs away.
A building full of old stoves and other miscellania. It is as though the museum is largely a collection of junk no one has the heart to sell or throw away. Oh, but this is pretty cool, a blacksmith's shop which is actually made operational once a year during the fair. The fair is named after the museum's founder, who has some non-descript name like Frank Earlton. His main claim to fame is apparently founding the museum. He must have had a lot of pretty cool things.
My guide had never given a tour before, so she was very nervous and did not know how to give the presentation. I tried to help, by asking questions like "What's so great about the Eastern Irrigation District anyway?" and "Did Frank Earlton do anything else other than start the museum?" but those questions couldn't reveal any information in this vortex.
She didn't know what keys went to what buildings, and there was one building she never found the key to. She said it was full of kitchen furnishings and food and drink containers from the early days of the district, that a woman had been working in there to organize and label everything, to try to make some sense in this senseless place.
I guess the irrigation district responded by disappearing the key to make this place inaccessible. I fear if this woman continues to try to build meaning in this place then in some year to come, both her and her building will disappear, to disappear not only from reality, but from the memories of the townspeople.
If you are interested in visiting this place, the museum is located in Scandia, Alberta. The vortex itself must begin at the Bossano dam, where most of the Bow River's water is drawn off to irrigate the district. I definitely recommend it, as it is somehow representative of the human condition.
Day 8 ended: 50*54.326N, 109*58.362W
"And here," she said as she slid open the secret panel, "we have these things." I had terrified her minutes before, as the Eastern Irrigation District Museum in Scandia gets few visitors. I was her first in two weeks of working there. Now, she was opening doors previously invisible to me to reveal the museum as much larger than I had thought at first.
Indeed, there were many things. Old telephones, clothing "falling apart from the inside out", a stuffed hawk. An old shower. The original register of the Scandia Curling Club, which must have admitted every able-bodied man in town. Cabinets, even a display case of "japanese things". All of these things were unlabelled, except perhaps for a small tag to indicate who donated it. My guide knew little about any of these things, other than they were all "pretty cool".
But it isn't her fault, really. The Eastern Irrigation District contains many towns; indeed all their names are carved into separate stone boulders at the museum. These towns all contain many people and things. But the irrigation district is a vortex which strips allthings of meaning. It is a collection of objects stripped of their relationsips to one another. Why is a place called the "Eastern Irrigation District", without any qualifier on "eastern", found deep in western Canada? How come each time I try to write about it, I end up with a mess of descriptions, concluding with some meaningless summation like "Such is the human condition" or "It is representative of the postmodern condition"? Why is the boulder engraver's granddaughter my tour guide?
Outside was a collection of antique farm equipment, with dubious names recorded only on a secret decoder scrap of looseleaf paper held by my tour guide. Potato bug sprayer. That's the only one I remember. I don't recall if its purpose was to spray potato bugs, or spray something to keep the potato bugs away.
A building full of old stoves and other miscellania. It is as though the museum is largely a collection of junk no one has the heart to sell or throw away. Oh, but this is pretty cool, a blacksmith's shop which is actually made operational once a year during the fair. The fair is named after the museum's founder, who has some non-descript name like Frank Earlton. His main claim to fame is apparently founding the museum. He must have had a lot of pretty cool things.
My guide had never given a tour before, so she was very nervous and did not know how to give the presentation. I tried to help, by asking questions like "What's so great about the Eastern Irrigation District anyway?" and "Did Frank Earlton do anything else other than start the museum?" but those questions couldn't reveal any information in this vortex.
She didn't know what keys went to what buildings, and there was one building she never found the key to. She said it was full of kitchen furnishings and food and drink containers from the early days of the district, that a woman had been working in there to organize and label everything, to try to make some sense in this senseless place.
I guess the irrigation district responded by disappearing the key to make this place inaccessible. I fear if this woman continues to try to build meaning in this place then in some year to come, both her and her building will disappear, to disappear not only from reality, but from the memories of the townspeople.
If you are interested in visiting this place, the museum is located in Scandia, Alberta. The vortex itself must begin at the Bossano dam, where most of the Bow River's water is drawn off to irrigate the district. I definitely recommend it, as it is somehow representative of the human condition.
Day 8 ended: 50*54.326N, 109*58.362W
Saturday, July 12, 2008
End of Medicine Hat posts
Okay, that's all for posts uploaded from Medicine Hat. I wrote most of these on a gravel island, on Day 11. When I wrote up day 8, I really was not pleased with it and so determined to let it settle a bit before trying again. I don't know if this posting format will continue in this way, but I hope you've enjoyed what I've written so far.
And to my parents: yes, things have been much safer since day 4!
Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find the cable to connect my camera to a computer. Fortunately (?) my photos have not really been any good.
From here in Medicine Hat, I will continue up the South Saskatchewan River, through a large Canadian airforce testing base, around into Sasktachewan, which has regularly spaced regional parks until Lake Diefenbaker. There, I must determine whether I will be able to take the Qu'Appelle River further east, or be forced to bike south -- or if I'm utterly nuts by then, continue north into Lake Winnipeg.
I don't know when I'll next have computer access, but I'm hoping there will be public telephones at some of these regional parks for me to keep in touch with some of you.
--K
And to my parents: yes, things have been much safer since day 4!
Unfortunately, I wasn't able to find the cable to connect my camera to a computer. Fortunately (?) my photos have not really been any good.
From here in Medicine Hat, I will continue up the South Saskatchewan River, through a large Canadian airforce testing base, around into Sasktachewan, which has regularly spaced regional parks until Lake Diefenbaker. There, I must determine whether I will be able to take the Qu'Appelle River further east, or be forced to bike south -- or if I'm utterly nuts by then, continue north into Lake Winnipeg.
I don't know when I'll next have computer access, but I'm hoping there will be public telephones at some of these regional parks for me to keep in touch with some of you.
--K
Monday, July 7, 2008
Day 3: Bikin' to Gleichen (and the "Indian house")
The Siksika Nation owns the section of the Bow River from just after Carseland to the Bossano Dam. When I called their head office, I was told I would need a permit to canoe this section, and to get a permit I would need to see the Department of Lands, located in the head offices just south of Gleichen. Gleichen being roughly 25 miles (40 km) away, I would need to ride my bike there to obtain the permit.
About the ride there, I do not have much to say. It was raining, but I made good time and was happy to feel as though I were going uphill all the way, since that would mean an easy downhill ride back.
During one of our landlord's frequent complaining sessions of us as humans and as caretakers, they said that the small pile of junk that had appeared in the back when two new people moved in made our place look like an "Indian house". I asked Calvin what this meant, and he said it was general racism. Now that I have observed some real "Indian" houses, I can perhaps provide a description of those I saw on the road.
In an area proclaimed by sign as the "West End Development", were what looked like some prefab houses laid out in a seemingly random pattern. My first impression was that they were dismal, not because of collections of junk, but rather by the lack of it. All these identical houses, each painted in some plain color appeared soulless, unlived in. And after seeing a couple more of these developments further on, my general impression was always of these buildings being plopped down, indiscriminately on the prairie. There were rarely the kind of strong architectural features, such as fences, driveways, sheds, trees, and the like which make a building appear to belong to the place, and even when these features were present it simply made the feeling of otherworldliness extend to the border of the fence, say, rather than the wall of my house. If a squadron of UFOs were to land in Stanley Park, they would appear to be as at home in the landscape as these houses in the prairie.
But above all, I did not see any conspicuous junk in the yards. I do not know why, but in my stranger's imagination, it is because these people live without all this extraneous material, as if ready to pack up their houses and go on to the next world at a moment's notice.
At the office I met some weathered faces who told me where to go for my permit, and I wondered how my face would look at the end of my journey. I was able to quickly get a $30 permit for one day of boating on the river.
On the way back to the park, I could not tell if I was truly going downhill most of the way, because the wind was so incredibly strong in my face. I got back, my legs exhausted but my arms still in good shape, and went a couple of miles so I could camp on free land and be able to empty the water out of my boat.
Day 3 ended: 50*49.572N, 113*23.673W
About the ride there, I do not have much to say. It was raining, but I made good time and was happy to feel as though I were going uphill all the way, since that would mean an easy downhill ride back.
During one of our landlord's frequent complaining sessions of us as humans and as caretakers, they said that the small pile of junk that had appeared in the back when two new people moved in made our place look like an "Indian house". I asked Calvin what this meant, and he said it was general racism. Now that I have observed some real "Indian" houses, I can perhaps provide a description of those I saw on the road.
In an area proclaimed by sign as the "West End Development", were what looked like some prefab houses laid out in a seemingly random pattern. My first impression was that they were dismal, not because of collections of junk, but rather by the lack of it. All these identical houses, each painted in some plain color appeared soulless, unlived in. And after seeing a couple more of these developments further on, my general impression was always of these buildings being plopped down, indiscriminately on the prairie. There were rarely the kind of strong architectural features, such as fences, driveways, sheds, trees, and the like which make a building appear to belong to the place, and even when these features were present it simply made the feeling of otherworldliness extend to the border of the fence, say, rather than the wall of my house. If a squadron of UFOs were to land in Stanley Park, they would appear to be as at home in the landscape as these houses in the prairie.
But above all, I did not see any conspicuous junk in the yards. I do not know why, but in my stranger's imagination, it is because these people live without all this extraneous material, as if ready to pack up their houses and go on to the next world at a moment's notice.
At the office I met some weathered faces who told me where to go for my permit, and I wondered how my face would look at the end of my journey. I was able to quickly get a $30 permit for one day of boating on the river.
On the way back to the park, I could not tell if I was truly going downhill most of the way, because the wind was so incredibly strong in my face. I got back, my legs exhausted but my arms still in good shape, and went a couple of miles so I could camp on free land and be able to empty the water out of my boat.
Day 3 ended: 50*49.572N, 113*23.673W
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Day 1: Off Without a Hitch
There I was at the put-in. A crowd of Canadian friends had come to see me off early in the morning and had already waited more than an hour for me to show up, pulling my homebuilt canoe behind my folding bicycle. The hitch that was to be the centerpiece of my plan had broke as soon as it had been asked to pull the fully-loaded canoe, so the canoe was held in place by a makeshift system of ropes and bungees that continuously came undone as it went over bumps and holes in the pathway.
Right in front of me is a series of compression waves generated by the Calgary weir. They weren't the largest waves, but they looked utterly terrifying as a proving ground for my canoe, which had only previously been tested in a kind of glorified bathtub, a duck pond at Prince's Island Park.
And then Shawnti came, holding the most afraid little cat I have ever seen.
This cat, String, was under threat of eradication from our landlords, for the crime of coming around to the house and visiting us every day. At one point it was decided that the best thing to do would be to send her with me on my journey, and we ould adventure together. I even bought a life-jacket for her, having some trouble with the sizing because I couldn't find anything between a terrier and a pug.
The cat did not seem thrilled about the adventure, so I had to set off without her. I had already had enough trouble without a terrified cat adding to it.
Those initial waves were indeed the worst I would see all day, but I had never canoed on a river this big before. I constantly found myself getting turned every which way, and it wasn't until I saw a group of experienced paddlers "peeling out" of an eddy that I realized my mistake. The current in an eddy is still or backwards compared to the main current, so hug the inside of a corner too closely, and you'll get turned around, pulled into it. Fortunately the process reverses as well -- just aim your canoe upstream out of the eddy and the current will catch you, turn you right side around and hurtle you on your way.
One of those paddlers asked me about my trip. I told him that I was a math student who was dropping out of school to go basically as far as I could.
"Well," he said, "if you keep going you'll eventually reach the Hudson's Bay."
This really wasn't part of my plan, but the way things were going, instead of mentioning St. Louis or New Orleans, I simply said, "I had an idea to pull the canoe on the back of my bike, but that isn't going so well."
He nodded, looked at the scratches in the bow from the bike rack rubbing the boat, the broken inwhale duct taped into place, and the haphazard collection of objects thrown into the boat, and said, "Well, I'm sure I'll see you again on the river!"
He neglected to say what state he expected to find me in.
It was only later, as I began looking for a campsite, that I began to relax and take stock of everything. No one would say this was going well, but should it, in a real adventure? I read many of these books written by men who paddled big rivers like the Missouri and the Mississippi, and the most interesting ones, the only true "adventures" were those written by folks with nearly no clue what they were doing as they started out. This gave them the opportunity to grow, to learn new skills, and see and experience new things as they went. They may have "bumbled their way from one disaster to the next" as one of their more prepared comrades put it, but their stories were interesting and the experience clearly added to their lives.
Not so the ones who started out well-prepared, with a full skillset. These people seemingly sleepwaked from one location to the next, never learning, never seeing, never feeling anything. Their true stories are not on the river in those books, but earlier, when picking up their skills, when dreaming their big dreams. But having already developed their skills to perfection, the actual river tour is a bore to them, as they try to beat down the miles as fast as they can to get back to what they really cared about. In my mind, it is these guys who wasted their summers. One's highlight was his "invention" of a meal consisting entirley of uncooked oatmeal in cold water. But I guess at the end he was able to check a box off his list of things to do in life, so good for him.
With such a start, I was pretty sure I wasn't just wasting the summer, mine will be a true adventure, bumbling and all. I could honestly say I had no idea where I would get, when I would get there, and how.
I found a beautiful little campsite before the Carseland weir and thought, ah yes, this is it, whatever happens, I will figure it out.
And by the morning nothing bad had happened other than some creature with invisible footprints had broken into one of my waterproof bags and taken some oats and my best ramen.
Day 1 ended: 50*48.449N, 113*28.584W
Right in front of me is a series of compression waves generated by the Calgary weir. They weren't the largest waves, but they looked utterly terrifying as a proving ground for my canoe, which had only previously been tested in a kind of glorified bathtub, a duck pond at Prince's Island Park.
And then Shawnti came, holding the most afraid little cat I have ever seen.
This cat, String, was under threat of eradication from our landlords, for the crime of coming around to the house and visiting us every day. At one point it was decided that the best thing to do would be to send her with me on my journey, and we ould adventure together. I even bought a life-jacket for her, having some trouble with the sizing because I couldn't find anything between a terrier and a pug.
The cat did not seem thrilled about the adventure, so I had to set off without her. I had already had enough trouble without a terrified cat adding to it.
Those initial waves were indeed the worst I would see all day, but I had never canoed on a river this big before. I constantly found myself getting turned every which way, and it wasn't until I saw a group of experienced paddlers "peeling out" of an eddy that I realized my mistake. The current in an eddy is still or backwards compared to the main current, so hug the inside of a corner too closely, and you'll get turned around, pulled into it. Fortunately the process reverses as well -- just aim your canoe upstream out of the eddy and the current will catch you, turn you right side around and hurtle you on your way.
One of those paddlers asked me about my trip. I told him that I was a math student who was dropping out of school to go basically as far as I could.
"Well," he said, "if you keep going you'll eventually reach the Hudson's Bay."
This really wasn't part of my plan, but the way things were going, instead of mentioning St. Louis or New Orleans, I simply said, "I had an idea to pull the canoe on the back of my bike, but that isn't going so well."
He nodded, looked at the scratches in the bow from the bike rack rubbing the boat, the broken inwhale duct taped into place, and the haphazard collection of objects thrown into the boat, and said, "Well, I'm sure I'll see you again on the river!"
He neglected to say what state he expected to find me in.
It was only later, as I began looking for a campsite, that I began to relax and take stock of everything. No one would say this was going well, but should it, in a real adventure? I read many of these books written by men who paddled big rivers like the Missouri and the Mississippi, and the most interesting ones, the only true "adventures" were those written by folks with nearly no clue what they were doing as they started out. This gave them the opportunity to grow, to learn new skills, and see and experience new things as they went. They may have "bumbled their way from one disaster to the next" as one of their more prepared comrades put it, but their stories were interesting and the experience clearly added to their lives.
Not so the ones who started out well-prepared, with a full skillset. These people seemingly sleepwaked from one location to the next, never learning, never seeing, never feeling anything. Their true stories are not on the river in those books, but earlier, when picking up their skills, when dreaming their big dreams. But having already developed their skills to perfection, the actual river tour is a bore to them, as they try to beat down the miles as fast as they can to get back to what they really cared about. In my mind, it is these guys who wasted their summers. One's highlight was his "invention" of a meal consisting entirley of uncooked oatmeal in cold water. But I guess at the end he was able to check a box off his list of things to do in life, so good for him.
With such a start, I was pretty sure I wasn't just wasting the summer, mine will be a true adventure, bumbling and all. I could honestly say I had no idea where I would get, when I would get there, and how.
I found a beautiful little campsite before the Carseland weir and thought, ah yes, this is it, whatever happens, I will figure it out.
And by the morning nothing bad had happened other than some creature with invisible footprints had broken into one of my waterproof bags and taken some oats and my best ramen.
Day 1 ended: 50*48.449N, 113*28.584W
Friday, July 4, 2008
Medicine Hat!
Hey everyone, it's day 13 and I'm in Medicine Hat! My original idea for this blog was to try to have a post up for every day. I don't know if that will work or not, but writing these blogs will generally trail the actual day by a bit, and then posting will trail the writing by a bit more.
In other words, most of what you read here will be out of date! I need a few days to put things in context - you don't want blogs just copied from my journal, which are usually just notes full of troubles and worries. I need a couple days to forget all that stuff, and just remark what is good!
So, I will try to upload some post-dated blogs to appear over the next week or so. For those who want more up to date info, I'll copy down my GPS coordinates where I've camped each night -- these are usually the canoe's location, rather than the tent's.
Day 1: 50*48.449N, 113*28.584W
Day 2: 50*49.948N, 113*25.739W
Day 3: 50*49.572N, 113*23.623W
Day 4: N/A
Day 5: 50*40.115N, 112*28.831W
Day 6: 50*25.630N, 112*15.348W
Day 7: 50*18.098N, 112*09.994W
Day 8: 50*07.912N, 111*42.212W
Day 9: 49*54.778N, 111*34.391W
Day 10: 50*03.087N, 111*15.466W
Day 11: 50*03.087N, 111*15.466W
Day 12: 50*03.809N, 110*52.622W
Also, if any of you would like postcards, please email me your addresses. Thanks!
I don't know when I will be able to upload next, so I hope these few posts will tide you over until then.
In other words, most of what you read here will be out of date! I need a few days to put things in context - you don't want blogs just copied from my journal, which are usually just notes full of troubles and worries. I need a couple days to forget all that stuff, and just remark what is good!
So, I will try to upload some post-dated blogs to appear over the next week or so. For those who want more up to date info, I'll copy down my GPS coordinates where I've camped each night -- these are usually the canoe's location, rather than the tent's.
Day 1: 50*48.449N, 113*28.584W
Day 2: 50*49.948N, 113*25.739W
Day 3: 50*49.572N, 113*23.623W
Day 4: N/A
Day 5: 50*40.115N, 112*28.831W
Day 6: 50*25.630N, 112*15.348W
Day 7: 50*18.098N, 112*09.994W
Day 8: 50*07.912N, 111*42.212W
Day 9: 49*54.778N, 111*34.391W
Day 10: 50*03.087N, 111*15.466W
Day 11: 50*03.087N, 111*15.466W
Day 12: 50*03.809N, 110*52.622W
Also, if any of you would like postcards, please email me your addresses. Thanks!
I don't know when I will be able to upload next, so I hope these few posts will tide you over until then.
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