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July 18 Monday Bicycle touring from Lake Newell Alberta - Vauxhall Alberta I stayed in the tent until it felt like a sauna. Never mind that we were trying to figure out where the afternoon sun was going to be, we should have been trying to figure out where the morning sun was going to rise. I am amazed at how hot and humid it is in southern Alberta. By the time I get up the family in the trailer next to us is already gone. The day before, the father had constantly ragged on his two small children. First he yelled at the smallest one, thinking the little beggar had thrown a rock at his truck. He reamed the poor kid out supremely. Later, the little darlings wouldn't go to sleep. The father was mad as a hornet. "You kids promised me you would be good. Now go to sleep!" he admonished them. I never heard the wife speak once. Oh, no, I'm wrong. I clearly remember her speaking once when Sharon and Susan were down at the lake fishing. Her husband had asked "Are there any washrooms with running water?" "I don't believe so," she had replied. And that was the extent of their conversation. Isn't togetherness fun? After a breakfast of porridge we mount our more than fully loaded touring bikes and hit the gravel road in an attempt to connect with Hwy 36. Susan, the Chartered Accountant, figures it will be 30 kilometres, compared to 64 kilometres if we go back to Brooks on the pavement and then across. So we opt for the gravel shortcut. It starts out not too bad with the wind pushing us along nicely. There isn't much traffic. The road turns west and the wind blows strongly at our side. Handling a loaded touring bike on gravel with little tires is a bit tricky. We pass scads of iron horse oil pumping units. In one area I count nine spread over a few acres. My observation about this area looking like an oasis is confirmed as we stop at the appropriately-named Oasis Restaurant where the gravel road intersects Hwy 36 to Ranier. There is a truck delivering gas. I pull to a stop in front of the driver and say, "Fill 'er up!" He looks me over, then says, "I'd like to, but I can't get my hose out of the tank until someone uses the pumps to buy gas." Somehow he read the dipstick wrong and the tank is plumb full. He can't take his hose off the coupling without gas spilling. He says the truck holds 4700 litres when fully loaded. I work out my gas consumption for a year and come up with a nice round number of 2500 liters. The tanker truck sitting beside me holds enough gas to fuel my car for almost two years. It looks like an awful lot of gas for one car to go through every two years. It is amazing to think how much gas there is in the world to operate those millions of cars out there. He changes the subject, asking about our vacation. He tells me he's planning on going to Cape Breton next year with his girlfriend. She is from there, he says, and her folks are still there. "They were just here for the Calgary Stampede," he reminisces. Susan dismounts her bike and loses it when a wind blast catches it. The large chain wheel sprocket gives her several nasty gouges and a long scrape where they impact her calf. Nothing like grease in a puncture wound. We get out the first aid kit and clean everything before applying an antiseptic and sterile gauze bandage. We ride on down the road till Scandia where we stop to buy groceries for supper. When I enquire where the town got its name I get two answers. A little girl tells me, "From that rock over there," and points down the road. Sure enough, at the edge of town stands a rock with "Scandia" chipped into it. Another fellow tells us that the town name comes from someone who moved there from Scandinavia a long time ago. We visit a huge museum with all sorts of old farm implements on display. We get back on our bikes and head back out onto the hot tarmac. The irrigation canals look inviting with their cool clear water. I'll bet it'd be mighty refreshing to take a dip on a hot day like today. We reach Bow River and stop at a roadside campground. Susan wants to try fishing again and the Bow is reputed to be good. The wind is blowing mightily. Susan isn't able to cast out. The wind blows the line back towards her. After a few unsuccessful casting attempts, we wise up and decide -- duh! -- to go to the other side of the river. A good idea, except that once we're on the bridge deck we almost get sucked off the sidewalk when a semi barrels past. At the other side, we hop over a farmer's fence and make it down to the water. Casting is indeed easier. Unfortunately, the only good news of the great fishing expedition is that we didn't lose any bait. We get back on our bikes and head south on Hwy 36 to Vauxhall. We eat at Wendy's, then look around town for a place to pitch our tent for the night. The ball diamond looks fine and there is the added bonus of washrooms. Before settling on there, we look around the rest of town, but can't find anything better. A sudden downburst strikes. We hightail it to the ball park and sit out of the elements in the dugout. Later, a volunteer comes to move a sprinkler in the outfield. I run out and ask him if it is okay to set up in the dugout. "Sure," he replies, "set up anywhere you want." Setting the tent up in the dug out is no problem for our little tent since it is free standing. Susan, however, has a pup tent that needs to be staked. Needless to say it was a little like a saggy body bag. |
