THE EXPEDITION Chapter 8: OW (Section 1)

In which the first provincial border is crossed...and Ann  literally gets blown over. 

Date: May 1-4, 2019

From Walsh to Maple Creek : 51 km (Walked ~34 km, Rode ~ 17 km)

I crossed the first provincial border a week and a half after starting. It was a momentous milestone, a huge validation, and an excuse to take a break and jump up and down and cheer for ourselves and tell Mr Myrtle all about how he is probably the ONLY Jamaican puppy ever to walk across that border. And at this rate, I’d reach Ottawa well around midsummer.

Crossing the first border was a very, very validating moment. It felt even bigger than the moment I realized I could no longer see the mountains behind me, and from that moment vowed to only look behind when equally well-warranted or absolutely necessary. Now, I was truly on the road, out there, en route… a rolling stone for the Earth, a climate gypsy. It’s a good thing I felt so great about that because I was slogging mostly uphill, mostly against the wind.

I’m not the most coordinated person I know, especially sometimes, like distracted and arduous times. Like now. I collect bruises and scrapes and everything, and had already offended my right knee in particular a few times. It was another blow-you-off-the-highway day, plus hills, most of which went up. A few folks had stopped to talk, and there’d been a lot of breaks, but we’d started really early. I figured on getting to the truck stop at the turnoff to Maple Creek, and asking permission to camp in some corner of their huge and non-neighboured space there. Ending what I decided would be the only big break for the day, though, I somehow got whacked funny by a gust while standing from tucking MMS back into his trailer. I must’ve been favouring that knee and lost my balance or something, I’m really not sure, but I’m quite clear about the landing part – all my weight all of sudden landed on my right knee on some rocks on the road. I could hardly even stand up and suddenly the truck stop felt a whole lot farther away. I tried walking and could hardly limp, let alone manage the scooter and trailer.

I also had hardly any cell phone power. I’d forgotten to take advantage of the electrical outlets in Walsh to charge things, and the weather wasn’t cooperating with the solar charger kit – partly because it was so windy I was afraid my beautiful solar charger panel would blow away!

I’d have to flag someone down again. The first person who stopped was a heavily made-up woman with obviously dyed hair and too-tight farm clothes in a huge pickup truck. As she stared at me like I was some sort of two-headed alien, I explained what I was doing, and what had just happened, and that I couldn’t walk and there was another storm blowing in and nowhere here to stay safely, but she rolled her eyeballs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. There’s no climate crisis. There’s no storm. I thought you were in distress or something.” She spat the words out and roared off in a cloud of exhaust fumes.

Before I’d even really processed that, a young couple stopped. My knee was the size of a cantaloupe by then, and already covered with an interesting bunch of colours. They were driving a pickup truck and pulling a trailer, both packed to bursting with the lives they were moving out to the Maritimes. They spent more than half an hour on the side of the road in the crazy wind, kindly and happily rearranging things to defy the laws of physics and fit Mr Myrtle and I and all our stuff in with them somehow.

Shortly after checking in at the motel on the edge of town, the snow started, and by morning everything was covered with either snow or ice (including my knee).

The Maple Creek Motor Inn is run by an extremely polite and equally brisk and efficient Chinese woman who makes me think of film noir dragon ladies… she runs a tight crew of very nice and very efficient staff. She makes sure things get done and done right, and that everyone gets along well. She is also brilliant, and very interesting to talk with, and has such a good heart. The climate crisis upsets her hugely, and she worried so much about Mr Myrtle and I.

I ordered nachos the first night and she popped up at the table where Mr Myrtle and I sat, asking why I’d ordered them without meat. Learning that I don’t eat meat, she disappeared into the kitchen and the nachos arrived with a generous helping of seasoned beans. “You need protein” she announced, and proceeded to explain where to get eggs for breakfast in the morning, because she didn’t open till lunch. She even asked if I needed a ride, but I promised I’d wrap my knee and keep that leg on the scooter. Our nachos every night there included beans, as well as (I’m pretty sure) a quite a bit of extra cheese, and everything else for that matter.

As I collected some of the plain tortilla chips on the edge of the dish to cool down for Mr Myrtle, I read the menu. It was a story about the man who’d moved here many decades ago, and how the place had been built in pieces by the carpenters of a neighbouring Mennonite community, then moved and assembled here. He’d been a community-minded man, the story went, and though he was gone, the new ownership retained the story. The story sounded so familiar I had to wrack my brain to dredge up a memory pulled form one of the family roadtrips when I was small. I remember my parents reading the story to me, and being interested in the building process and how large sections of building had been moved at the time, and with more ingenuity than technology. Looking round and , I could see where we must have been sitting then, and wondered what I’d eaten then. Probably breakfast, I guessed, if that owner opened earlier, but that’s more than I can remember.

The cafe we found for breakfast was near enough I could scoot carefully and slowly without aggravating my knee. It was completely worth every step. The people who ran it and worked there were happy to talk about what I was doing, and to share about it, and they loved Mr Myrtle. Many of their customers were just as sociable and interested; many were really enthused about my walk, and quite distinctly not enthused with our government.

One of the photos used most often in the media is one taken by a customer here, a quiet and very interesting man who lives without media and technology, but does use a camera and managed to send the photo to us through someone else.

One morning, an elderly man at the next table grumped about the less than satisfying cantaloupe they’d had the day before. After a while, his exasperated wife ended his tale of woe by asking “Why on earth do you need cantaloupes that come in a truck all the way from Mexico anyways? Here, at whatever time of year? And how do you expect them to taste good after all that?”

He stared at her. “We have perfectly good berries and apples and whatever else there is from summer here. Eat those.” And that was that. Except it wasn’t. A quiet minute later, she spoke up again. “The whole world’s falling apart because you think you have to have cantaloupes in the beginning of May in Saskatchewan. Think about that. Pfft.” He didn’t say anything more about cantaloupes. I hugged them when they left. The next morning, she (I’m pretty sure it was her, and she mentioned cantaloupes) told me she’d gotten online and signed my petition, and was talking about it with her friends.

On our last morning, the staff asked if they could please send Mr Myrtle off with a small ham and cheese omelette they’d made by mistake. When I opened it to take him out a bit for his lunch that day, it looked like they’d crammed three exceedingly cheesey omelettes into that box. I cried and thanked them from afar and hoped something beautiful happened in their day.

Back in our room, I iced my knee and tried to be very nice to it. I repacked things better. I slept, a lot, and slept more. I caught up a little bit on some of the messages.

Two of my e-friends practice Reiki and similar means of energy healing. I’ve learned to believe in these things since I started being unable to take anything resembling pharmaceuticals, even aspirin. There are so many alternatives to mainstream medical system, which quite honestly, is not about health. They are not doctors of health. They are doctors of medicine, and their practice centres around medicine rather than the holistic needs of bodies and people. Most of what they do is a synthetic or technological imitation of something thousands of years older, more natural, and for many, healthier. Here and now I was especially grateful for all the help they were able to send, as did other friends who follow similar paths.

I figured as long as I was apparently going to be there a few days, I’d better try to get an interview at the local news paper. Some of the dear e-friends following the walk put together a contact list of media along the way for the next very long way. It took them ages, especially seeing as one who did much of it and of advance contacting was actually doing it from Germany.

The newspaper was definitely interested, and glad of an opportunity to balance out the truck convoy they’d had to cover in April. While I was in their office, they were slammed with an ultimatum from on high informing them that they’d henceforth and forthwith be losing four pages out of their pages immediately following the next issue. They were devastated. In spite of that, they put Mr Myrtle and I on the front page, with full page article inside. They printed my interview, photos, and quite a bit of well-researched climate crisis information. It was one of the best articles of the entire mission, and certainly the most thorough and longest. It wasn’t published till after I’d moved on, but I hope they know how much I loved them for that article and how many people it touched, and how much their publicity helped Mr Myrtle and I.

It was a really good day, talking with that journalist. He’s a very nice British man, and is happily moving around small towns and interesting places, moving as and when the universe arranges, and writing as well as if he were writing for big city papers (maybe better). He thought about walking a little ways, but his work and time, and my itinerary, didn’t fit together. I still have a copy of the paper though, which someone gave me later on down the road.

If anyone can find a link to this article please post in the comments!

#WalktoWakentheNationexpeditionbook