Western Canada, Bestern Canada: Tour Blog Part Four
It’s been almost a week now since we returned from our tour of Western Canada, so I guess it’s about time I got off my lazy ass and wrote the last blog post. I trust you’ve been waiting with bated breath. Speaking (tentatively) on behalf of myself and the rest of Altona, our time on the road served largely as a sobering reminder that, even within the relatively small Southwestern third of the gargantuan landmass we call Canada, people exist in a series of socially independent paradigms. Within our Canadian culture exist webs of sub-culture and autonomous, self-defined communities, each different from the last in ways both subtle and strong. Maybe the essence of Canadian culture is that there isn’t one: a new lifestyle is just one mountain, forest, or prairie away. But I’m beginning to suspect I’m questioning that which I’m both under-qualified and under-prepared to query, so I’ll digress for now.
As our fourteen-day excursion of music and machismo drew ever nearer to it’s denouement, I found myself reflecting on my previous three blog posts and realizing that, in my blithe and hasty recounting, I’d done a tremendous injustice to the story of this tour. I’d summarized soullessly; spoken too plainly; left little room for nuance or imagination. I’d expounded so heavily on events that I ignored moments, people, and places. I ignored, in other words, the ways in which the aforementioned social and cultural distinctions manifested themselves within our experiences, as well as the minutiae that defined Altona’s first tour.
Let me give you the highlight reel:
In Medicine Hat, we share a hot tub with an older couple who are in town for their daughter’s college graduation. The woman describes her hometown of Moose Jaw as “a pothole just off highway one.” They’re friendly, and they happily tolerate their daughters boyfriend, who cusses in front of them.
A friend of a friend in Calgary pokes fun at Jesse for being a vegetarian, praising the virtues of Alberta beef. Vegetarianism, I think, is not common around here.
In Golden, the bartender at the venue accidentally leaves her wallet on the bar. A bachelor party finds it and spends all her money on shots. She laughs it off.
In Banff, an inebriated woman asks Adam if she can take a picture with him because he’s “so tall.” His exact words are: “Go away from me, please.”
In Drumheller, pika squirrels eat bits of garlic bread out of our hands. Later, Adam runs one over on the highway.
A friend from my teenage years lets us crash on the floor of her new home in Regina on three hours notice. In the morning, we catch up over eggs and toast.
Just outside Moose Jaw, our host takes us on a tour of his dairy farm. One of the cows, I notice – a small, brown one amidst a sea of white and black – is, unmistakably, crying. I try to pet her reassuringly, but she backs away.
In Lethbridge, a man at the bar tells Adam, “a crowded elevator always smells a little different to a midget.”
In Canmore, I go for a run and meet a friendly cat who makes me temporarily (but painfully) homesick. I name him Lars and take his picture, posed elegantly against the snow-capped rockies.
We pull over on the highway in Saskatchewan to explore salt flats. I watch trucks go by on either side of the highway from the gully in between.
In Cypress Hills, we watch evening slip to twilight over Alberta from Lookout Point. Later, I fall asleep next to the campfire and wake in the morning shade of hundreds of trees, looming and solemn. After breakfast we shave Jesse’s head.
In Lethbridge, we play frisbee golf with an old friend of Jesse’s, who is literally the only local, it seems, who enjoys living there. He lets us crash for two nights and convinces us that Lethbridge isn’t so bad.
In the Alberta Badlands, we drink and light fireworks and cook tinfoil potatoes over the campfire as the coyotes howl from the hillsides.
On the road, we read a magazine that lists celebrities sharing their secrets to leading a happy life. Pamela Anderson’s list is much longer than Leslie Nielsen’s, I notice. Mitch writes a list for Altona, which reads:
Share the road.
Breads.
Alarm clocks only
when necessary.
“I live,
I die,
I live again.”
A collection of things
from the places you’ve been.
Forget about the
damage deposit.
Facetime, airtime.
Souvenirs for
significant others.
Disposable camera.
Petty crimes.
Organized bag, tidy mind.
Gifts for hosts.
Campfire potatoes.
Savour the difference.
“Just give ‘er.”
Feel the water.
Describe it. _______________________________________________________________________
We owe a lot (A LOT) of thanks to a lot of people for making this tour as fun and successful as it was. I’ll leave that to Adam, but if you’re reading this, you know who you are. I would, however, like to take a sec to extend some gratitude to my roadmates/bandmates: To Mitch (Slurm King) – Thanks for keeping us entertained.
To Jesse (Spaghetti Legs) – Thanks for keeping us informed.
To Adam (Treebeard) – Thanks for keeping us levelheaded. Later days, good people.
Thomas
