Travel

The Canadian Adventure Part Two

The point of this entire adventure was that The Laird wished to take part in a Rebel News conference in Calgary. It was mostly about Albertan independence, but partly about Rebel News, itself. I’m not that interested, but it is a fascinating idea. The referendum question on the ballot – which was “shall we have a referendum vote on leaving Canada?”, not the actual vote to leave – went down in flames (25% “yes”, 75% “no”) just the week before. This could be fun…

The Laird – he’s the kind and romantical one in our relationship – agreed to follow the werewolf route up and back. We drove up 79, across 20 to Buffalo, where we stopped for lunch (and I realized I had no wallet) . We then drove up 85, crossed the border at Fortuna, and then to Moose Jaw.

The Dakotas are desolate. South Dakota and southern North Dakota are desolate, mostly flat prairies. Northern North Dakota and southern Saskatchewan are somewhat hilly, desolate prairies. It is all “big sky” territory. Even with the roof on the Jeep, it was almost agoraphobic. So much sky and nothing else, especially trees. There are no trees; only prairie meeting sky.

The North Dakotan oil fields stretch much further north than I had thought. Southern Saskatchewan also has oil fields. While flares didn’t light up the horizon, it was rare to see fewer than two at any given time across most of North Dakota.

I know it’s stupid, but I had this vision of a vast forest starting at the Canadian border. That’s not even a little bit true. There are no trees in southern Saskatchewan. Not the least bit unexpectedly, if one thinks about it, it’s just like northern North Dakota. Duh.

Moose Jaw was fun. It reminded me a lot of Rapid City, with notable differences.

There are tunnels under the city. We did two of the four tours. They’re themed. We did the Al Capone bootleggers tour and the Cold War tour. They were both fantastic. They’re done as if you are a part of it. For the Chicago Connection tour, we were American bootleggers trying to hookup with Al Capone’s connections. For the Bunker 42 tour, we were recruits to Canadian espionage network. The guides were amazing; they didn’t break character. The settings were stunning. It’s not just the tunnels. The Bunker tour even had one of the NORAD radar consoles I worked with in the Air Force (I’m not that old, but it was programmed with punch cards up to the early 1990s, so it was).

In addition to forgetting my wallet, I didn’t pack swim trunks. It turned out not to matter since The Laird had booked us a suite with jacuzzi at Temple Gardens. That was fun. It was, and presumably still is, a great hotel.

Friday we – actually The Laird so I didn’t end up being strip searched by Mounties – drove to Calgary. Desolate prairie the entire way. Although, there must be more moisture up north. There were lots of grain silos and elevators, not just ranches. The soil looked very dark and rich with what I’m guessing is winter wheat coming up.

The Carriage House hotel in Calgary was nice, if a bit older than Temple Gardens. Saturday was the conference.

Much to my surprise, it was amazing. I wasn’t planning on writing a post about that alone, but it’s a bit much to put into this already lengthy post – and we’ve only reached the midpoint of the adventure.

Sunday we were going to take a tour up into the mountains (Calgary is “near” mountains, not “next to” mountains as Denver is). The Laird felt awful (“con crud” is a thing) so he spent the day sleeping and I spent it reading (I know, see the book post).

Monday we went yarn-store hopping in Calgary. Wow, does it remind me of Denver. One of the streets could have been Santa Fe Blvd. The downtown souvenir store was on a pedestrian mall, much like 16th Street (before the homeless hordes rendered it dreadful). It has a core of tall buildings surrounded by inburbs (Denver’s Uptown), which are surrounded in turn by suburbs.

I had the best quiche of my life in a little French cafe in one of those inburbs (the yarn store that was our destination was not open on Mondays). It was Quiche Dauphinoise. I ordered it mainly because it had no spinach. I was raving about it on the way out and a passing man said, “I’ll take that; I made it.”

Oddly, what struck me about that little neighborhood shop area was the stairs. There is clearly no Canadians with Disabilities Act. A mother and her friend carried a stroller down a set of stairs. The entire group of shops was connected by stairways, narrow sidewalks, and flagged paths. It would all be illegal in the states. I’m not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing – watching people carry a stroller was eye-opening – but it’s most definitely a thing.

Tuesday, we headed out of Calgary to Regina. I risked incarceration to start the drive. The Laird hates driving in cities. He took over when we stopped for gas.

Oh. Gas. Liters, ya know. They slip the decimal point, not that dissimilar to Americans. Gas was around 160.9, which is in cents, so 1.609 in dollars – per liter. I rounded in my head to $6.40 per gallon. I now have the Intertubes available to do an exact conversion and I find that I do not care.

Kilometers were a thing, but only briefly. Our speedometer does kph, so we switched it. The speed limits tend to go by tens: 110 on the highway (which is not a freeway), 100 on most highways, 80 to 60 outside cities, 60 to 40 in the cities. No “5”s. Having the navigation map in miles when the signs on the road were in kilometers was a bit weird, but only a bit.

In Regina, we went to The Keg for dinner (we stayed at the Holiday Inn Express next door). The bartender asked me about beer-glass size – in ounces. I expressed my astonishment that it wasn’t in milliliters. She said that she didn’t know millimeters. Not a typo. I was very amused. It was a very yuppie place, so I ordered steak and lobster. OMG! It was so good. First time in ages that I had no desire to add salt to my steak. The lobster was fine; I mainly ordered it because The Laird hates it (“sea bugs”) so I don’t have it often.

Then we (“he”) drove home – also on highways to take the werewolf route. All I can say is “thank you!” Maps lie. Satellite images lie. There is an entire river basin in Montana that doesn’t actually exist. It’s a creek running through valley between scattered buttes. On Google Maps, it looks like a big thing. It’s not. It’s a low, somewhat damp spot on the hilly prairie.

When we hit 212 and stopped for gas (where I found a brown cowboy hat that fits; I’ve been looking for years), I volunteered to drive through Wyoming and South Dakota (a grand total of about 90 minutes) since he had driven through Saskatchewan and Montana (about 8 hours). I got to remain a passenger, yay!

I’m not creating a Travel category.