Driving with my Dog To Alaska: Alberta
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By Donald F. Smith, Cornell University
Posted August 23, 2012
Five years ago my dog, Beau, and I drove from our home in upstate New York to Alaska and back. The first six installments can be found by clicking the "Traveling with Beau" link on the upper right-hand corner of the Home Page. In the last blog, Beau and I traveled through the province of Saskatchewan.
I didn't want to leave the comforting borders of Saskatchewan. Everyone had been so helpful; even the wheat fields were friendly. Ahead of me lay the Texas of Canada: obscenely rich, lusting after oil, big trucks and fast cars. Young men with no patience to wait in line for morning coffee, driving so fast that the dogs loose in the back of their pickup trucks had to lean against the wind as they snarled at Beau peering from his perch in our small jeep.
Hyperbole, for sure.
They did have fresh toilet paper, though.This is Alberta. Vacillating between rich and richer with the opening of tar sands on its northern reaches, she grumbles having to send money to the poorer Maritime provinces back east.
The single (not paired, like Texarkana) border city of Lloydminster that straddles the Saskatchewan/Alberta border was founded on sobriety and strict Anglican values a century ago. But in typical Alberta fashion, that doesn't prevent oil-slathered bikini-clad women cavorting in the fine art of oil wrestling as advertised on the town's makeshift bulletin boards.
Beau and I passed over the provincial border at 10:30 in the morning. We would soon be in the bustling northern city of Edmonton where my sister sold high-end chocolate candies and my brother-in-law was a chaplain for the city. But first we stopped at the hamlet of Levoy to see how the locals not partaking of the oil boom spent their days.
At the antique and general store we sifted our eyes through boxes of Velveeta cheese and cans of lard, honey and udder balm that were reminiscent of the general store stock when I was growing up.
The Abundant Life Wellness Center
in Levoy, AlbertaFifty yards down the gravel road at the center of the village, sat a cluster of outdoor mailboxes beside a twisted shed. Nearby, an audaciously-placed stop sign seemed to direct passers-by into the Abundant Life Wellness Center where the fare included chiropractic, acupuncture and Chinese medicine.
We barely got back on the road to Edmonton and were teased off again by a sign advertising the world's largest pysanka in the upcoming town of Vegreville. This was the site of a large Ukrainian settlement and the Easter egg-like monument is a reminder of the multitude of immigrants who populated the western reaches of Canada a century ago. One of these was a transient visitor, my paternal grandfather who as a young lad was a cowboy-of-sorts near Calgary.
World's largest Pysanka in Vegreville, AlbertaWe barreled our way through Edmonton, not stopping to see my sister as she and her husband were temporarily working in Eastern Canada. This was fast and stressful traffic, so unlike the gentler roads we had driven earlier. The multi-lane thoroughfare over the top of the city at midday was clogged with trucks large and small, the only difference being whether they were traveling 130 or 140 km per hour. Like a Thoroughbred caught in the middle of the pack in the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby, we jostled in and around horses trying to neither use the whip nor get clipped by adjacent hoofs. I was trapped next to the rail and leaving the stampede was impossible. An airfield swept past on my left and I wondered if that was the set of runways used by my nephew, an Air Canada pilot.
Just as quickly as the traffic onslaught had developed 30 minutes earlier, it ended and we swung in a tight arc north to the small town of Onoway. I found a comfortable park for lunch and rested for what seemed like a long time. As we drove west, I felt that we were nearing the Arctic. Of course we weren't yet, but the starkness of the landscape spawned a sense of loneliness.
Late that afternoon, we reached the bustling town of Valleyview in western Alberta. We were only 250 km from Dawson Creek, the eastern terminus of the Alaska Highway. Smelling victory, Beau and I stopped at a small tourist center on the outskirts of town. It was August 17th, the 89th anniversary of my father's birth. Sadly, he had passed 40 days earlier.
Beau in a carpet of birdsfoot trefoil
legume in Valleyview, Alberta.As if to raise a memorial tribute to the man who taught me live a green lifestyle before it was the fashion, the entire field behind the welcome center was punctuated in birdsfoot trefoil, my father's favorite legume. We never succeeded in growing it on the home farm in southern Ontario in more than a Polka dot smattering of yellow, but here was a carpet of lush yellow. It was an uncanny testament to my dad; he would have loved to have been there with us.
There were several other visitors whom we met: an older couple with a Shih-Tzu and young couple with toddlers. A pre-teen and her father with a baby in his arms walked along the crest of a hill.
As dusk descended and with my belly full of Arctic char (and Beau's of chicken), we drove up and down the main street looking for a pet-friendly hotel. 'No pets allowed' was the familiar refrain, especially that of a New Jersey transplant whose rudeness was matched only by his slovenly appearance.
Totally discouraged and feeling the effects of 36 hours without a shower, I grasped at straws until we found a secluded, too-expensive, smelly motel on the west end of town. Despite the cost, we checked in. I got cleaned up and had my first shave in five days. When I emerged from the bathroom, Beau was sniffing the rug, moving from one urine spot to the next on the tattered carpet. Then he started scratching his belly. The whole floor was a mass of stale dog urine. And fleas.
It was dark now, but we nonetheless packed up hastily, and strode out the front door with barely a nod to the orange-haired receptionist who was arguing with a older and apparently-familiar man at the desk. Driving back to the east end of town, we left the jeep half-hidden behind the welcome center. We climbed the cedar fence into the birdsfoot trefoil pasture and went to sleep side-by-side on a single blanket. The smell of the legume was euphoric. Though I remember nothing of my sleep that night, I would like to think I was dreaming of growing up on the farm back in Ontario.
Dr. Smith invites comments at dfs6@cornell.edu
Posted August 23, 2012
Five years ago my dog, Beau, and I drove from our home in upstate New York to Alaska and back. The first six installments can be found by clicking the "Traveling with Beau" link on the upper right-hand corner of the Home Page. In the last blog, Beau and I traveled through the province of Saskatchewan.
I didn't want to leave the comforting borders of Saskatchewan. Everyone had been so helpful; even the wheat fields were friendly. Ahead of me lay the Texas of Canada: obscenely rich, lusting after oil, big trucks and fast cars. Young men with no patience to wait in line for morning coffee, driving so fast that the dogs loose in the back of their pickup trucks had to lean against the wind as they snarled at Beau peering from his perch in our small jeep.
Hyperbole, for sure.
They did have fresh toilet paper, though.This is Alberta. Vacillating between rich and richer with the opening of tar sands on its northern reaches, she grumbles having to send money to the poorer Maritime provinces back east.
The single (not paired, like Texarkana) border city of Lloydminster that straddles the Saskatchewan/Alberta border was founded on sobriety and strict Anglican values a century ago. But in typical Alberta fashion, that doesn't prevent oil-slathered bikini-clad women cavorting in the fine art of oil wrestling as advertised on the town's makeshift bulletin boards.
Beau and I passed over the provincial border at 10:30 in the morning. We would soon be in the bustling northern city of Edmonton where my sister sold high-end chocolate candies and my brother-in-law was a chaplain for the city. But first we stopped at the hamlet of Levoy to see how the locals not partaking of the oil boom spent their days.
At the antique and general store we sifted our eyes through boxes of Velveeta cheese and cans of lard, honey and udder balm that were reminiscent of the general store stock when I was growing up.
The Abundant Life Wellness Center
in Levoy, AlbertaFifty yards down the gravel road at the center of the village, sat a cluster of outdoor mailboxes beside a twisted shed. Nearby, an audaciously-placed stop sign seemed to direct passers-by into the Abundant Life Wellness Center where the fare included chiropractic, acupuncture and Chinese medicine.
We barely got back on the road to Edmonton and were teased off again by a sign advertising the world's largest pysanka in the upcoming town of Vegreville. This was the site of a large Ukrainian settlement and the Easter egg-like monument is a reminder of the multitude of immigrants who populated the western reaches of Canada a century ago. One of these was a transient visitor, my paternal grandfather who as a young lad was a cowboy-of-sorts near Calgary.
World's largest Pysanka in Vegreville, AlbertaWe barreled our way through Edmonton, not stopping to see my sister as she and her husband were temporarily working in Eastern Canada. This was fast and stressful traffic, so unlike the gentler roads we had driven earlier. The multi-lane thoroughfare over the top of the city at midday was clogged with trucks large and small, the only difference being whether they were traveling 130 or 140 km per hour. Like a Thoroughbred caught in the middle of the pack in the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby, we jostled in and around horses trying to neither use the whip nor get clipped by adjacent hoofs. I was trapped next to the rail and leaving the stampede was impossible. An airfield swept past on my left and I wondered if that was the set of runways used by my nephew, an Air Canada pilot.
Just as quickly as the traffic onslaught had developed 30 minutes earlier, it ended and we swung in a tight arc north to the small town of Onoway. I found a comfortable park for lunch and rested for what seemed like a long time. As we drove west, I felt that we were nearing the Arctic. Of course we weren't yet, but the starkness of the landscape spawned a sense of loneliness.
Late that afternoon, we reached the bustling town of Valleyview in western Alberta. We were only 250 km from Dawson Creek, the eastern terminus of the Alaska Highway. Smelling victory, Beau and I stopped at a small tourist center on the outskirts of town. It was August 17th, the 89th anniversary of my father's birth. Sadly, he had passed 40 days earlier.
Beau in a carpet of birdsfoot trefoil
legume in Valleyview, Alberta.As if to raise a memorial tribute to the man who taught me live a green lifestyle before it was the fashion, the entire field behind the welcome center was punctuated in birdsfoot trefoil, my father's favorite legume. We never succeeded in growing it on the home farm in southern Ontario in more than a Polka dot smattering of yellow, but here was a carpet of lush yellow. It was an uncanny testament to my dad; he would have loved to have been there with us.
There were several other visitors whom we met: an older couple with a Shih-Tzu and young couple with toddlers. A pre-teen and her father with a baby in his arms walked along the crest of a hill.
As dusk descended and with my belly full of Arctic char (and Beau's of chicken), we drove up and down the main street looking for a pet-friendly hotel. 'No pets allowed' was the familiar refrain, especially that of a New Jersey transplant whose rudeness was matched only by his slovenly appearance.
Totally discouraged and feeling the effects of 36 hours without a shower, I grasped at straws until we found a secluded, too-expensive, smelly motel on the west end of town. Despite the cost, we checked in. I got cleaned up and had my first shave in five days. When I emerged from the bathroom, Beau was sniffing the rug, moving from one urine spot to the next on the tattered carpet. Then he started scratching his belly. The whole floor was a mass of stale dog urine. And fleas.
It was dark now, but we nonetheless packed up hastily, and strode out the front door with barely a nod to the orange-haired receptionist who was arguing with a older and apparently-familiar man at the desk. Driving back to the east end of town, we left the jeep half-hidden behind the welcome center. We climbed the cedar fence into the birdsfoot trefoil pasture and went to sleep side-by-side on a single blanket. The smell of the legume was euphoric. Though I remember nothing of my sleep that night, I would like to think I was dreaming of growing up on the farm back in Ontario.
Dr. Smith invites comments at dfs6@cornell.edu
View original article: http://veterinarylegacy.blogspot.com/2012/08/by-donald-f.html
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