Criss-crossing Alberta June 23-24, 1978
I felt like I’d just been let out of jail, having escaped the fortress of the Rockies and coasted, free and clear, into the rolling hills and flat plains of Alberta. I spent the first few miles checking my rear view mirror: the Rockies were still there, and there was no posse coming after me. I’d left them behind, for now, for good.
I exited the main Jaspar-Edmonton highway as soon as I was, choosing a quieter road that took me south down the Drayton Valley to Winfield, a place that’s on a map, and yet no place at all. No ‘town’, no sign of a settlement, even in the distant past. A gently rolling landscape of fields and family farms.
Some lovely stands of birches. Birches always remind me of the Robert Frost poem. The last lines stick in my mind – I’d like to be a ‘swinger of birches’.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.
From ‘Birches’ by Robert Frost
From Winfield I continued my meandering on backroads, east into the Wetaskiwin area, where I stopped to take photos of old barns. The weather was somewhat gloomy, with heavy grey clouds, threatening, but not producing, rain. It was novel to be in a place with such open skies. Where the weather is so much more predictable: one can see the kinds of clouds that are heading one’s way, how slowly or quickly they are moving. My thoughts again turned to the tremendous differences our landscapes make in the lives we lead – what we see day by day, what activities dominate the economy of the place, and so what we think and do, how we lead our lives. And usually it is an accident of birth that puts us where we are, not choice. I was born on the coast. It’s my comfort zone. I can’t imagine living in the mountains, or here on this flat plain. But don’t get me wrong: I’m happy for the opportunity to visit.
From Wetaskiwin I headed north, and east, traveling on the smallest roads shown on my map, many unpaved, through miles and miles of farmland. Not the industrial farmland one thinks of when one thinks of the prairies – the huge mono-cultured fields with great hulking machinery that chops the ground, plants the crops, and then harvests them, threshing the wheat, dropping the potatoes into waiting bins. Here it’s small family farms, mostly a little run-down, testimony to the hardships of being a little farmer. I put Randy Newman’s version of the Pete Seeger song “The Farmer is the Man (Who Feeds us All)” song on for the drive. The lyrics were particularly apt.
When the farmer comes to town with his wagon broken down
Oh, the farmer is the man that feeds 'em all
If you'll only look an' see, I think you will agree
That the farmer is the man who feeds 'em all
Oh, the farmer is the man
The farmer is the man
Lives on credit 'till the fall
Then they take him by the hand
And they lead him from the land
And the middle man's the one that gets it all
When the lawyer hangs around, and the butcher cuts a pound
Oh, the farmer is the man that feeds 'em all
And the preacher and the cook, they go strollin' by the brook
But the farmer is the man that feeds 'em all
Oh, the farmer is the man
The farmer is the man
Lives on credit 'till the fall
With the interest rates so high
It's a wonder he don't die
For the mortgage man's the one that gets it all
When the banker says he's broke, and the merchant's up in smoke
They forgets that it's the farmer feeds 'em all
It would put them to the test, if the farmer took a rest
Then they'd know that it's the farmer feeds 'em all
Oh, the farmer is the man
The farmer is the man
Lives on credit 'till the fall
And his pants are wearin' thin
His condition it's a sin
He's forgot that he's the man that feeds 'em all
It’s easy to forget, or never really appreciate, as we select those perfect potatoes from a bin full at the supermarket, or sink our teeth into a fresh loaf of bread, where our food actually comes from. It comes from places like this. It’s produced by people like this.
I was determined to avoid Edmonton – just another big city – but had a ‘date’ in St. Paul, north and east of there, with a friend of a friend who’d invited me to spend some time at his farm.
My route took me through Vegreville, renowned as the place with The World’s Biggest Ukrainian Easter Egg. The colossal, colourful aluminum egg, called a ‘pysanka’ in the Ukraine, was built in 1974 by, of course, a Ukrainian named Paul Sembaliuk.
Apart from its value as a tourist attraction, it is also a weather vane. If you want to know more about it, including the fact that it took 12,000 hours and 3500 aluminum pieces to make it, go to this site: https://www.cbc.ca/arts/in-1974-vegreville-alberta-s-big-egg-was-a-technological-breakthrough-and-the-queen-liked-it-too-1.5285908
Northeast of Edmonton the landscape was flatter and somewhat less interesting. More evidence of civilization and industry in the many transmission lines criss-crossing the area.
And then St. Paul. Not to be outdone by Vegreville’s World’s Biggest Easter Egg, St. Paul boasts the ‘Worlds First U.F.O. Landing Pad’. Truly. However… the pad was closed, whether because no U.F.O.s were expected that day or due to staffing or technical issues I don’t know. But I guess if any U.R.O.s had been in the area they would have to have landed elsewhere.
I found the friend of a friend’s farm just outside of St. Paul (and away from the aliens' landing pad), and spent an enjoyable night there. He was intrigued with the whys and wherefores of my cross-Canada jaunt, and insisted on taking a photo of me pitching my tent. For posterity.
From St. Paul I headed southeast to Lloydminster. It’s claim to fame is that it sits smack on the border between Alberta and Saskatchewan, part of the city in one province and part in the other. Not as exciting as the World’s Biggest Egg, or the Worlds First U.F.O. Landing Pad, but still, it’s something. I did see the first sign of oil exploration activity, albeit just a bunch of derricks beside some tanks. I'm guessing, sooner or later, I'm going to see some actual wells with working derricks.
For no particular reason I took a road that straddled the border south to Hayter, a gravel road, straight as the eye could see.
Near Hayter I found an open field and played my flute for an audience of grasses and weeds. I couldn’t tell if they were more, or less, appreciative than the trees and mountains of the Rockies. But there was less ‘feedback’. In a way I missed the echoes. Here the sound just blew away and was lost in the great expanse of the great Canadian prairie plains.
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