Insects haven’t been a big problem in the last month or so until last night when we were attacked by a band of 5th column mosquitoes. If these noisome buggers are about, some normally get into the Admiral while we’re setting up camp. As we settle in for the night, Nancy stalks them with her deadly paddle and one-by-hapless-one electrocutes them in a fiery snap, crackle, or pop. A few stragglers will hide in the curtains or crevices, but as soon as they alight, Nancy is after them like a valkyrie, and they are soon dispatched. Tonight as we attempted to watch a movie they came in endless phalanxes—each of which Nancy savaged—but soon after each battle, a new platoon would appear, and then another, and another. We could find no opening in the Admiral’s defenses---no open door or window—through which they were infiltrating, but they came nonetheless. We never did discover the breach, so while they seem to be gone this morning, we shall live in constant dread that they could strike again at any time.
Last night it also rained heavily, and for much of the night I could hear the drip, drip, drip of a leak near the head of the bed. This morning we find that the carpet in the bedroom is drenched from this leak, which appears to have occurred around the bedroom slider. We add this to our growing list of little problems we’ll need to address when we return to civilization.
Last night was also marred by the occasional roaring truck. While traffic on the Cassier is light, there are still quite a few trucks. These guys are pedaling hard to get from point “A” to point “B”, so when they whoosh by, the Admiral rocks and rolls a little in the thunder.
This morning we’re awakened by a neighboring car. Sharing these rest areas is typical, so it wasn’t the presence of another vehicle that was the problem; but this guy would run his engine for 10 or 15 minutes, rev it irregularly, shut it off for a while, then start up again on some weird schedule. In addition he got out of the car a couple of times and noisily slammed the door as if to announce his presence. We’re imaging he was trying to keep warm, but there was no pattern to his behavior, so it was effective in wrenching us from the bonds of Morpheus.
Today is Labor Day in the USA and Labour Day in Canada(except Quebec where it’s “Jour de Travail”?). It’s interesting that one of our handfuls of national holidays derived from the union movement. It shows how powerful, influential, and relevant unions once were. Back in 1882 when Labor Day began, I suppose the big bosses were petitioning for a “Scabs” or “Exploitation” Day. Given all the changes that have occurred in the last 100 years plus, it may be time to rethink the “Labor Day” appellation. The floor is open to suggestions but here are some possibilities: “Cheap Foreign Labor Day”, “Multinational Day”, “Empty Factories Day”, “Undocumented Labor Day”. Sarcasm aside, if we were to change the name, “Small Business Day”, “Free Markets Day”, “Capitalism Day”, or “All Americans’ Day” might be appropriate.
As we leave our cacophonous roadside auberge, it’s gray and cloudy. In about an hour we’re at the end of the Cassier and merging with the East-West Yellowhead Highway. The change is distressingly abrupt. In one moment we are in the wilderness, in the next, civilization. Then: The rare, occasional car/truck/RV. Now: Throbbing traffic. We’ve gone just a few miles, and 5 cars are stacked behind us, poking their driver’s side noses into opposing traffic looking for a chance to pass, coaxing us with their palpable impatience to invoke the 5-car rule that requires us to pull off so that they can pass. The change is almost instantaneous and dramatic—like a pierced balloon. We are more than 1,700 miles from home, but we sense that the end is near. The fat lady may not yet be singing, but she is in the building and warming up back stage.
We muse of the difference between the trip up and the ride back. On the way north as each mile rolled by our anticipation grew. The farther we went, the deeper we penetrated the unknown. The more distance there was between us and home, the more likely it was that we’d see animals and raw nature. On the way north, there was no moment of truth where we moved suddenly from one world to the next. The change was gradual and pleasing like a room warming, or the sun rising, or a flower blooming. On the way north the “end” was not yet defined—the apogee of our journey would be whenever it was, and wherever it was. Now the final “end” can be measured. It is 1,778 miles from here, 1,777 miles from the next mile marker. Until now we were on an adventure—now we’re on a trip. Now with every southward mile there is less of everything the journey was about. As soon as we left the Cassier we moved from a world of unbounded wilderness to a land of farms and fences. We see our first cow in almost 2 months. There are still occasional “Moose Crossing” signs, but our expectations are exceedingly low.
As oil trucks scream by, we are figuratively dressed in black. I search for a lower octave, and in my best Johnny Cash voice I begin to intone a version of “Folsom Prison Blues”…
We see the trucks acoming
the RVs and the cars,
We’ve left the wild
country and found the sleazy bars.
We’re chained to this damn highway and
find no solace here.
We’re seeing cows and pigeons but no more moose or
deer.
When I was just a baby, my momma told me, “Boy
When you leave the
wilderness you’ll also leave the joy.
The joy of peace and freedom and
emptiness alone
And trade them for a fax machine and blackberry
phone…”
Well, if we could bolt the Yellowhead
Escape to northern
climes,
We’d find ourselves alone again in far more happy times.
Far from
civilization that’s where we want to stay,
And let the wild creatures howl
our blues away.
We stop for lunch in the parking lot of the public library in Smithers—hoping also to have internet connectivity. Getting on line is problematic, but lunch is good. I’ve fallen into a pattern of having Oklahomas for almost every lunch. “Oklahomas” is the name my mom always used for what most people call “Sloppy Joes”. I have no idea how she arrived at the name “Oklahoma”, but she was raised during the Depression, and I found this history of Sloppy Joes on Google:
The sloppy joe has a foggy history, but it seems to have arisen during the Depression as a way to stretch ground beef during hard times. Several sources place its creation in a small cafe in Sioux City, Iowa, where it was called a "loosemeat" sandwich. No one knows if there was an original Joe, but they sure are sloppy!
It’s a pretty good rail ride from Sioux City to Oklahoma, but the latter was certainly associated with the Depression, so I guess I can see my mom’s family calling this meat s-t-r-e-t-c-h-i-n-g sandwich an “Oklahoma”. We had Oklahomas a lot when I was growing up. It was one of about 10 meals through which my mom rotated. I was raised in the 50’s and 60’s and, at least at our house, day-to-day culinary creativity and exploration were unusual. My dad had been in Europe in the War and loved food, so he bravely tested boundaries and developed a few dishes of his own that were excellent, but he only cooked on special days. Otherwise, we had more or less the same stuff week after week. I can’t imagine what would have happened if one day Mom had decided to serve Sushi for dinner. Back in those days, “Sushi” had the less glamorous name of “Bait”. We used it quite often down at Salt Creek to catch Bullheads, but never would have imagined eating the stuff.
Near Smithers, the sun flashes briefly and provocatively, then dissolves again into the murky, rain-sodden sky. We’re on a section of road where the towns are strung together along the road like plastic beads. Outside of Smithers we get a view of the Hudson Bay and Toboggan Glaciers in the western distance. It’s great to see glaciers again, but we know that these truly are the last we’ll experience on this trip. We’re back in the Pine Beetle blight area. Many hillsides are completely covered with red, infected and dying trees.
In Houston we take our picture under the “World’s Largest Fly Rod”. We check it off on our life list—we ARE living the dream.
While we frequently ruminate on our best days of this adventure, it takes little discussion to agree that this is our worst—civilization, traffic, bad weather, plebian scenery, and the distant sound of the fat lady warming up for her caustic aria.
It’s early evening, we’ve passed the fair city of Vanderhoof—hooray! Just outside of town we stop at “Dave’s RV Park”.
