Dino-mite Road Trip

It's all about getting out and being one with culture.

“I call corn.”

“Corn’s easy.”

“I still call it.”

Another bushy field stretches as far as the eye can see.

“Mmmm. I’m going with potatoes.”

We’ll never know.

This is our requisite road trip game, ‘Spot the Crop.” We are making the two-and-a-half hour drive from Calgary to Dinosaur Provincial Park. And whilst we have a destination in mind, getting there is half the fun in the Alberta Prairies.”

Sample Local Fare

Our first stop is Taber and it ticks off many ‘Road Trip’ boxes. This is home to the sweetest corn on the cob so we provision up with the local delicacies, as we are lucky enough to have hit town in harvest season.

Visit Local Monuments

It’s not moments later that we pull a slightly but not totally inexcusable u-turn as we spot the 30 ft statue of a jubilant lady-in-red-dress-punching-sky. She seems happy to have taken up residence in front of the local hardware store so we stop to pay homage to her find.

Take in Local Culture

Comedy photo complete and we continue on our journey. We giggle at the parochial signs calling for entries to ‘hottest chili competition’ and challenges for eating the most corn.

I love my dinosaur.

Make New Discoveries

On the outskirts of the tiny hamlet of Patricia, situated next to the Dinosaur Provincial Park, we discover the melodically named Dinosaur Country Store; an archetypal North American country-highway gas station/store complete with a life-sized replica of the Albertosaurus, little cousin to the fearsome T-Rex at the aptly-named.

Here we add to our portfolio of comedy photos whilst stretching our legs, refueling and perusing the aisles of the aptly-named store for road snacks and novelty items such as ‘Canned Beaver’. (Animal lovers fret not, these are cuddly toys not strange Canadian delicacies.)

Take It All In

We follow the signs to Dinosaur Provincial Park. The park itself is well camouflaged from afar, cleverly disguised as more flat, straight prairie. But then the chasm opens before us and we spot the Red Deer Valley, the river running through it and the miles upon miles of hoodoos and hills hewn from the rock and sediment over millions of years. The view is stupendous, epic, breath-taking; it is all of these things.

There are several guided hikes around the 75 sq kilometre park but we go freestyle and wander through the ancient glacier-formed stones and towering hoodoos – this is, after all, a road trip.

Vistas that just can't be beat.

Learn Something New

After a few hours we manage to cover most of the 5 trails and have filled the trivia centre in our brains with new facts about the area. It was discovered by Joseph B. Tyrell in 1884, the strange rock formations, known as hoodoos, were formed because of a receding glacier, we even get to see the restored log cabin owned by John Ware, a famous African American cowboy who settled in the area in the late 1800s.

The sun begins to set and our heads are buzzing with fresh, prairie air, breath-taking vistas and new information. But there is one final part to the road trip and that is getting home.

Hoodoo You Love

Strange landscape of the badlands in Dinosaur Provincial Park. Photo: Moe Kafer

I am precariously balanced atop a rock that can only really be described as looking like a blob of oozing taffy. To the east a twisting river snakes through forest covered valley to the west a landscape of towering hoodoos and hills melting into the distance.

Although familiar to the North American indigenous people for many centuries as the resting place of the grandfathers of the buffalo, Dinosaur Provincial Park was first ‘officially’ discovered by Canadian geologist and cartographer, Joseph B. Tyrell, in 1884 when he stumbled on to a strange face in the rocks. This bony face was later identified as the skeletal remains of the now-extinct Albertosaurus,

Over 150 full dinosaur skeletons and significant bone beds were discovered in Dinosaur National Park, most of which are now housed in significant museums around the world including the nearby Tyrell Museum in Alberta. Because of these significant finds, the flora and the unique landscape, it was deemed worthy of UNESCO’s accolade of World Heritage Site in 1980.

The park itself is a marvel to behold. On approach, you would barely expect it to be there. But, as you near the precipice, the deep valley carved into the prairies reveals itself in all its surreal glory.

“This would be a great place to shoot a movie.” My brother is an aspiring filmmaker and everywhere is a potential set to him.

We are hiking through mile after mile of bleached white hills, through towering minaret-shaped hoodoos in a valley carved by an ancient melting glacier. I can feel the age of the earth in these hills. It’s an other-worldly place formed by time and nature crashing through the Red Deer Valley over millennia, carving and moulding this soft rock.

He is not wrong; this is a good place to film a movie. It’s even got a great name: The Badlands.

The Badlands are a two-and-a-half hour drive southeast of Calgary Alberta and span around 75 sq kilometres. Visit the Royal Tyrell Museum Field Station to learn about the flora, fauna, geology and history of the park but the best way to enjoy it is to get up close and personal with the landscape.

Scattered around the field station are five interpretive trails ranging from 15 minutes to one hour each marked with fact-giving signs for go-at-your-own-pace hikes allowing you to take your time to watch the changing landscape as the light dances across the peaks.

An experience of a lifetime for any visitor this place is a veritable treasure trove for those photographically inclined.

For a more in-depth look at the park, there are guided tours available by booking online http://tpr.alberta.ca/parks/dinosaur/index.aspx which range from a 2 hour bus tour to a day-long back country expedition and of course, a range of excursions that bring you to the sites of actual dinosaur digs in the park.

And for the ultimate immersion into the landscape there are well-maintained camping facilities nestled in the middle of the park, a great backdrop for campfire dinosaur tales and stargazing.

A hoodoo is a column of weathered and unusually shaped rock. Photo: Moe Kafer

Dinosaur Provincial Park services and facilities:

• year-round campground, with limited services late September – May 1
• 10-unit group-use camp, limited services late September – May 1
• riverside day-use area
• concession with convenience store, food service, coin-operated showers and laundry
• visitor centre with exhibits and gift shop (open all year)
• interpretive programs (mid-May to mid-October)
• five self-guided trails and two outdoor fossil exhibits (all year, weather permitting)

Coming Home

Big sky country.

My heart drops as I see the tiny little cluster of high rises ambitiously reaching for the sky surrounded by miles of stunted buildings that are the urban sprawl of Calgary.

I have come home to regroup after a particularly disappointing break up and my mother has come to collect me from the closest national airport. I am grateful to have her support and a real home in which to recuperate, I only wish it wasn’t here.

For many European immigrants, the landlocked province of Alberta held the promise of jobs in oil and farming as well as space in which to raise a family. For me, growing up in the isolation of the pre-fab, suburban neighbourhoods made me feel isolated from those exotic cultures my parents crossed the ocean to escape.

We negotiate the traffic of the now-booming city and make our way to the wide expanses of the prairies and ultimately, the town of Lethbridge, home to less than 100,000 inhabitants. Calgary’s booming expanses have pushed my mother out further, to smaller cities to get that peace and sense of space she always craved.

New giants on the horizon.

The wide road is straight as an arrow and disappears into the distance. The brilliant blue sky opens wide. I have to get more of that clean, fresh air. I open the window and breathe, my nose fills with the earthy scent of the brilliant yellow canola fields. I can hear the hum of crickets over the sound of the car; the warm prairie air envelops me.

Before me is the real life version of one of those masterpieces that hangs in Europe’s famous museums.

When asked by new acquaintances I always tell them I am from the more exotic Vancouver, never proud of my humble beginnings. Alberta was a place you moved away from.

The last of Alberta's old wooden grain elevators.

We drive past sagging grain elevators. Candy-coloured wooden artefacts, earmarked for destruction to make way for more efficient, modern buildings, stand testament to the homesteading forefathers of this area. It is in these fertile, prairie expanses where many Mormons and Mennonites came to escape persecution and practice their religions in peace.

Black oil drills dip their heads to the ground, like giant birds at a watering hole. New giants have made home on the horizon; rows of towering white windmills spin in the wind.

Fields of sunflowers stare into the sun.

Crowds of sunflowers stand hold their faces to the warm sun and I see signs announcing the annual sweetest corn and hottest chili competition and I picture myself, a local, heart full of pride, winning the blue ribbon.

So This is How it Ends

Remembering happier days...

I wake when the first drops of rain land on my face and hurry to gather my pillow and sheet from the cockpit of the boat. I slept there last night in an attempt to keep cool as the heat and humidity in the Chesapeake were stifling.

Safely inside I secure the hatches and lay down in the salon. As I do, I notice the cabin door is closed; Speedo sleeping behind it. My eyes are swollen from crying. I remember the argument from the night before.

After a couple of hours of fitful sleep Speedo emerges from the cabin and we ready the boat to leave the peaceful little creek where we have spent the last few days. I feel sick inside for all the things that were said last night, things that can’t be taken back.

The air is fresh after the thunderstorms but there is little relief from the heat as we contemplate how to free ourselves from the mooring ball. I look down at the two ropes holding us in place; one tied my way, the other tied his.

We only started sailing six months ago, a plan hatched after Speedo had a couple of windfall years at work and an offer of a decent amount of money as settlement if he would leave his job due to the sagging economic climate.

He had always dreamed of owning a sailboat and living somewhere hot but neither of us had any experience with boats or sailing. He suggested backpacking around India instead.

Having already done the backpacking thing earlier in life and wary of giving up my photography business to go off on ‘just a jolly’, we hatched a plan to buy some expensive filming and sound equipment and put together a pilot for a travel and diving program – all shot from his new boat.

We were jinxed from the start. Our ignorance and impetuousness led us into buying a boat that needed more work than the broker let on. El Nina, a periodic weather system that causes weather chaos, treated us to poor sailing conditions and record low temperatures in Florida, where we picked up the boat.

We had to hire a skipper, a total stranger, to teach us to sail and the three of us spent the first two freezing, frustrating months living in the cramped quarters of the 41-foot vessel that was reduced to a building site.

Speedo, a very logically minded person, took to the mechanics of the boat very quickly, learning everything from books. I am more of a hands-on learner benefiting from learning from a teacher. This didn’t marry up well with Speedo as he worked best alone. Unable to learn as he did I was regularly berated for not trying hard enough. He excelled where I faltered.

Heady with his recent solo accomplishments, Speedo, with his self-admitted competitive nature, soon decided his sailing abilities exceeded the skipper’s, despite his 40 years practical experience, and tensions rose in our closed quarters.

Once the boat was seaworthy the sailing lessons began and we both took to it quite naturally. But the damage had already been done. In Speedo’s eyes he was leading a ship of fools. He barked orders, shouted and blamed, even if, especially if, the mistake was his own. Docking and mooring were a regular source of argument as he was not very confident in his ability and usually everyone stormed off with wounded pride on these occasions.

Remembering this, I look down at the ropes again, mine tied in an efficient, simple-to-remove fashion, his double-knotted around the bull ring of the buoy, tied with bowline just in case. Both ways are good and secure, both correctly executed.

Our argument over how to tie these ropes was an exercise in passive aggression. A tempered but mighty assertion over whose way was right and who was wrong. We both have alpha personalities and this is the common cause of argument on this boat. He thinks he’s right and I think I am and so the battles begin.

We manage to free the knots and start the boat back towards Baltimore. I have a train to catch. This odyssey will continue without me.

I ask Speedo if he wants a coffee and he gratefully accepts. “Oh, yes please,” His face lighting up.

I offer because the tears are welling up in my eyes and I don’t want to look pathetic in front of him. I go to the galley below and through my burning tears I prepare the coffees. I dig through the unwashed dishes to find two cups; he’s never been one for tidiness.

I’ve been away working for the past two months and this was our first foray out into the waters since I left. We reunited with great hopes and plans for the next leg of our journey together hoping that the break would give us distance from the turmoil of the previous six months.

I go to get the milk, there’s a spot of mold growing in the corner of the fridge.

We make small talk throughout the journey and I waver from thoughts of what I will do with myself now to what I will do without him in my life to whom will take my place on the boat. My heart is breaking and I feel sick inside.

We draw nearer to the marina and I start to feel panic. I arrange my bags and collect a few stray items in an attempt to be ready for a quick getaway avoiding a long goodbye.

We stop to refuel, a gruelingly, slow process, and I follow all of his orders quickly and unquestioningly. He is patient and kind with his requests. Why couldn’t he have treated me like this before?

He chit chats with the cute dock attendant and I can see he is preparing himself mentally for what is to come. His future is here and she may be a new friend or, my heart sinks, a new bedfellow.

We finish up and head to the slip that will be his new home. We bring the boat in without any problems, no shouting, no barking orders another first for us.

“I’ll help you with those bags sweetheart,” he says kindly. This term of endearment slays me.

“It’s funny,” I say as I pass him my bags. “Of all the ways we planned this, this has been the most difficult and expensive way I could have learned to sail and I didn’t even get certified.”

“Surely you learned more than if we had done a course,” he says.

“Yeah, never go sailing with your boyfriend,” I snap back. I am bitter at my loss.

With my bags finally loaded in the cab we stand in front of each other. He looks thinner to me, somehow smaller.

“Well, goodbye,” I say. Behind my sunglasses I am holding back tears. I quickly jump into the cab before there is a need for a final hug and kiss. I don’t dare look back as the cab drives away.

Return to the Sea

This morning I awoke filled with excited trepidation because today we are launching SV Amarige.

Our 41ft sailboat has been ‘on the hard’ for the past two months. In normal sailing circles, this term denotes pulling your boat out of the water and putting it up on land, in Speedo’s case, it just meant ‘hard’ as in hard work.

As I went traipsing off to South Africa to the World Cup to earn a crust photographing salubrious football fans, picturesque vineyards and stunning landscapes dotted with wild animals, poor Speedo sweated it out back in Baltimore in record high temperatures dressed in protective coveralls and gas masks whilst sanding and painting the hull of the boat – as well as other equally arduous jobs carried out in cramped conditions.

We are relatively new to this whole sailing game, only having dreamed up the whole scheme just over six months ago.

Speaking frankly, we have nary a nautical experience between the two of us and Speedo knows his way better around a wine menu than a tool box, never mind a sea cock or a head. So him replacing ‘through hulls’ – valves that are meant to keep water out of the boat – you can understand the cause of this morning’s nerves.

But angst aside, the boat is going in the water. It goes in. It seems to be floating. Yes, it’s floating. We step aboard and wait for a couple of hours and hover above the sea cocks, bungs poised at the ready for the inevitable rush of water. But the through hulls are dry as a bone and to our relief the watery sounds come only from outside the boat. We are finally satisfied that she is indeed in ship shape and we can set sail.

The last time the sails went up was when we brought her into Baltimore after bee-lining it up from the Bahamas within two weeks. It was constant sailing, day in and day out and at times nerves frazzled and I felt our small cabin spaces growing even smaller.

Still, two months seems like a long time ago and the cabin seems much larger, but I can barely remember which rope to pull or that ropes are actually called halyards. Or are they?

I wrap the outhaul rope around the winch and out comes the mainsail and with a snap it fills with wind and Amarige is off, slicing through the water.

Over the course of our lazy 4-hour sail across the Chesapeake Bay, the stresses of the past two months melt away and we arrive in Swan Creek, a weekend sailing retreat from fast city living.

Any residual memories of the frustration and pain of hard work done are washed away with another sip of refreshing Pimms Cup as we watch other boats languidly drifting by and the sun dipping into the bay in glorious technicolour.

Tasty Treasure Found on Bahamian Shores

Pristine waters in Green Turtle Cay

I travel as much for experiencing different places, architecture and cultures but what really floats my boat is finding great food. I am as likely to be spotted perusing the aisles of foreign grocery stores and markets as much as I am museums and churches. Having said that, on our recent trip to the Abacos, a chain of islands at the top of the Bahamas it became clear why they are famous for their beaches rather than their culinary legacy.

Our first impressions of the Bahamian cuisine were underwhelming at best. It seemed a smorgasbord of deep fry and after indulging in the local speciality of frittered lobster and conch, we found ourselves searching for something a little less taxing on the waistline.

After grilling the locals – in more of a sleuthing rather than bbq-ing kind of way – we managed to discover that there were indeed a few tasty treats in store for us.

Nestled in the back of Marsh Harbour is a friendly and lively marina and restaurant called the Jib Room and on Wednesday nights Rib Night. If heaven was a pork product, it would be these fall-off-the bone, finger-licking good beauties. Twenty-five bucks gets you a rack of ribs and a heaping plate of the regular sides of baked mac & cheese, potato salad and coleslaw. http://www.jibroom.com/ (242) 367-2700 jibroom@hotmail.com

Next stop on the menu is Man O War. An industrious little island that is home to many an Albury, an old boat building family who still build beautiful wooden boats by hand. This is a great little island to do a little wandering and check out all the beautiful traditional Bahamian wooden houses and there is even a British red phone box and post box in homage to the original Loyalist settlers.

The beach on the Atlantic side stretches out for miles and is virtually deserted. Here you can pretend you are stranded in paradise with your hoard of Lola’s divine cinnamon buns. These are the true reason for coming to Man O War.

Lola is the epitome of ‘cottage industry’. If you can’t find her cruising main street by the marina in her golf cart selling her baked goodies, just ask anyone for directions to her cottage where you will find this octogenarian in her kitchen surrounded with plates of coconut pie, conch fritter mix and yes, cinnamon buns. These lovely little buns of gooey doughy-ness are smothered in lashings of sweet icing and if a plate of 6 lasts the day, I salute your discipline.

Once you’ve licked all the icing from your fingers, make your way over to Hopetown. Now this is what a Bahamian town should look like. An old fashioned candy-striped lighthouse protects the harbour filled with beautiful boats and the surrounding shore is dotted with bustling bars and restaurants. Beach combing is as much a highlight of this island as is wandering along the brightly coloured beach houses and flower-lined streets. Most of these quaintly-named houses are for rent and as they are self catering they are a great way to enjoy the true draw to the island: Vernon’s Key Lime Pie. http://www.hopetown.com/ Mmmm, even writing it and I start to salivate. These pies are baked to perfection by the most understated local culinary legend.

Vernon’s Grocery is also home to some other tasty imports and we were almost dancing with glee when we discovered creamy wheels of Cambinzola for sale here. But back to the pie. Oh the pie. Perfect pastry crust and a key lime filling that is not too tart, not too sweet and not too sour, all topped off with light and fluffy meringue. One of these pies, large enough to feed several hungry island-hoppers is a bargain at $15.

Now my last taste delight is more of a total experience rather than a dining recommendation as I was so full from my pie that I didn’t really delve that deeply into the menu. But just opposite Tahiti beach on Lubbers Quarters is Cracker Peas. A locale that has that real ‘hang out, beach bar’ kind of feel. Complete with the character behind the bar serving you drinks. This is the place to chill out and waddle up to the bar for a rum cocktail refill. There’s various beach activities on offer, such as volleyball, bocce ball and croquet or you can just sit back in the hammock and smoke a big fat Cuban cigar. You can tie your dingy up or there is now a ferry service from Marsh Harbour on Saturdays. http://www.crackerps.com/

So, these beaches did hold true, lip-smacking treasure. It took a little digging, but it was there.

One boat, two boat. My boat, U-Boat.

There is a hierarchy on boats that is time-honoured by all who live on the sea. There is the captain, the skipper and the first mate. And that is the cast on our little skiff.

Our Skipper, long of the sea, respects this and acts accordingly. With over 40 years experience, when Cpt. Speedo, hereby owner of said skiff, makes bad decisions and insists that his new-found and almost instantaneous expertise in all things nautical usurps all practical training, Skipper does not protest, he leaves Speedo to his own devices and lets him learn his lessons his way or, sometimes, the hard way. I admire this quality in him.

Myself, not being au fait with the ways of the sea, am not so noble but rather, a bit prideful. It sticks a little in my throat when both Speedo & I arrived on the same boat on the same day and have had the same amount of training, yet by law of the sea and virtue of a many thousands of dollars, Speedo out ranks me. I am an independent woman. This just doesn’t wash with me.

Early on in our “Boat Battle of the Sexes” I did something I never thought I would do. I assumed the responsibilities of cooking, cleaning & provisioning the boat. I became, the “little woman”. My mouth fills with the bitter taste of women’s liberation even as I type this – and I am 2 months deep into laundry duties and dish soap. I dutifully do my chores daily, picking up dirty cacks of the floor, washing hairballs from the bathroom floor, clearing dishes from the table (this one particularly sticks as I take it as a personal insult when someone walks away from a table without clearing their empty dishes.) But I did it as a matter of peacekeeping and to keep my sanity.

I can’t bear dirt and mess and a boat is a very small place to inhabit, as you can well imagine. And Speedo made it quite clear from the beginning that being tidy or clean were not of interest to him and if I wanted to live thus, that was my business. I did try to enlist him on occasion but sadly, this was met with much protesting and arguments followed. I realised I was fighting a losing battle – so I took up the dish cloth and with it, my womanly duties.

In fact, these duties have become a full time job. Who would think one person could create so much chaos in such a small place in such a short amount of time. It has become the boat joke that each day Speedo gets up and takes everything out and then I come back to the boat and put it all back in. One has to laugh really lest one ends up in tears, pulling one’s hair out in perpetual frustration. It smacks somewhat of the tale of Prometheus – I am damned to having my home torn apart every day only to restore it each night and each morning have it repeated – day after day, after day.

I have however learned that you can’t change a person, you can only change yourself, so I have employed this lesson to my life and I have accepted that any level of cleanliness is not important to Speedo. The end. I clean, therefore I am – on the boat.

Another area of, how shall we call it, conflict – yes, conflict. That is a good word. Another area of conflict is the actual sailing bit.

Both Speedo and I are very independent and are both graduates of the School of Life. Many of our skills are self taught and we are very learned in many areas. We are achievers. Put two achievers in a situation of sink or swim and they will swim, at cost of all. We are not team players. And when I say ‘WE”, I mean him. He’s awful. He knows it all and knows it best and doesn’t share successes. When the first dreamy clouds of daydreams about this trip filled my imagination, I envisaged us, bronze-skinned, clothed in sarongs, fishing and diving, sailing and relishing in the freedom living on a boat with my one true love. Not being scolded like a little child over questioning his sailing maneouvers.

It has to be said, I don’t always agree with the choices Speedo makes when sailing. In fact, many times, I think he is just plain wrong and I can’t tell you the satisfaction I felt when we arrived in Black Sound on Green Turtle, after being chastised numerous times, the Skipper muted by frustration with a student that quite obviously felt he knew better, Speedo ran his boat aground. My heart lept with satisfaction as the boat ground to an immediate halt. Punctuating the Skipper’s quiet reminder “Watch the depth”.

I think that sudden judder of his investment, nay responsibility, grinding to a stop shook the smug right out of him. And it was good. It was very good. Even if only for a fleeting moment.