ROUND TRIP

From: Murder Incorporated - In a Keg

by Harold J. Treherne

e set out on our first trip to the West coast on the 11th day of July, 1954, a Sunday and what a beautiful day it was. I was sure the United Church could get along without me for a couple of Sundays and, as for the rest of the family, I'm not their keeper any more. We had talked this trip over for a long time but didn't see how we were going to manage it. But we decided to go and then the question arose, when? The British Empire Games were to start, at the end of the month and David thought it would be a good idea to see some of them.

I was sitting on the sidelines not being quite sure whether anything would come o f it after all. It seemed a pipedream to me, even though a fond one.

Then the financial angle had to be studied. There would be five of us, Ma, teaching school, David ditto, Peggy doing social work in Yorkton, John taking Grade 11 and yours truly just wondering if he ever accomplished anything. We decided at long last that the four of us would share the expenses, Ma and myself would have to share John's doings, there was no doubt about that.

We decided to take David's Nash. He did most of the driving anyway and I think it was his idea. We wouldn't bother about the British Empire Games as David wanted to be back sooner to take a job as carpenter before starting school. He had just bought a long, two-wheel trailer with the idea of camping out at every place we stopped. He was going to build up the sides and make it cushy but after a steady bombardment of reasons why he shouldn't take it, we finally cracked his determination and the idea was scrapped. The last thing we needed was anything on our tail, except a tail wind.

It was around 10:30 a.m., if I remember, after the usual last minute rush that we piled into David's Nash. Had we this, had we that? Had Ma her glasses, where were mine? Sure you have them on, you old duffer. So now, was the door on the house closed properly? Was the cat extinguished but, of course, we don't have one, well, then, where's the dog, The terrier (terror(ist)) in question (Irish) was sitting on the sidewalk indulging in his familiar scratch tactics. He was prone to do this if his spirits sank low. He was used to car-riding but when the door slammed shut that was it. He ambled off down the road.

We took our course for the Trans-Canada No. 1 highway, the first 40 miles being very familiar to me, as I take this same road many times in the Summer on my way to the farm. We continued West past the point where I turn North and I said inwardly, "So long" to the old road as we traveled the new.

In an instant the road took on a new look. Familiarity is a comforting factor in life and how the spirit lifts when a new vista opens up before us but, in time, the commonplace beckons. We left Swift Current behind and I drove for about 40 miles and that was the only driving I did. How simple it is to let "Charlie" do it! The road was rough and this was the Trans-Canada Highway but no work was being done on this portion. The almost 5000-mile new black top highway is supposed to be completed by 1956 but it will be three years or so yet. This will be a coast-to-coast, all-weather highway when completed. Then the speed limits will be raised for sure.

Approaching Maple Creek, our next town, we had our first spot of trouble. The town is located at the bottom of a long hill and just at the top of the hill the Nash sputtered, rallied, then gave up the ghost. A nice how-do-you-do after only 200 miles. We could see Maple Creek down there before us on the open plain, bright and clean-looking and the sky blue as blue the whole circle around. No cars were coming our way at the moment so David, John and I just had to get out and push. Ma and Peggy didn't complain but I thought this was supposed to be a holiday!

Then a little English car showed up behind us. It was an Austin and he had already come from Winnipeg (about 600 miles) and was destined for B.C. Would he give us a push over the hump? He was a very decent fellow and so with his help we topped the grade.

I noticed his wife followed these proceedings with a rather bored expression. These tiresome tourists, observing our number plate (Saskatchewan only issues one) and well, what can you expect from Sask? I probably read her all wrong. She was probably the ideal wife, but unpredictable! Still, after traveling 600 miles with a baby on my knee I would be ditto too - and damp! We filled up with gas at Maple Creek and hoped our troubles were over.

A few miles farther west we crossed over into Alberta where a big sign extended greetings and wished us, "Happy Motoring." Also the speed limit was increased from 50 in Saskatchewan to 60 here. Hope it's not increased any more. We may not be able to make it! We ran north of the Cypress Hills district and Provincial Park. We took advantage of the extra 10 M.P.H. and reached our first Alberta city before dark. This was Medicine Hat. Many of the names of these cities are of Indian origin. I don't remember much about this city apart from two observations, a cross on a church all lit up, and the streets were all steep.

We had developed a decided rattle at the right hand side of the Nash near the back, like two or three iron rods being clanked together. Although we weren't complaining (even if the car was) we thought it would be a good idea to find out the cause and then, if not serious, we could forget all about it and let it chatter to its heart's content, which, incidentally it did, for the rest of the trip. We therefore called for a volunteer, someone to wind himself up inside the trunk (one wound up trunk inside another) and with his ear (the receptive one) to the floor thereof, to ferret out the cause of this obnoxious noise. One look, accompanied by one hint (one more would have been entirely superfluous) from Ma, about the youngest being the one to undertake this important assignment and John accepted pronto!

So I lifted the lid saying, (in an unpardonable moment of absent-mindedness) "Here, Rover!" and John entered the trunk on all fours (was it so absent minded?) whereupon I let down the lid.

We drove along a street awhile and muffled reports rose up from the dim recesses behind us, then he was let out but I don't think he looked any the worse, maybe a little more dusty than usual. It was lucky for us the police didn't get wind of this. Many a gruesome discovery has been traced to a car trunk.

Lack of a rubber stop on the shock absorber was causing all the trouble. We did intend to have it fixed, we understood all about the penalties of procrastination, at least we thought we did. We dubbed this noise the "bells." Hell's bells, I would call it, not the sweet chiming kind.

We said our good-byes to Medicine Hat and set our course to Lethbridge. The roads were black top and we just ate up the miles. Farther on and to the south two peaks loomed up on the southern horizon and they were part of the Milk River Range. Very soon we had our first view of mountains just before running into Lethbridge, a magnificent panoramic view.

Here we stayed the night at the Blue Bird motel, our first one on the trip and we remembered this motel but not because it was the first one. John made sure we would remember, he was the victim, sad to say. He and David were sleeping together, John on the outside which was lucky for David. I was next but on the floor.

In the wee small hours when life is supposed to be at its lowest ebb, there was a terrible commotion. John's innards suddenly erupted with a soul chilling roar. Mercifully for me I was just out of the line of fire but by the time he was awake and headed for the bowl he had left a long long trail. He had eaten something that didn't agree with him. Peggy doesn't agree with him either, but I didn't think she affected him that much!

It was tough on him but later, we could see the humorous side.

Leaving Lethbridge in good time, we took the road southwest to Cardston, the last place in Alberta before crossing the International Border: It was Rodeo Day in Cardston, with all the trimmings, Indians, cowboys, horse racing, steer riding, calf roping and all the other amusements connected with these Wild West Shows. The dark skins, mothers and their papooses were here in force, the men dressed up in their Indian garb.

We had the Nash checked here as it was beginning to buck again (a coincidence?). The garage man removed its appendix (appendage, I mean). The flexible connection between gas pipe and carburetor was leaking. We left this place while the going was good. The crowd was beginning to take over but we stopped to see the Mormon Temple, an imposing building of white stone, and the lawn beautifully laid out. The fancy steel lattice gates led to the main entrance and there at her small table the lady hands out leaflets. We did sign our names in the visitors' book.

I'll do almost anything provided I don't have to dig down.

Now Cardston was left behind and soon on a long straight road facing the mountains we stopped.

John was still feeling a little seedy so we let him out (he was tethered) sometimes he just leaned out. It was too bad because he missed some of the most magnificent scenery of the trip.

The day was a perfect-blue day, all the way around. To us, dwellers of the prairie for the last twenty-six years (my wife and I) it was a revelation. Mountain peak after peak all across the Western horizon, snow covered. To excel in rhapsody and description, this is the impact it has on the beholder, cherish the memories yourself, another might not be so impressed. This is a wide world with its wide variety of opinions.

Very soon we were at the Border and the Customs man gave us the once over. Where were we going and for how long? We had permission to stay in the States for a few days as we were just traveling through and then back into Canada. How condescending he was! I just mumbled my grateful thanks. It was a momentous occasion though for us to be standing at one point on the 4000-mile International Border. Now we were in Montana and ever since living in Canada we had thought many many times what were our chances of ever visiting the States. Now here we were at last.

Soon we entered the International Peace Park. All cars stop at the Lodge and pay a small fee before entering. Soon after leaving the Lodge we pulled to the side of the road. This vantage point showed an oval lake of deep blue water surrounded by peaks overgrown with dense trees and strips of clear white threading downwards, snow water of course. They appeared fairly close but in reality were far away. Distances were tremendous. Just a little farther on, round a bend, a torrent of icy water and misty spray, rushed downwards impeded by rocks and fallen trees. And blue flowers, yellow flowers and lichen grew right alongside the snow, a beautiful contrast, in color, on a white background.

Now we were climbing up on a long steady grade. The later model cars were taking it but we had to drop to second which was no insult. Looking ahead, it wasn't too noticeable but on looking behind there was no doubt. These roads surely were an optical illusion and the family almost disintegrated before one argument was through whether we were on the level or not (that was an argument in itself!). Up we went higher still and stopped before a U-turn, snow all around us in the middle of July.

Right away, a little brown animal, like a squirrel popped out of the snow only about six feet away. "Hello, folks," he says, just sitting there on his haunches, little front paws held out, "How's about lunch?" He was wise and occupied the best bit of freehold property in those parts, so he said. We gave him bits of bread and by the look he gave us, this was a terrible insult.

I'm sure he said, "You've come 500 miles just to give me bread? All the others gave me cake, with icing on too!" He zipped away feeling real hurt but I noticed he took the bread with him. He did show up once again, but his opinion of us hadn't changed, I could tell, and he didn't wait long enough for me to explain.

Just beyond the 'U,' rose a huge hollow-faced mountain, snow covering the hollow almost completely, the crest appearing like a curved balcony. What a grandstand view of Nature's upheavals, if only we could have gained the summit! A lonely mountain he's destined to be.

The roads are well marked showing the number of turns in the next half mile. Frequently there is a sign, "WATCH FOR DEER ON HIGHWAY" or WATCH FOR ROLLING ROCK" and "DO NOT FEED THE BEARS."

We only saw one bear in the Park and he was only half grown and was passing the time of day, standing on his hind feet holding forth on some bearish topic with a car driver. Ma slipped out and snapped him before he chased her back in again. Ma won. It is very risky to feed the bears unless the food is thrown out away from the car and the bear isn't close! These warnings are not put up for decoration.

Imagine these roads like ledges, chipped away from the mountain's steep sides, and beyond, a drop of thousands of feet, maybe, and then a river, a railway, another road and all three running more or less parallel to each other. Cars like little bugs trailing along one after another, like kids' toys and the road, winding its way down after many turns, ends up by going in the opposite direction to the one we are on.

I was always under the impression (mistaken) that it would be a slow trip and quite hazardous negotiating these mountain roads. My fanciful ideas have changed and the normal speed limits could be maintained, caution being taken round some of the bends. Tourists on our tail did help us to improve our performance. We had to keep Saskatchewan in the running. We came to one stretch of road known as the "Weeping Wall." The rock face along this portion oozes water from every cranny and a curtain of water falls from several feet up the steep face. There is a noticeable temperature drop when passing through it. At another point there was a tunnel, just a short one, cut out of the extended rock face at a bend, probably safer to go through than around it. We came to the Park exit at last after about 60 miles of real enjoyment and stopped outside the Park Lodge.

Ma phoned Coeur d'Alene at this point for motel accommodation in case we were late in arriving. This was our next stop-over. It was a wise move. It was hot here and I just stewed, sitting in the car waiting for the results of the phone call. All I had to do was to get out but I was steeped in lethargy and if someone had shouted, "The forest's on fire" I would have responded with a feeble "Is that so?"

It was somewhere round here that John began to perk up. No more did we have to make unitinerated stops (the word nearly stopped me, Oh my!). That mutual brother and sister antagonism (natural, I guess) was beginning to assert itself. At any rate, this in-fighting which developed (mostly in the front seat) was somewhat more interesting than him being laid out groaning, and the shoe was on the other foot now, as Peggy did most of the groaning. One of us had to referee now and again. The only real peace we had, happened when they were both real het up then neither would say a word. This was the cold war period of uncertain duration. David, being the elder brother, had to set a good example and besides he did more than half the driving. If John was driving he had something to think about.

At St. Mary's we took on fuel, the American kind, five quarts to our tour. This is a meeting place for tourists. The others left and I continued my lazy spell inside the car, on the back seat. Across the road were a couple of Indian teepees and every few minutes almost with clocklike regularity, two braves, man and wife (I sincerely hope) and dressed in all the tribal regalia, emerged from one of the teepees at the request of passing tourists. Then, squatting as per custom, their features set in stony stares, the camera clicked, the tourist smiled a happy "Thank you" and departed. (In due course, some youngsters would imitate a war dance and shout "Whoopee" when this picture came up as just one in a collection of many.) This little ceremony was repeated four or five times within the half hour. I think they competed with the President for snap-ability.

We left the Park and traced a course along the north side of the Cabinet Mountains, and half way between Troy and Moyie Springs, we crossed into Idaho. Here was a big sign "Welcome to Idaho." Idaho is only about 50 miles across at the border but farther south it blossoms out into much wider proportions and stands shoulder to shoulder with its neighbors. Now we took a course south to Coeur d'Alene and most of this trip was run off after dark. It was near midnight before we caught up with the place but the motel was a very good one. The Cafe close by was really outstanding. Our Canadian dollars were just as welcome here as the American, in fact, ours were at a premium and still are.

We were away again, this time for Spokane, Washington, and crossed the border at Post Falls. We browsed around one of the main stores (Penney's, I'm sure it was) and David and Peggy bought something.

John thought he should have a new hat to celebrate this momentous occasion. He thought this problem over from every angle, as so he should, and there's nothing like a real posh topper to set off a man's personality. He just couldn't make up his mind though but finally, (the saleslady keeping her distance) he handed over the necessary. The lady was happy and everyone else too, all but John. He had a slightly apprehensive look as if he had just invested his last dollar in a doubtful venture. To buoy up his spirits he took a long long look in a long mirror. Finally weighing things up he at last made up his mind, so off with the old, on with the new and he emerged through the front door a new man, from the top, at least!

It was a hot day and walking the pavement was a tiring job. We ran over the parking time but it was courteously overlooked. We noted many small favors here but not so in Canada.

We resumed our seats and I was back in my rear corner being crowded more and more by the extra items we were acquiring. I hardly think they were all bargains.

Coulee Dam was our next point of interest. I won't dwell on it too much, it was a real spectacle to see that solid wall of water are out like a huge revolving cylinder of dark glass churning and foaming in a drop of 500 feet or so. Dry Falls was next in line, only a few miles away, where the Columbia River, until its course was changed, once flowed through, dropping 500 feet in a waterfall of five horseshoes. Wenatchee was our next goal and the pamphlets call it expansively "The Apple Capital of the World." Here was a long long road and thousands of lights. No 20 M.P.H. limit through these places, rather 40 or 50.

We stayed here the night and a roadside fair was in full swing with all its dazzling lights. We rounded up a motel but it was late at night and I guess we were offered the cheapest bargain in town. It was no palace but there were no complaints from any of us. Besides, it put us in a lower bracket. It was perfectly clean but just didn't have all the latest. Being a farmer I felt quite at home.

The next morning we set off, after the usual hold-ups, for Everett on the coast in a northwesterly direction. About half way between Wenatchee and Everett we went over Stephen's Pass, 4,061 feet. I don't know if that extra foot is significant. We stopped at another vantage point and took a snap or two. This road was edged by a low rail and the highway continued downwards on a long straight grade. There was a deep valley over the edge and mountains all around but there was one thing different. A dead tree rose up from the valley, its splintered upper end some feet above the road.

We were away again on a long downgrade and ran through the main street of a small place called Sultan. This place we remember as, going over the bridge at the town limits and picking up speed, suddenly we heaved over to the left side, scraped the concrete rail and ground to a stop. Now we were on the wrong side of the road but lucky for us there was no traffic coming our way. There was a garage behind us only about 200 yards away. The front wheel spindle bolt was bound to break sometime. David walked back and located a tow truck. The rest of us acted as policemen on the bridge. Mr. Bean, the garage man gave us very good service. He phoned Everett, only about 20 miles away, and had a good used part back by late afternoon.

Here, we heard the diesel wail for the first time and I guess it has proved very effective. Real scary when you first hear it.

Sultan, quite a place, etched in the memory, mountain peaks covered in mists, the railway and those banshee flyers, an airplane away above the mountain tops, and truck and trailer loads of big timber built up in "V" fashion, going and coming. A good meal at a tip-top cafe. A long talk with a lady in a curiosity shop (not meaning the lady, of course). She did tell us about the antics of a certain Chev (her own, I take it) and the time she slewed round on a wooden bridge in wet weather. This is Sultan, one of hundreds of such friendly communities south of the Border. Hats off to Sultan! Then there are the roses, four or five inches across, and right outside the door and now the Nash was all fixed up and rarin' to go again, so good-bye, friends.

We headed now for Everett and a motel. This was a real swell affair, financial wise and otherwise. It contrasted sharply with our down-to-earth lodgings at Wenatchee. There is a no truer saying than this. "You pays for what you gets." It was like rolling out the red carpet, everything done up in red. We had our first look at T.V. here on the penny-in-the-slot basis, or rather, a quarter. It was No. 1 for the book, this first encounter. We weren't overcome by it but we enjoyed the 45 minutes for our first introduction for an outlay of 25 cents. I am just speaking for myself. I wasn't averse to the commercials then but with the passing of the years OH BOY! Nuff said. The next morning we just happened to turn on to something we thought worthwhile and bing went our quarter. We rejuvenated it again and then bequeathed a dime's worth of T.V. to the next tenant.

David, John and myself spent the next morning looking for the place where the repair was bought. We would replace the unit on the other side. We found it, what I would call a used car and parts emporium, bodies, wheels, axles, tires, generators, batteries, wires, cushions and what not, all over the place. It was a casualty ward of once bright and shiny automobiles, their past achievements long dead and forgotten. Now, their still functioning parts would be used to patch up other autos not quite as decrepit and going cheaper. The unit was replaced and then we had a wheel alignment job done. Once again we were in shipshape and ready to go.

In one store in Everett I saw a pair of good quality lady's white shoes priced at one dollar. They were shop soiled of course, having been on display in the window. They were too small for either Ma or Peggy so my hopes went for naught.

Now we headed south for Seattle and found ourselves on a six-lane highway. We just hit the rush hour between 4 and 5 p.m., unintentionally, of course. Like meandering streams flowing into the main channel, we were really caught in a mighty accumulation of cars, three lanes either way and full of these up-to date mechanical contrivances with the exception of one. The cars must have been as anxious as their owners to get home judging by the speed they went! Actually we did leave the lineup at one point, to turn into a motel court, then a ten-second drop in blood pressure while we circled the court. This wasn't our meat so, in we dived again.

We write about this craze for speed. What will be the topic in 50 years time? To a veteran driver this road would pose no problem, but we were green (real sallow tinge). David did very well for the first time over. This headlong dash ended almost abruptly at the dock. We braked, turned right on a quieter street and tensions slipped away. We parked the car and studied a freighter right there in front of us. David stroked his fevered brow, Peggy and John postponed their mutual hostilities and Ma was able to get out without any help. As for me, well, I'm still here! Maybe I am making a mountain out of a molehill and, now I am out of it, maybe I was. We decided to follow the dockside road and make our way back to Everett. Seattle was too busy.

This motel was on the highway and we could sit in comfort watching traffic coming and going. After supper we drove into Everett (the roads were quiet now) and took a two-hour bus tour round the City. The driver was conductor and lecturer all in one. I wouldn't want his job. It was really a very interesting trip and one point of interest was the Boeing Aircraft landing field. It was viewed from a high altitude. Dozens of planes of different colors and markings were lined up in rows on the side in bright sunshine and the odd plane taking off and others coming in. Arriving back at the motel, Ma and I were willing to call it a day so we had a quarter's worth of radio.

David, Peggy and John now decided to take another trip into the city. Youth expands while we older ones atrophy at home. All right, all ye pros and cons, stand up and be counted. They disappeared into the night and almost disappeared. What happened? A mist obscured the city and they were as befuddled as the fog and at an intersection they would take the wrong road. They didn't say where they had been first but at long last they hit the right road. I didn't hear them come in. The next morning we heard all about it.

It was time now to head north again, to Anacortes where we would take the ferry to Sidney on Vancouver Island. We slowed up by a field where a couple of boys were supposedly working and inquired in a loud voice if this was the way to Anacortes and, before the boy we addressed had come to, the other boy, standing some distance away, had waved us on. Anacortes and a dull day (about the first we had had) so we buoyed up our spirits with a good meal. This is a palliative that often is no pal. David bought a coat or jacket here, I remember.

We moseyed towards the dock and were put in the Sidney line-up by an attendant. When the car ahead moved, we moved (when Father said "turn', we all turned, remember that saying?). We mostly waited. A few gulls winged around in lazy fashion (it must have looked awful from up there) dirty looking water lapped at the piles of an old building which was decrepit, many windows being missing. The sun could have perked up the scene but it was his half-day off evidently. There is nothing more dreary than looking at dirty water on a dull day and so much of it. A dock (to my mind) is always associated with the flotsam and jetsam of humanity, besides the debris which gathers from who knows where. The comings and goings of humanity always on the move. The whole gamut of human emotions is played out here, from the state of happiness just bubbling over, to the utter down-and-outer and all the shades in between that human nature is heir to. These are all contrasted under a guise, a camouflage and the tougher the situation, a braver front often asserts itself, and what about the criminal element?

The ferry finally showed up and an air of expectation took over, then the cars ahead began to move so did we and we were packed neatly in the bowels of the ferry. This was an old ferry, the next was a real spanker. This was a three-and-a-half-hour trip. I remember standing on the back end with John, down below a heavy log chain between us and calm water, except for the widening wake of the ferry. These are just straight-through boats like our straight-through combines, in one end and out the other although we did come out whole, fortunately!

We are at the end of the trip and the boat is nudged in between vertical piles of timber, padded to cushion the jar, the ramp is opened and we are off.

Now for the Canadian Customs: One hundred dollars per family is allowed and can be put under any one name. David and Peggy went into the office to receive their O.K.

In the meantime, an enterprising and persuasive gentleman, owner of the McMorran's Motor Court and Motel on Cordova Bay came over to talk to us, mainly with an eye to business. Mr. McMorran would be very glad indeed if we would stay at this Motel bearing his honored name, in fact, he would show us the way. He handed us a leaflet which is an essential and profitable part of his stock-in-trade. We were non-committal. No, sir, we weren't going to stay at his motel. A man who has the audacity to stand right at Customs' gate and nab everybody before they could get away, that is autocratic behavior with a vengeance. I wonder how much he paid the Customs for this lucrative stand. Such presumption that he should have his finger on one of the Nation's throbbing arteries, but friend, that motel on beautiful Cordova Bay. was a wonderful place to stay for the night.

We drove to Victoria, about 18 miles and Cordova Bay is about half way. We looked the Court over, saw the beautiful lawns and agreed with all he said but we drove on to Victoria nevertheless. We enquired about motels and one lady knew Moose Jaw very well. We had made up our collective minds however and were soon on our way back to Cordova. The deal was clinched, so, turning out the essentials we made ourselves at home. Here we really expanded, two separate domiciles a few doors apart. We rather enjoyed this temporary family break-up. We scintillated in our true sphere for one night and just hated in the morning to surrender the key to the castle.

We visited the Butchart Gardens and they lived up to all that has been written about them. Almost everyone is familiar with them. There was one noteworthy fact (my pardon) but some unlucky visitor had lost a five-dollar bill by the counter on the floor. I left my name and temporary address, but heard no more. It was a case of "finders keepers" and I was willing to leave it with the lady in charge. My unexpected gain was tempered with grief for the loser! Afterwards I walked with a downward slant. On leaving the Gardens we drove into Victoria and I'm sure there's no need to expand, as the city is known about all over Canada.

The next morning, around 8 a.m. while the rest of the family were thinking about getting up, I took a little stroll enjoying the morning air so to speak. On returning to the motel I found the getting up process had hardly begun.

Peggy was around of course, not because of any sisterly love for John, but to see our independent quarters. The sight of him snoozing there just gave her an idea. Ma had come round by now to get things moving, warning him in no uncertain terms it was time to get up. (David's theory was, don't bully a child. Show him by precept and example, he can easily become frustrated).

"JOHN!" I shouted, just like that.

He was beginning to get the idea. Peggy entered the fray now and slid David's pillow from under him and slammed John with it. That really shook him, although now, instead of one she had two opponents. David didn't take kindly to this sudden loss of a head-rest and said so in no uncertain terms. It left him suspended over the brink, so to speak. Peggy wasn't listening at the moment and, contortioning her visage to the mood, scored three more home runs, promises of violent retaliation, long and loud though muffled, coming from under the covers. Right away, a recumbent form assumed the vertical. Game was called, the shouting died down and the early morning exercises were over; likely the score would be evened up later.

We drove round the city taking in all the sights and that includes everything. It is real English and American. The air of ancient Halls and culture of Old England, the mannerisms, too, are here in the personalities of some of Victoria's English. The flowering plants suspended from the lamp posts is typical and it does add a homelike touch. After dinner I wrote an airmail letter from the Post Office. The car was just across the road. The others had wandered away following their own bent. There was a seat just outside the Post Office so I took advantage of it and relaxed and enjoyed the passing scene. "All the world's a stage." Just look around and enjoy the moment. A little English car was parked just to the right of me and another car pulling out from behind just caught his rear bumper.

My thought patter disintegrated as my seatmate started a conversation, following the bump incident, concerning the price of bread. This was a quick shift. He bought his bread on a Monday and saved a cent because it was Saturday's bread. Why didn't he buy bread from the week before? He left; then I left and walked over to the car and tried the door but it was locked so I had a front fender seat.

The others showed up in due course. David and John had boarded the Tally-Ho and had seen Victoria from a time honored horse chaise. Ma and Peggy had been touring the stores, where else?

Now it was the middle of the afternoon, so saying good-bye to Victoria we set our course for Nanaimo about 70 miles north. The docks and ferry boat Princess of Nanaimo compare more than favorably with those at Anacortes. The sun was really bright here. The fellows in uniform handling the situation were quite affable if we made the first move. We were on board the Princess in record time and what a 6,737 "stunner" with 1,500 passengers and a hundred vehicles on two decks plus 19 knots and an all-white superstructure with yellow funnel and black top band and black above the water line. The supper in the restaurant nearly floored me - such a variety. Two incidents come to mind: A waitress dropped a tray of dishes and what a tempest in teacups (being floored reminded me of it). Then there was the slowly revolving toaster where the bread after one circuit (free) was taken out. This slice was all set for another free ride (the chiseler) and it stuck and serve it right. Why didn't the girl see it? She eventually did. We sighed in unison. Vancouver was 30 miles away. The gulls were around and one took a free ride on the prow of the boat - it must have had an albatross for an ancestor. There were others, of course, wheeling around.

It was still daylight when the Lion's Gate Bridge hove in sight. Here were sights and sounds aplenty, tugs hauling freight cars, motor boats for pleasure and business, and big freighters and the Princess above all the rest, in splendor, shining in the bright sun. One week had passed since we left home.

Soon we were in a line-up headed for the city but at a steadier pace. Seattle, keep your stride, we will walk. We were enthused about all the lights and Peggy more so. Enjoy everything to the full.

Now we were motel hunting again and about six miles out we struck lucky. This was the Blue Bird Motel and shades of another motel 1,000 miles away crossed our vision. The Court was all taken up but we could have the whole upstairs in the house itself. It had an exit to the outside balcony in case we decided to "fly by night." It was Saturday night and we would be starting our return trip on Monday. Here we were, now, and our host was of "Svedish" origin and his vinsome and velcome manner vas quite vonderful. So we basked in "Svedish-English."

I saw a newspaper for the first time the next day and the bread strike in Vancouver was on (and for weeks after). Stanley Park we visited and reveled in scenery. Just to stand at the rail and see all those freighters, barges, small salling vessels and tugs with tows hauling treight cars away down there, and blue sky and blue water, the blue dye a little skimpy. This was life. Everything in perfect balance and a soothing antidote to the craze for speed. The only discordant note to this tranquil setting (focusing on it) was the motor boat. With the drone of its full throttled motor, it sliced cleanly through blue water throwing up a turmoil of spray leaving a glistening V trail of foaming white.

I followed him into the far distance until his boat, his foamy wake and he himself was blurred and his motor soft-pedaled into silence, to echo and re-echo again till somewhere lost in the mountains. The dancing ripples down below straighten out and the status quo is restored. I left marveling at the peace and quiet.

The Lion's Gate Bridge is a toll bridge leading from Stanley Park over the First Narrows to North Vancouver. We drove over the bridge, after paying the toll and for some reason we made a wrong turn and found ourselves going over it again. So we were tolled twice, which we knew already and we were tolled again (Oh shut up!). We did travel the bridge three times - and that's the truth.

Now I should mention an experience of another and congenial sort: the Grouse Mountain Chair Lift. The chalet is perched on top at an elevation of 3,800 feet. We drove part way where the lift begins and it runs from here in two sections to the top. We paid for the whole trip but Ma decided she would sooner keep her feet on the ground. David and John went first and we waved a sad farewell.

Peggy and I went next. The chair scooped us up and as w e leave terra-firma, the attendant snaps the retaining pipes in place and away we go. We are as secure as two one-year olds in a double baby chair. Higher we go and four legs dangle before us in stepladder fashion keeping their distance, while reversely legs come and go. Sometimes we meet a couple in close proximity and they are "up in the air," up in the air. (No, don't go away. It'll get worse yet!) I hail some as they go by and some return the greeting and some don't. We are all on the same party line, remember. We come to the end of the first section to an open platform and we are assisted off, the lady is, I mean, by an attentive male attendant. The fellow doesn't get any help and if he is a little slow in moving he may go round the circuit again. Now we are ready for the next ascension and now we are off. I look behind and realize we are being followed. Maybe we will all get to Heaven this way! We reach the top and enter the chalet and David and John are already there.

It was real busy and I had a slight altercation with a waitress over some wrong change. She gave me a freezing look which I returned. I mean I gave it her back. Then I went out and acquired a genuine one. We are ready to chair it down and change partners, John and Peggy going together. This was risky business, putting two and two together, I mean putting those two together. In two hours we had made the complete circuit. It was a trip to remember.

David drove carefully down the rest of the mountain on specific instructions from Ma. Now nearer sea level we were our carefree selves again.

Another little incident I recall. We had stopped for ice cream and root beer. We tried some subtle joshing but she couldn't fathom these hicks from Saskatchewan. Her face never slipped and there always remained a cloudy background in my memory. Just a little incident and the joke fizzed. It was a kind of an unfinished symphony, to put it expansively. Now we needed a few groceries but we could only buy one loaf of bread due to the strike. What is one loaf of bread with John around? So David went round a little later and bought a second one. Deception, is this the first rung on the ladder? This was quite a day but we weren't through yet.

The Capilano Suspension Bridge over the Canyon was our next rendezvous. This is not far from the Chair Lift. The bridge itself is 450 feet long and 230 feet above the Canyon. It is 7 planks wide supported by 4 x 6 pieces crosswise and roughly 2 feet apart. A vertical steel strand is threaded through each piece and interlaced with longitudinal cables on both sides and now we have a flexible bridge. The cables are concreted in at both ends and so we have a structure about as solid in the centre as a reed shaken with the wind. It was quite a tipsy view looking down 230 feet and I think it would in truth portray an inebriate's cockeyed view of life.

Once again we were looking for a motel and found one not far from the one we had last night. We had decided to stay another day. This motel was owned by a relative of our Svedish friend. We drove round China Town on this Sunday night and it was a little quieter. Chop suey was much in evidence and the district looked very clean and neat and why not? Chinese characters (letters) appeared often enough. We drove the main streets a second time and then returned to Caribou Court, our motel for the night. The next morning we would head east through New Westminster to Sask. We were a little sorry to leave Vancouver but this Monday morning we headed out in good time.

From here for 700 miles or so we would be in mountain country again. Chilliwack was our first stop and a dull cool day. Our previous United Church minister lives here but he wasn't home. We continued along the Hope-Princeton Highway No. 1. At Princeton we took a southeasterly course to the U.S. border, the roads over the mountains from the west were gravelled and not recommended.

Once more we found ourselves at the U.S. border at a place called Osoyoos. There was no difficulty, we were counted, checked and given the O.K. We were goodwill ambassadors for the States and felt quite at home. There is a picnic site here centering around Lake Osoyoos. We had a small lunch then I spent a few minutes watching a young lady backing her car in the space ahead of us. I encouraged her to back a little more, a little more (mentally) and she did. It was evening now and we decided to push on to Republic and stay there for the night. The Pine Motel at Republic is another place I remember and all because of a tree (growing in Republic not Brooklyn). It consists of half a dozen bungalow style houses all in a row, a shallow border of flowers along the whole front and up three steps to enter. This tree, whether by accident or design or repression, had retaliated by blossoming sideways to enormous proportions. Talk about a spreading chestnut tree (this was a pine tree masquerading under another name, the phony nut!). I had been snoozing and suddenly to wake up and see this huge bulk with its darkening shadow gave me an ominous feeling. Please let this shadow pass over me! This was a cheerful and comfortable place though (if I could forget the tree). I soaked up the Spokane Review left there by someone else. How else could I be reading the Spokane Review? The village of Republic was two miles in the rear and the three back pedaled to see a movie. They weren't enthusiastic on returning. Well, they asked for it.

We left this place in the morning with its permanent shadow and headed for Trail, B.C., and to get there we would have to cross the border again before entering Canada and here developed a friendly argument, a kind of a skirmish with the Customs. We had bought a small bag of peaches somewhere between this place and the coast, but where? That was the crucial question. Was it in the States, in which case we would be peachless, or was it in Canada, in which case everything would be peachy. This was orchard country but we weren't allowed to take any more purchases across the Border as our quota was taken up, so here was a mystery for the Customs to solve. Like the R.C.M.P. I credited these sleuths with marvelous powers of intuition, penetration and insight and hindsight. (I might as well go the whole hog while I'm at it!) The stage was all set, so go ahead, Mr. Interrogator. It's all yours and we are all ears. (This thing is degenerating already.)

Everybody sat with nothing on their minds and not one of us remembered where we had bought those peaches. (Remember that sacred oath.) Brains will out when put to the acid test and, "Can I see the bag?" he asks politely as if on the point of a great discovery. I thought maybe he was going to remove the peaches and leave us holding the bag. There it was and the case for the defence triumphed, B.C., Canada, stamped right there on the bag in a beautiful and blue circular impression. We slid away and settled into a calm and unruffled frame of mind.

We are back in Canada again and didn't feel quite so happy. We had a great affection for the south, the part we saw and the people we met, they were all so friendly. This is timber country. I can hear the shout, "TIMBER!" and hear the crash. We caught up with several of these truck and trailer outfits burdened with huge long trunks, big diameter stuff, and crawled behind one of them up a fairly steep grade. The landscape was blotted out with wood, a minute fraction of a dead forest and we almost had time to count its life rings, before we overtook him.

Now we hit Trail and encountered some of the steepest grades s o far and then on to Nelson, skirting the Kootenay River and beautiful scenery here, amid mountain peaks, then on to Balfour, taking a ferry, crossing the river, cable and winch style. This is only a short trip but a welcome diversion. Soon we are ready to take off and the heavy chain is slung back from the forward end and the ferryman gives Peggy the go-ahead and she receives an admiring smile. I know what I would get! The river here, expands itself majestically into Kootenay Lake and follows the path of least resistance, between mountains. The lake is roughly 70 miles long. The Kootenay flows into the lake almost at its centre. We ferried again to Kootenay Bay. (I think it was.) It was a two-hour trip or so and we were loaded with cars and a big Greyhound Bus as the granddaddy of them all. This ferry was second to the Princess of Nanaimo.

We described a half circle and the course was set for Kootenay Bay. The water was streaked in parallel ridges away out and gave the appearance of being cultivated. (There goes the farmer.) Little houses appeared on the far bank almost hemmed in by trees. We were a long way away. The prow of the boat is headed for the landing platform, on a circular route it appeared to me. I always thought the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, maybe the new curriculum has different ideas. Anyway he nudged in precisely between the piles at the landing point. How lucky he was! Twenty or more starters whirred and a whirrier whir for the bus! He took off for points south and east and we took off for Creston. This was one trip to be remembered.

For 40 or 50 miles we had a balcony view from a twisty and windy road sometimes almost over the four-mile Kootenay Lake itself. One could lean out and expectorate a mile (if he had a good fling!). Secretive, it would head away from the lake in a beautiful stretch between trees and the lake nowhere to be seen. Winding around this way and that in playful mood then a bend to the right and in a jiffy to the stark edge of the lake again just as unconcerned as ever. Outstanding beauty is often found from some inaccessible ledge but this road was nowhere inaccessible and the scenery was something to write home about. I think even the most materialistic mind would appreciate this road. It has its beauty and its hazards and like the switch back at the Fair, so does this road challenge the wayfarer to put down his money.

The Creston Valley Motel was in the top class. A big weeping willow stands on the lawn. The owner was a lady (on the sunny side of life) and very efficient, I thought. There was a basement suite and one of us was invited to see T.V. I didn't think any of the others had the slightest chance but I took John along to preserve the niceties. She had a highly domesticated poodle, I noticed. The show was a travelogue, very interesting and we offered our thanks and excuses and departed all with the utmost decorum. Like a diplomat, well groomed in all the intricacies of international procedure, where decorum and good taste are always a 'must', I rose to the occasion, if only for once. Of course she gave us a cordial invitation to come back again. How could she do otherwise? I didn't figuratively bend low the knee for nothing. We did not go back. She did say the Motel would be up for sale in due course. I wonder?

In all these motels a bath and shower is standard equipment and I began to mull over the subject. I accepted the bath without a quiver but with the shower not so. I was always a little leery about showers because I almost cooked myself once accidentally of course and, ever since, I approach a shower in fear and trepidation. Keeping this in mind I entered this private cubby hole and surveyed the rare design of polished tapestry above my head and that polished little gadget full of nothing but holes. Like a nutmeg grater it dispensed real hot stuff in complete abandon. So I was minding my P's and Q's. Anyway that thing had nothing in it but holes and I had nothing on so we started even. I turned a tap on with a little too much enthusiasm closed my eyes and before the lids were down, a blast of Arctic air and water (mostly water) descended on my bald pate (it couldn't have been me).

He buckles momentarily, gasps for air and hollers for help. Nobody coming, he has to rely on his own resources. Desperately, through a veritable cyclonic downpour, he turns another tap. In three and a half seconds flat, he's transported to the Equatorial belt of Africa and blurred images of savages cross his vision. He backs up instinctively and out to think things over in retrospect. Where did he go wrong? Let's do it right this time. He turns the cold tap, now the hot tap, tries the result with his head, not his elbow. He's a man (he hopes) not a female. Eventually he is showered and retires gracefully. How pleasant is a shower, he reflects, and how easy to manipulate!

On leaving these motels, in most cases, we don't see the owner, we fade away like thieves, in the morning. There was one place, Coeur D'Alene where we did talk to the owner and his wife, just a young couple. We were talking outside and he was in the store they owned. The issue was the amount of Education Tax we had to pay in Saskatchewan. There was a difference of opinion between them but it was encouraging just to know they were interested in Sask. A few miles back, on a mountain road, we had pulled up, as David (attuned to the Nash) thought there were other noises in the rear. (I won't mention Peggy and John this time.) He had to get out and get under, etc., to fix up his little machine but there was nothing to fix. He had it checked in Fernie but there was nothing amiss. After a light lunch here we headed north and then southwest to the B.C.-Alberta border and soon would be negotiating the Crownest Mountain through the Crowsnest Pass (9,138 ft.).

Alberta welcomed us back but we didn't respond too heartily. There was one place in this region where we were held up for fifteen minutes or so. A road crew had dug a big rock from the right of way. It was the size of a horse, then a cow but I didn't hear anyone mention an elephant. It was a big one, that's true. This reminds me of another little incident where a young gaffer was holding back traffic till a pilot car arrived. He was consumed with his own (fancied) importance and made sure we understood exactly what to do. Some road surfacing or re-oiling and we had to follow this lead car. I do hope the wages he received were satisfactory to his status!

Returning now to the Crownest Pass route: A sign would read, CROWSNEST PASS LUMBER CO. CROWSNEST FISHERIES, CROWSNEST VILLAGE, CROWSNEST MOTEL and CROWNEST PASS. We were keyed up as high as this 9,138 feet ourselves. This we would have to scale in daylight for sure. On we went up steady grades, mile after mile, no trouble, our eyes searching out this lofty peak. This would be the high point of the trip and time and elevation would have to be noted.

A village showed up in due course and also a motel called the "Teepee Motel," built in Indian fashion, cone shaped and in a circular pattern. There were six or seven of these white tent-looking affairs. The center poles extending through the tops a couple of feet or so gave the impression of a bunch of straight feathers (without the feathers). We asked the lady in charge what had happened to the Crownest Pass? We hadn't seen it, maybe it had been moved to Saskatchewan, we could do with a mountain or two.

"If you came from the west," she said, "then you certainly came over it. It was there the last time I traveled over it. The solution was simple enough. It was a long and steady climb and we hadn't noticed any steep valleys as we had in the rest of the mountains. Facetiously, we were over the Pass and passed the Pass before we were aware of it! In other words (simplified) it was a let-down to a build-up.

We came upon the scene of a catastrophe which happened on the morning of April 29th, 1903; 90,000,000 tons (estimated) of rock thundered down Turtle Mountain. The mile-wide rock face from a height of 2,100 feet and roughly 500 feet thick sheared off, in a few seconds burying everything under locomotive-sized rocks to a depth of 150 feet in places. The roar was heard for 25 miles and darkness descended as enormous clouds of dust were released. This is known as the "mountain that walks," hence its name and it could happen again. It now appears as a graveyard of limestone rocks bleached white in the sunshine and no vegetation whatsoever. This is a startling contrast after all the green country we had driven through and we were in it before comprehending what it was all about. After talking to some fellow travelers about this calamity we continued east. Some interesting happenings followed.

We hit Pincher Creek and south to Waterton Park. This was a diversion but we came here as a farewell salute to the mountains and this also was the norther part of Glacier National Park where we first entered from Montana. This Park is in Alberta. Leaving Pincher Creek we viewed the mountains from a little different angle but nothing excels that first sublime glimpse thrust on an imagination that knows no bounds. Chief Mountain, steepsided on one side and a long flat top, stands as King of all he surveys. Others may be as big but he presents a magnificent front. Waterton comprises the village and the lakes surrounded by mountains on three sides.

I am saying this in a general way because, heading east, the prairies begin again.

This was to be our last night in a motel and we ended up by renting a whole house and were we strung out thin! This was more expansive than Vancouver. A long dining room, a kitchen and wood stove, another storeroom in line containing a pile of cut wood and a refrigerator, three bedrooms in line behind the other rooms and, of course, a bathroom and mountains right at the back door. Who would want anything better than this? I'm sure that lonesome cowboy suffered an enforced stay here and when he was about to crack up, pleaded, in a despairing voice, born of boredom but with rising hope: "Don't fence me in." It was necessary to shout to carry on a conversation from opposite ends of this mansion, otherwise the voice slumped like a punctured balloon somewhere between the dining-room and the store-room. We wondered why we were always hungry in this place, now we know why. We did sleep in the same vicinity that night and a roll call in the morning showed we were all there. Mrs. Christianson, the owner, assured us it wasn't haunted. Even a ghost in a place like that would be lonely.

In the afternoon soon after we arrived, John was feeling ambitious and wanted to climb one of the mountains, just for an appetizer, so he said. That was the last thing he needed. His appetite was out of control ever since he recovered from the Blue Bird Motel explosion a long way back. Our funds were dwindling and I opposed the idea and no ifs and buts. He was rarin' to go and I was overruled but he thought David should go with him.

Such brotherly love I never saw before. David at the moment was half asleep on the chesterfield, his hat still on his head in half-hearted fashion. He had driven a long way and was ready for a good doze but John thought he needed exercise more. There had been some talk of climbing this mountain and David had half-agreed, but now he was half-asleep. A nice how-do-you-do. So John decided, that half asleep that was a sleep, needed waking up.

"David, come on, let's go," says John, quite amiably.

"Yes, all right, John, in a few minutes," from the chesterfield in a voice coming up from the depths. A few minutes elapse and David's word is his bond, but in those few minutes he has sunk almost into a somnambulistic stupor. He's jerked out of it by a more imperative, "David, are yer coming?"

John knows darned well he isn't not at the moment anyway so he tries his luck from another angle.

David shoves his hat up so's he can see better and takes half a look at his little brother (once) but now no longer little. "Yes, I know I did, but there's no hurry, is there?" He's trying to square his conscience.

John thinks this over, but doesn't agree with this "no hurry" business. It's going to be now or never.

"Aw, come on, Dave," in a more complaining tone still, "for gosh sakes, it's getting near supper time," and he threatens to pull him off the couch, starting by grabbing his hat. That stirred things a bit and apathy and John, maybe, would be leaving together.

"You darn little jigger," in rising tones, temporarily oblivious of John's size. "Get out a here." David finally aroused himself.

"He shouldn't have his hat on anyway, not inside, 'taint polite."

David never had his hat on actually, it was always half off. I was sitting in a big armchair reading a newspaper and I thought I would be helpful, so I said (the role of peacemaker being right down my alley):

"John, why don't you go with Peggy? She isn't doing anything."

His response was instantaneous, like holding up a red flag to a bull.

"Naw chance, think I'd go with her, that would be the last thing I'd do."

He should have found out first, though, if Peggy would condescend to go with him. David was mobile by now and John and Peggy signed a temporary truce and the three of them departed on this mountain climbing expedition, a worthy endeavor, I'm sure. Duly arriving at the foot of this massive pile of earth and taking one look at its towering height, their ambition wavered and crumbled. The silent mountain had had the last word after all and what did it say? "Much ado about nothing."

After supper we went to see a picture show. It was a Mickey Mouse comedy and we enjoyed the two hours relaxation. As soon as the lights went up and we were filing out, someone slapped me on the shoulder.

"What are you doing here?"

Instantly I mumbled to myself, "The police."

It was the storekeeper from Mawer where we farm. "This must be the Central Butte Theatre," (next place to Mawer) I said to myself. This persisted for a few seconds longer, then I came to. Waterton, 400 miles from Mawer, and I run into him like this. Another neighbor was with him.

It was dark after we came out and a cold wind blowing. It had been over 90 in the shade just three days before. Do you think we could find that rambling habitat? It was the longest and widest place (must have been) in the whole town of Waterton and we couldn't find it, the car was parked outside the door too. After what seemed to be the prelude to a night out, the others found it.

I had no idea. I was still Mawer dazed. I'd made fun of this place, now I took it all back and slapped the chairs affectionately, could see it as a cosy little joint. How did I get the idea it was so big? In fact I felt quite small just then, a big little boy lost, so to speak.

The next morning was bright, the sun just streaming through my bedroom window. There was a blind but I didn't use it and I hadn't even figured out which way was east. True, I found out in the morning and the sun above the mountain, was it hot. I kept moving over to one side till I just had three alternatives left, put up with the sun, fall out of bed or get up. The last won and I called the roll and received faint answers in reply, as if from a great distance. John (as per custom) and not to sully his record, was the last to get up. It I ever saw him before the others were up, it wouldn't be him, just an apparition.

This was our last motel and our last day and Waterton looked wonderful in the bright sun. Ma tried to persuade David to stay another night but he wanted to be back. He and Peggy had had enough mountain scenery for a while. What John said I don't remember, he would have been happy either way. We packed up and just as we were leaving we saw Mrs. Christianson, popping in and out of that sprawling domicile of hers, cleaning up. She should be equipped with a pedometer and if the town taxes her so much a square foot, she had better buy a slide rule.

So long, Waterton, with your lakes and mountains, so long.

"The time has come," the walrus said, "to talk of many things."

The many things on this trip have been talked about. The mountains and their snowy peaks, those winding rivers, some just rushing along and down their mountain courses, some comparatively narrow and just meandering, their rendezvous with the ocean could always wait. The mighty Columbia and Coulee Dam, the Kootenay and Kootenay Lake, the Fraser and the salmon fisheries. Wenatchee, the Apple Capital of the World (how expansive), Sultan and those banshee flyers, and so on. These were all behind us now, as we travel again the prairie roads and, through the rear window, a chain of mountains shows in clear relief, more links being added, the farther we recede.

As Shakespeare so nicely puts it: "Who rises from a feast with that same keen appetite as he sits down?" That first view, outlives, outshines and transcends all others, it is etched in the memory clear as crystal, indelible. The shining peaks of those majestic mountains, immovable, enduring as time endures, impervious to the most flowery language. They rise above it and hobnob with the wind at its wildest, invite the snows of pure white to year-long vacations, hide themselves in the mists of the morning and break through in all their glory, as the sun, his height and warmth intensifying, unveils the mist. The saga of the mountains is hastening to its close, their outline in clear relief is being pushed back. Now they are a wavy line, dark shapes across the northwest. Man is here and in a trice, gone. Nature endures forever.

Cardston, in gay mood before, is now quiet and we leave with the feeling the guests have all bid their adieus. It did but echo our own thoughts. On to Lethbridge, the hazy outline of the Rockies still visible, set in their blue background. That tangible thread of sight and proximity is now frail as pure gossamer. Intangibles, those abstract qualities of the mind and imagination, unseeing, yet possessing infinite variety of form and color, merge and supplant. Their last traces hide behind the rolling prairie. Lethbridge comes and goes and we bowl along through the irrigated farm lands of Taber. There's lots of grain farming here, besides root crops. Now into Medicine Hat and for some reason or other we find ourselves at the wrong end of town but we are soon on our course again. Medicine Hat, and I raise mine in farewell.

Peggy took over and ascended to her usual 50 or 60 if she could get away with it, her theory: If 60 is the limit then go to beat 60! I take that back, dear daughter. I had my usual corner, the rest were dozing or almost. Once in a great while, sensing that the white line was just a blur or that Peggy in her exuberance was coasting on the accelerator, Ma or David would cast a bleary eye at the speedometer needle. "Peggy!" They would sink back into semi-stupor, reassured. We rolled along that now familiar contour, mile after mile, after mile, a few cars coming and going, but always the straight road. Driving becomes monotonous looking at this black strip, always one jump ahead of you with its dividing line. Half the road is yours but don't cabbage. The stubborn straight road will bend a little to avoid sloughs if not possible to go over. Here we go between fields of wheat, oats, barley, flax and black summer fallow land all around, the roads on the square to horizon's limit.

We crossed the Alberta-Sask border unnoticed and set our course for Maple Creek. This town in southwestern Sask. is in the long recognized dry belt of the Province, but in the last few years, like most of the rest of the prairie, has been having too much rain at times. The dry spectre is always hovering. This is a next year country. We press on and now we are in Swift Current. It is Wednesday evening and we found what we thought was a respectable looking cafe. It didn't turn out that way. It was decidedly second rate. We left at the earliest moment. This was the only sour note in the whole 2900 miles.

We were now headed for Moose Jaw and home. We passed Johnson's Lake some few miles east. This lake is 7 miles long but in the dry Thirties it was bone dry. The dirty Thirties and dust storms went together. The last item I could mention is the Government Sodium Plant at Chaplin, somewhere about halfway between Swift Current and Moose Jaw. The sodium is pumped out of the ground in liquid form and then distilled in long tanks. There appear to be acres all around covered with this fine white deposit. In the sun it is dazzlingly white.

Now we are home and it is 9:30 p.m. and Perkes was nowhere in sight but something must have told him we were back because he showed up later. He didn't say anything, just started scratching.

I don't think he even wagged his rudder. What a pup!

Here are a few afterthoughts: A stop on a mountain road, dense foliage, a rushing river and a dam holding it back, a small house almost in the water, calm above and then the spray below and hurrying water just pounding the rocks in its haste to be away and gone and the noise at its impatient leavetaking.

Another dam in another place, miles between, how far apart I've no idea, but larger and more picturesque. Twelve or fifteen streams of water in widening V-sprays of mist. A broad river, but in a more calm and contented frame of mind.

Then a waterfall, somewhere on the Kootenay and a descriptive sign on the roadside telling all about it, describing its history and origin. A little walk through a wood, a well-worn trail imprinted by the feet of countless sightseers, the sound of falling water, a man on a seat near the trail in contemplation and quietly enjoying the calm of it all.

Dense trees on both sides of the road, then suddenly several miles of burnt-out timber, naked stumps all around. Desolation and someone's carelessness often go hand in hand. Lightning often takes a hand too.

Big white letters on a road, for all to read and take note.

KEEP WASHINGTON GREEN

An apt commentary on a previous afterthought.

Another stop on a prairie road this time, the open road never knowing when to give up. If it had a voice it might say "Follow me, I'll lead you on and on, up and down and if you are going East, well that's the way I'm going. Follow me all night and in the morning I will show you the rising sun like a big red ball sitting square on my back but I keep going, just follow me. I stop for nothing except the Ocean. Are you going that far"? Another time we may be.

A little pause on another road just to snap a sign post which has on it these printed words: WATCH FOR DEER ON HIGHWAY, FOR THREE MILES' Just a little stop.