TRAVEL
Wind arrived overnight. Breathing down the barren slopes of Hand Hills, Alberta. Shaking Little Fish Lake Provincial Park, where we camped.
“We’re leaving now!” yelled Trevor. “Breakfast on the road.”
No longer were there Mallards twirling circles on the lake’s surface. Shoreline grasses swayed in a frantic dance. Trevor looked around our site, taking stock of what had to be packed. I gathered the dishes I had placed on the picnic table.
Centuries ago buffalo lived here. Met death through the spears of hunters. Legend tells of their spirits. How they have never left.
“What’s that noise?” I shivered.
“Wind moving objects around,” Trevor answered. He proceeded to remove the pegs anchoring our tent.
I heard it again. In the direction of the lake. Voices. Not wind. Human voices. Of men pulling in fishing nets. Women tending open fires by rows of racks with fish hanging to dry amid rising smoke. Jovial children drawing pictures in the sand with wooden sticks, while dogs slept.
Vivid as the scene from my history textbook, until... A louder voice entered. Near me. Trevor’s.
“Hold it. Don’t let go!” He pointed to the side still anchored. “I’ll get the other side.”
Our tent ballooned to the rhythm of wind gusts. Its fabric flapping uncontrollably.
“I’m losing grip,” I screamed. Fine sand sprayed my face.
The cold numbed our balance. Made footing give way. We could not hang on.
“It’s a goner,” Trevor cried out.
We watched our travel home tumble towards the lake.
“Maybe someone can help us,” I yelled back.
No one seen. We were possibly the last campers left.
The tent twisted as it rolled well ahead of us. A flutter of raindrops had now turned to a steady downpour. I fell.
“You hurt?” Trevor asked, helping me up.
I rose. Shook off pellets of grassy mud from my jacket.
“How lucky is that?” Trevor said, looking ahead. “It stopped.”
The tent rested in a thick clump of rough fescue, preventing it from entering the lake.
“We’re ready to leave,” announced Trevor. He placed the messy runaway into the car.
Our road trip continued towards the town of Drumheller.
The spirits of dinosaurs were waiting.
“We’re leaving now!” yelled Trevor. “Breakfast on the road.”
No longer were there Mallards twirling circles on the lake’s surface. Shoreline grasses swayed in a frantic dance. Trevor looked around our site, taking stock of what had to be packed. I gathered the dishes I had placed on the picnic table.
Centuries ago buffalo lived here. Met death through the spears of hunters. Legend tells of their spirits. How they have never left.
“What’s that noise?” I shivered.
“Wind moving objects around,” Trevor answered. He proceeded to remove the pegs anchoring our tent.
I heard it again. In the direction of the lake. Voices. Not wind. Human voices. Of men pulling in fishing nets. Women tending open fires by rows of racks with fish hanging to dry amid rising smoke. Jovial children drawing pictures in the sand with wooden sticks, while dogs slept.
Vivid as the scene from my history textbook, until... A louder voice entered. Near me. Trevor’s.
“Hold it. Don’t let go!” He pointed to the side still anchored. “I’ll get the other side.”
Our tent ballooned to the rhythm of wind gusts. Its fabric flapping uncontrollably.
“I’m losing grip,” I screamed. Fine sand sprayed my face.
The cold numbed our balance. Made footing give way. We could not hang on.
“It’s a goner,” Trevor cried out.
We watched our travel home tumble towards the lake.
“Maybe someone can help us,” I yelled back.
No one seen. We were possibly the last campers left.
The tent twisted as it rolled well ahead of us. A flutter of raindrops had now turned to a steady downpour. I fell.
“You hurt?” Trevor asked, helping me up.
I rose. Shook off pellets of grassy mud from my jacket.
“How lucky is that?” Trevor said, looking ahead. “It stopped.”
The tent rested in a thick clump of rough fescue, preventing it from entering the lake.
“We’re ready to leave,” announced Trevor. He placed the messy runaway into the car.
Our road trip continued towards the town of Drumheller.
The spirits of dinosaurs were waiting.
