The e-mail message from the navigator on the next day's road trip was simple: “Are we taking lunch?”
The answer: “Bring water, we will have coffee, lunch and maybe pie.”
On our loop from Briercrest to Wood Mountain we saw one antelope, one deer on this 30 plus degree day, justifying Noel Coward’s assertion that “mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun.”
We persevered, putting up posters for the Sept 11-12 threshing bee at Sukanen Ship Museum.
Our usual coffee stop at Ogema was closed so coffee was in Bengough. As we left the cafe salivating at the breakfasts being served, I reached into my pocket. My set of house keys was gone and nowhere to be found. Thinking they had fallen out at home I texted my wife and partner. She searched in vain. Numerous texts were exchanged about the situation.
Arriving at Big Beaver, little had changed. The vintage cultivator my former shotgun rider coveted was gone. The little wood-burned sign — If we haven’t got it you don't need it — above Aust’s General Store was gone.
Dried up sloughs and dry crops were everywhere except south of Bengough, around Coronach and south of Willow Bunch. We were later told those places got showers nobody else got.
Those Bengough breakfasts inspired us to order the Country Breakfast at Deb’s Kitchen in Coronach — two eggs, hash browns, two sausages, a slice of ham and two thick meaty slices of bacon.
Neither Gord J. nor I had room for pie.
While relaxing, bed and breakfast operators Linda and Don Kirby came in. They have retired from farming, but still run the B and B.
From Willow Bunch we travelled west on a gravel road towards St. Victor. The big lake beside the road has dried up.
Forest fire smoke billowed down the valley ahead of us and a few times the Rav4 crossing the yellow line alert sounded — indicating pavement under the gravel.
Stopping at Rockglen’s old railway station, now a Tourist Centre, we hoped for pie. No such luck.
But the guide Rhianna convinced us to have cinnamon buns and coffee. Then Mr. Tourism of Rockglen, Dick Oakes came in.
Oakes couldn't wait to get out of the district as a youth, became a surgeon and had a career in Detroit emergency rooms. When he retired he came back home to the beautiful hills of the South Country.
Gord and I recalled the time Dick, then 80, guided us on a hike up a hill and how he asked us if we had the juice to make it. We didn’t, so he led up us a trail from the back to a breathtaking vista.
After leaving there, I promised Gord pie at the Wood Mountain Regional Park concession. We had to settle for ice cream and a visit with some nice ladies.
Our last hope for pie was the Limerick Hotel, bought a few years ago by Doug McRae and his wife. I had heard they have good food. And previous owner Hilda Maier had pie most of the time.
We asked Doug for pie.
“Sorry, not today. Tomorrow we’ll have some.” It was around 6 o’clock. We were too full for a full meal so we had fries.
Doug told us people from 100 kms around come for the food. I said hello to Hilda who still lives in Limerick and we headed back after I texted my partner not to make supper.
I never heard her reply come in on my smart phone.
When I got home there were two questions: “Did you find your keys?" and "Why didn’t you answer my text?”
As I related the day’s events, my partner slid her hand deep, deep into my pocket.
Oh, I thought, a romantic interlude is in the offing.
Then she withdrew her hand. Clutched in it were my keys.
“You, you,” she sputtered. The twinkle in her eye changed to a glare.
“I missed the Heritage Fiddlers because of you,” she hissed. “I sat at home so you could get in the house.
“I turned this house upside down looking for those keys. Next time you lose your keys on the road, don’t tell me until you get home.”
Maybe I’ll just leave the darn phone at home.
Ron Walter can be reached at ronjoy@sasktel.net
