There’s always a worry on press trips that there will be one
journalist who is demanding, grumpy, self-aggrandising or just plain grumpy.
Nightmarish stories abound of the one oh-so-brilliant writer who won’t stop
complaining about the food or the schedule, who won’t stop name-dropping or who
keeps asking tomfool questions of whichever poor sod has to show them a good time.
But on my recent tour of Saskatchewan, Canada, I struck
gold.
The Man-Up Trip, otherwise known as Jack and his groupies!
Me, Finn, Shane, Stuart, Jodi and Alan, with Jack in the middle
Thanks to Stuart and Finn for photographs throughout
Visit whyeyephotography.com and Finnbarr Webster Photography for more
The tour was entitled ‘Man-up in Canada’, so I had been
gently asked on accepting the invitation if such outdoorsy stuff as fishing and
ranching were within my ‘comfort zone’. It was a good question, for anyone not
knowing me, but those who do know me can imagine that my answer was a polite
version of ‘hell, yeah’! So it was that I and four British male journalists,
led by the indomitable Shane Owen and Jodi Holliday of Tourism Saskatchewan, embarked on a trip around
the Land of Living Skies. Stretching from the Montana border to the wilds of
the Northern Territories, Saskatchewan is half agricultural land, half watery
wonderland, with the southern part yielding thousands of bushels of crops such
as wheat, flax, peas and oil-seed rape, or canola, as it’s called here. The rolling
slopes of the Grasslands and the Cypress Hills in the south, the lakes and
rivers in the north, topped by the Lake Athabasca Sand Dunes, with the vast,
ever-changing skies above, make this unassuming province a land worth seeing.
The Land of Living Skies
The Michigan engagement party meant I missed the first day
of the trip, when the others flew to the northern lakes, but it mattered not.
Shane and I drove north from Saskatoon to Prince Albert National Park, a swathe of lakes, forests and lush meadows that can be explored on foot, by boat and on horseback. Elk and moose weave their antlers through clutching branches, fish throng the waters and bears pad through the dense undergrowth. We weren't going near any bears; the sharp teeth of northern pike were our objective. By the shores of Sandy Lake, we met Jenn Mahlberg and her husband Kevin, who loaded up their motorboat with fishing rods
and sandwiches and whizzed us far from shore. As beavers splashed and loons
filled the gathering dusk with their haunting calls, we cast our lures again and again into the dark waters. The depth gauge
on the boat went from 12ft to unreadable in moments and the
presence of the Sandy Lake Monster became ever easier to imagine.
As always, despite assurances that
fish had practically leapt into the boat a few days previously, it was some
time before we successfully hooked something, but Shane finally reeled in a
gigantic (from some angles) northern pike. Despite female pheromones supposedly
being useful for attracting fish, I was less successful, but did land one fine
beast. The others kindly said it was the biggest of the night – I’m not sure
they were entirely accurate, but I’m happy to agree! As the sun set, the
western sky turned a hazy orange, a symptom of the devastating fires raging in
British Columbia hundreds of miles away that was weirdly beautiful when you were
safely in the middle of several million gallons of blue water. Back on shore,
Kevin gave a masterclass in filleting in the lakeside fish hut, as mosquitoes
buzzed against the flyscreen and a bush gave a scarily good impersonation of
a bear. Back at their home, Jenn whipped up some beer batter and
cooked proper fish and chips, the best I have had outside of England. I don’t think Shane was expecting a midnight
finish, but he bore it with remarkable patience, and I for one didn’t notice
the passage of time. Not a bad start to a Canadian adventure!
A suitably girly rod for a girl on the Man-Up trip!
Me and Jenn working on our fish-attracting abilities
A loon that came up only about 15ft from the boat
Shane and his giant fish!
Er, Shane and his little fish...
Here, fishy fishy fishy...
Me and my 'enormous' fish!
Sunset on Sandy Lake
After a comfortable night in the Hawood Inn, Waskesiu (I still can't pronounce it, either), we explored the mysterious black spruce Boundary Bog,
where I expected to hear Gollum exhorting in his hoarse whisper ‘don’t follow
the lights!’, and climbed the tower at Height-of-Land to look over a vast
forest that looks as it did when trappers waged war on the bears and
beavers. The shenanigans picked up when we met the manly elements of the trip:
Stuart Forster, Jack Palfrey, Finnbarr Webster and Alan Wooding, together with
Jodi. It was quickly established that this was a corker of a group! Jodi and I blotted our copybooks at the off by ordering salad for lunch instead of the manly burgers everyone else had, but there was plenty of time...
Escaping from the relentless mosquitoes, the only drawback to northern Saskatchewan
(Jack declared a one-man mission to rid the world of the critters, a noble,
but, sadly, futile goal), we drove south to Saskatoon. First on the schedule
was the Auto Clearing Motor Speedway, a
banked ring of tarmac peopled with irrepressibly cheerful drivers who thought nothing
of racing with a bonnetless car after a tangle with their fellows. A visit to the ‘pits’, basically
the centre of the track, revealed that the tin cans whizzing round the circle
are driven by girls and boys of any age from eight to ancient. Top of the billing was the Legends series, in which drivers race 5/8th scale versions of NASCAR vehicles of the 1930s and 1940s. All the cars are basically the same, with fibreglass bodies based on the Chevy Coupe, Ford Sedan or Ford Coupe from 1934 or the Chevy Sedan or Dodge Sedan of 1937, and imaginations apparently run riot when designing their livery. They may not
reach the speeds of Formula One, but the petrol-perfumed atmosphere is just as
potent and much less pretentious.
The way through the woods...boardwalks around Boundary Bog
Danger lurks beneath: don't follow the lights!
Sandy Lake from the Height-of-Land tower, on the divide between the
Churchill and Saskatchewan River systems in Prince Albert National Park
Retro livery on a Legend at Auto Clearing Motor Speedway, Saskatoon.
The sponsor, Lucky Bastard, is named after the owner, who won
the lottery and fulfilled his dream to open a distillery.
When he was buying Champagne to celebrate his good fortune,
a woman in the queue remarked 'lucky bastard'.
He decided it was the perfect name for his company!
This car was probably going to be on the racetrack in about 10 minutes
Speed! Legends in action
The next Lewis Hamilton? An eight-year-old racer
Waiting for the chequered flag!
Jack getting excited about being behind the wheel
The following day was the bit I had been waiting for: a trip
to La Reata Ranch amid the grasslands of south-west Saskatchewan. We drove
south-west from Saskatoon, past mile upon mile of farmland, and turned right
past Kyle to bump along a dirt track for some 10 miles before passing under the
wooden arch announcing the entrance to La Reata Ranch. In a fold of the hills,
looking out across Diefenbaker Lake, is the place George Gaber visited 18 years
ago from Germany and with which he fell in love. Now, this 2,000-acre ranch is home to a
collection of classic barns, a herd of Black Angus and Longhorns and
20-odd horses. It was clear immediately that it was something out of the
ordinary: we arrived at noon and all the guests were still milling around
the corral, getting tacked up for the first ride of the day. It turned out that
they had all been drinking in the saloon til the small hours, so had got up a
little later than usual. And by saloon, I mean a real live saloon, complete
with bar, pool table and exhortations to leave your six-shooter at the door.
After the guests had gone, we repaired to said saloon and
spent an enjoyable hour before lunch quaffing Canadian beer and playing out
Wild West fantasies with assorted (unloaded) pistols and rifles. With the
nearest house many miles away and the nearest bar even further, George’s saloon
is frequented by neighbours, not just guests, and I can easily imagine spending long
evenings shooting the breeze, perched on one of the tractor-seat bar stools, and
gazing languorously at the cowboy boots, branding irons and horseshoe
sculptures. No wonder the guests had been a tad late rising!
An advert for Wrangler jeans? No, George Gaber, owner of La Reata
The saloon. Fights must be taken outdoors
Manning up: Finn and his guns
The relaxed look of a cowboy who's just taken on the sheriff and won?
Quite possibly... Jack gets the feel of a rifle
Afraid? You should be...
George doesn’t bother with schedules here. If you want to
have a late night and ride late, that’s fine. There are no set
timetables, no rules about bed times or breakfast times, and if you’d rather go
for a swim in the lake, that’s fine too. Guests tack up their own horses
and can take their own line across country – there’s no one-behind-the-other
rigidity and the stifling fear of litigation so prevalent in the US is unknown. Beginners are welcome, but although George doesn’t exactly
teach, he will make sure no one does more than they’re capable of or
comfortable with. If you’re a beginner, you won’t be allowed to charge off, for
the sake of the horse as much as anything, but if you can ride, as I can,
you’re welcome to gallop. Thus it was that I found myself at full speed on smooth turf, letting my handsome paint quarter horse Oreo stretch his legs into the westering sun. Heaven.
The open range. Otherwise known as the Elysian Fields
Yee-haw! Finn aboard the gentle Gus
Me and the brilliant Oreo
Setting off
George and me on a buckskin and a paint. Can't get much more Western than that.
A few miles from the guest cabins lies the main ranch, and it was here, in a motley collection of corrals, that we found a handsome herd of classic longhorns. Having met up with the guests, we had plenty of people to round up the herd and indulge in a spot of cow-cutting, which involves splitting off one or more beasts from the herd and moving them away. It can be done in pairs or teams, and the trick is not to get the cattle worked up or all hell can break loose. A responsive horse is key, and Oreo was as neat a cow pony as I could have wished. Small movements of the seat and hand told him where to go, and it was bliss to feel him taking care of the situation. I've got an awfully long way to go before I'm a proper cowgirl, but riding Oreo has only strengthened my wish to improve. I may run away to a ranch yet... Given the enthusiasm of my fellow scribblers, I wouldn't be surprised if they came too - and Stuart's prowess with a rope, swinging the lasso as if he'd been doing it all his life, suggests they wouldn't be entirely useless, either!
George gives a roping demonstration
One of La Reata's classic longhorns
Heading home
Sunset view from the main barn, where slap-up meals of ranch-fed beef are served
Me
Leaving the fresh open air of cowboy country, we journeyed east to experience an altogether seedier world. Who knew that Al Capone’s nefarious doings spread as far
north as a lonely Canadian town called Moose Jaw? That brilliant name diverted attention
from its alternative epithet Little Chicago, earned as a result of the
bootlegging whisky-drinkers who flourished during Prohibition and turned Main
Street into a red-light district where respectable folk feared to tread. On the Chicago Connection tour, we became bootleggers in 1929 and delved deep into the tunnels below the streets via Miss Fanny’s
speakeasy and Al Capone’s bullet-proof bedroom, which had secret entrances in the fireplace and the wardrobe. Miss Fanny herself welcomed us
into the bar, where spooky mannequins played the piano and sprawled unconscious,
drinks in hand, and hustled us below stairs when word of the approaching revenue men came
through. Once through a heavy iron door, the lanky form of Gus, one of Al Capone's goons, took us on,
through hidden doors and past barrels of the good stuff. The odd hail of
bullets lent our footsteps urgency, but, thankfully, we escaped a bloody end to
flee to our cars and onto a much-needed slap-up meal at The Willow on Wascana in Regina, capital of
the province. From there we shrugged off our bootlegging past to enter the hallowed portals of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police... but, as I've already rambled on too long, that is a story for next time!
Regina City Hall
As befits a country who still recognises our Queen, a statue of Elizabeth II
as she is happiest, on horseback. A woman after my own heart
Ah, Canada
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