Long years ago and soon after I first came to this land as a young man, I was sent by my employer ‘Out West’. Not being at all sure how far ‘out’ from Toronto the West actually was, to my dismay I sat in an airplane for over four hours. For the first two hours out of the window were nothing but trees and lots of open water. Then for the rest of the flight never-ending fields dotted with ponds that I later learned were called sloughs - the Slough(s) of Despond came to mind, but that was just how I felt then.
As I walked out from the Calgary terminal into the early morning sun, I was met by a smiling young man of about my age. It was his pleasure that day to shepherd me on a trip out onto the plains. I had been instructed to “Go Where No-one (from HQ) had Gone Before” to investigate with still-fresh eyes what my company could contribute. As we drove east out from what looked to be really small for a city, Hans explained he was the son of a special type of German immigrant.
His father was a social democrat who had been in the limited German anti-Nazi resistance movement. Once the identities of people like him became known at the War’s end, they could be subject to harassment by neighbours who thought them traitors. Here however they were heroes and given priority as immigrants, and so Hans’ father came over to work on a farm in Alberta. After two years he was free to stay on and become a citizen.
It was a fine summer day as we crossed onto the short-grass prairie. The big Chevrolet sedan, standard sales rep transportation in those cheap-gas days, purred along long straight-as-a-die back roads. Wild life cluttered the pavement, gophers and the occasional jackrabbit fleeing from the car for mile after mile. When I commented on the gun racks in the trucks that occasionally hurtled by, I was told ranchers owned shotguns to shoot gophers whose burrows were a real hazard for cattle.
We motored on past hundreds of Hereford and Black Angus steers grazing the rich range grass. At one point three Virginia deer ran one after the other straight up the side of a tall ranch fence to drop down over the top. Another time Hans pointed at a huge bird seemingly hanging way high up in the sky. My first-ever golden eagle, so I was thrilled. This ’Out West’ trip was shaping up nicely.
After a time we drove into the dusty little town of Drumheller, but were still a bit too early to see the doctors in the town’s only medical building. It was high time for breakfast. We parked outside a corner café. As we stepped up past a hitching rail to enter a welcoming interior lit by the bright prairie sun, I could smell the coffee brewing and realized I was starving.
“If you’re as hungry as me, you have to try a cowboy’s breakfast” said Hans. “Why not!” I replied even though I had no idea what that entailed. A steak, two eggs over-easy and a mound of home fries soon materialised in front of each of us. We washed these down with several large refills of strong coffee. Such largesse was unheard of in the post-war Europe I had recently left behind.
Unfamiliar sounds came from outside and I looked up to see three cowboys hitching horses to the rail. In later years I would appreciate this as a 'Tim Horton’s moment’. As they came in, their spurs jingled and patterned boots clunked on the wooden floor. I was thrilled to see they were wearing chaps and bandanas. Taking off their Stetsons, they sat down heavily at a corner table to lift their booted feet across nearby chairs. Though Hans told me it was not unusual to see cowboys in the town, I could not stop staring. Before too long and without a word being exchanged, three giant steak-and-eggs breakfasts appeared.
After chatting up the clinic doctors of Drumheller, we headed on out of town. No Tyrell Dinosaur Museum in those days, just more dust and distance. We passed into the Badlands. I was not disappointed in my Western movie interpretation of the name. Dry sandy ridges cut by coulees rippled away into the haze on both sides. No cattle or ranches to be seen anymore, but just dry wilderness.
Hanna was the next place of any significance on the road east. Big wooden houses with verandas lined the streets and, at one corner, my companion pointed out an old man in a rocking chair. He announced that I was looking at Mr. Hanna who years before had founded the town. Wow, I thought, a true pioneer – another first for me!
Driving on and as we crested a slight rise, a strange panorama unfolded. A large ring of buildings had long thin fields heading out from them in all directions like the spokes of a wheel. A Hutterite colony, Hans said. One of the buildings housed a clinic. Inside were women and children in old-fashioned clothes, embroidered with colourful patterns. They sat quietly and patiently on long benches as they waited to be seen. Outside through the large windows men in sombre clothes could be glimpsed busy in the fields or driving black-painted trucks along dusty tracks.
The soft buzz of talk was in a language I vaguely recognized. “Is that German?” I asked Hans. “Yes” he replied, “but I can barely understand them”. The clinic doctors were not Hutterites so we were able to have a lively conversation on the special health issues of such an unusually self-contained community.
After lunch it was time to start back for distant Calgary. My hotel there was the Paliser, then the best in the city. After a sun-filled afternoon drive, we arrived thirsting for a beer. It was about four o’clock and early for someone to be sitting at the hotel bar. His riding boots were up on the counter and he looked mightily pleased with life. A large man, he was wearing what I think of as a ‘Doc Holiday’ string necktie.
“This is the only place in Town where you have to wear a tie” Hans said in a low voice. “Who is he?” I whispered. “Oh, he’s some hotshot rancher from over Stettler way. I’ve seen him in this bar before. He must stay here when he’s in Town.”
We had a beer and I went to bed early. It had been a bright day to remember for a lad only recently from a crowded grey island.
