Written by awneitsch on August 24, 2026

Lesser Slave Lake, Alberta; Flood And Fire – A Listening Tour – Part 2 Of The Lake Trilogy With A Few Bonus Lakes Too

Motorcycle Vapors . Poly Tics . Social Studies

August 14-16, 2025 Kilometers Travelled – A Niggardly 1487.7

While I waited for the Second Coming Of Charlie Kirk, the Strait Of Hormuz to open, the Ukraine/U.S./Russia/Iran proxy wars to end, world peace, collective sanity, or a break in the weather and fire storms, I monitored Firesmoke.ca and various weather apps, looking for an opening to launch.

The name Great Slave Lake derives from the Slavey people (also known as the Slave or South Slavey), a Dene First Colony tribe indigenous that settled in the region. The name originated from the Cree people, who referred to the Slavey as Awokanek, meaning ‘slaves’. This designation stemmed from historical conflicts where the Cree raided and enslaved their more peaceful northern neighbors. When French explorers engaged with Cree traders in the mid-18th century, they translated the name as ‘Grand lac des Esclaves’ (Great Lake of the Slaves), which was later anglicized to Great Slave Lake. Lesser Slave Lake and Slave River are also named after this unrevised history. 

Apparently the slave trade wasn’t as successful around Lesser Slave Lake as it was in the Greater Slave Lake area.

The first European known to visit the area of the present-day Town of Slave Lake was the British explorer David Thompson (of highway fame), who arrived in 1799. Following his brief visit, other British agents established several fur trading and whiskey pot and pan and gun posts around Slave Lake, including a Hudson’s Bay Company (of TB blanket fame) post at the mouth of the lake.

A settlement developed around the post and became known as Sawridge. It was renamed as Slave Lake in 1923. After a flood in the 1930s destroyed much of the town, it was relocated and rebuilt at its current location on higher ground. It was incorporated as a town in 1965.

Fast forward to May 15, 2011 when a wildfire, cause unknown of course, swept into town as blowtorch winds pushed the flames, destroying many houses and businesses. Mandatory evacuation orders were issued, but highways had been closed and residents were urged to seek refuge at beaches, large parking lots, and open spaces ala LaHeina. Highway 2 had been closed at the outset of the fire, but eventually re-opened for evacuation. Full evacuation of all residents was ordered for Slave Lake. 1/3 of the town burned.

Remember Fort McMurray 2016? 1/3 of the town burned.

Remember Jasper 2024? 1/3 of the town burned.

How about The Pacific Palisades 2025? 1/3+ was burned.

On May 16, 2011, provincial officials said that 40% of the town had been destroyed or damaged by the fires, including the town hall, the library, a radio station, a mall, and a significant number of homes and other buildings. No injuries or deaths were reported. On May 17, 2011, Mayor Karina Pillay-Kinnee indicated that 1/3 of the town had been destroyed by the wildfire. It was another incident of percentages.

On July 6, Prince William and Catherine, the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge, visited the town to offer encouragement to residents and support for rebuilding efforts. Of course royalty had to make an appearance. There were no reports of missing children after this royal visit.

Remember Lahaina 2023? 1/3+ burned. Children disappeared.

How about Val Paraiso 2024? 1/3+ burned. Children disappeared.

‘Fire as a weapon of war’ is a tactic with ancient roots, historically employed to destroy enemy infrastructure and homes, disrupt supply lines, destroy crops and livelihoods, restrict travel, and induce psychological terror. The psychological impact of fire is valued for its ability to cause panic, confusion, and widespread destruction with minimal resources. Legally, if there are anymore laws, deliberate environmental modification, such as starting wildfires to harm enemy forces, is deemed to be a war crime under the ENMOD Convention. See the lawless terror firebombing of Dresden.

The Environmental Modification Convention is an international treaty adopted by the UN General Assembly on December 10, 1976 by 48 states worldwide including the United States and Russia. Canada is not a signatory. What’s an international agreement these days anyway? This treaty is to prohibit the military or hostile use of environmental modification techniques that have widespread, long lasting, or severe effects as a means of destruction, damage, or injury to another state, foreign or domestic. 

Now bring on the ecofascists.

Broadly defined, Ecofascism is any environmentalism that advocates or accepts violence and does so in a way that reinforces existing systems of inequality or targets certain people while leaving others untouched. It is basically environmentalism that suggests that certain people are naturally and exclusively entitled to control and enjoy environmental resources. Some types of people, in other words, are ‘native species’ and others are ‘invasive’.

Who are the native or invasive species? Are the targeted communities the enemy? Who has declared them so?

Global wildfire displacements have already surpassed the total for all of 2024, reaching their highest level since 2020. Based on preliminary data, wildfires have triggered 496,000 internal displacements, or forced movements of people, by July 26, 2025.

But then again, it’s climate change, isn’t it?

But what is the carbon footprint of turning the world into chunks of carbon and ash? What would be the environmental impact of turning all of the Agenda 30 arbiters and enthusiasts into carbon and ash and fertilizer and leaving the forests be?

Just sayin.

The first sounds of the listening tour I HEARD that morning was my traditional alarm clock followed by the the 37 decibel ringing in my left ear that developed in 2008 when I had quit drinking. Odd that I can’t HEAR it when I’m asleep and dreaming. There is no explanation and no remedy. I HEAR rain drops splattering on the window. None of these sounds are welcome on departure day. I delay departure for two hours and fill the time confirming my route, checking the weather schedule/forecast and Firesmoke.ca just to confirm that the Slave Lake area is smoke free. I decide on a full breakfast. I do the dishes and do a final tidy of the house just in case I don’t come back you know, like wearing clean underwear before you leave the house just in case you get in an accident. I am showered and wearing clean underwear. There is for me a good feeling of preparedness in leaving on a trip with a clean bottom and clean teeth. That cowboys and equestrians mount up and ride without similar preparations is unthinkable. That dolphin spandex suited riders mount their $160,000 KAWS x Trek Madone custom-painted signature collaboration racing bicycle featuring KAWS signature graphics with a dirty bum seems indecent somehow. How do you spell EEEEUUUWWW?

So off I go.

On Friday The Fourteenth, 2026, I left the oppression and gloomy, smoky skies and bureaucratic miasma of WOKE diaspora Airdrie, Alberta. I was clean and fed and caffeinated. My brilliant machine was bristling with gear and good mechanical health. My brilliant machine seemed to start itself in anticipation of yet another escape from my garage. It growled, C’mon…lets go!

As much as I detest Hwy 2, The Queen Elizabeth Mother Of Pedovores Highway, I take it north as far as 11A west to make time, to take Hwy 20 north. I avoid the diasporic mess that has become Jarvis Bay on Sylvan Lake (a bonus lake). I see but don’t stop in Sylvan Lake to avoid the traffic jams, tourist traps, and garbage heaps. I ride on past Rimbey, winding it out past Hoadley and Winfield and Breton. At Alsike junction I head west on Hwy 39 until I hit 759 north and rip on past the non-town hamlet of Berrymoor and the historic Berrymoor church. I cross the North Saskatchewan River on the Berrymoor Bridge. Who the hell was Berrymoor named after? Even AI doesn’t know. Perhaps a $20 billion data center can sort it out. I pass through another hamlet of 65 souls called Tomahawk. There is no record of why its called Tomahawk. You could guess, I guess. I ride on past Horen and stop in the cottage and boating community of Seba Beach for lunch on the lakefront. As I power down under a shady tree, a helpful, self important boomer tells me I can’t ride my bike on the beach because its private. I point at my helmet and pretend I didn’t hear what the idiot Forever Canadian said. After lunch on the sand and a pee break in a handy bush I slow rolled the community, marveling at the number of ‘proud’ Canadian flags and Forever Canadian slave placards. Keep cottaging. Keep boating. There is unity among the well fed, gaslit, and suntanned corpse-like slaves.

On I go past fields of corn and canola and barley and wheat and round and square bales of hay. Word is there will be a hay shortage this winter. Most of the second cuts have been made.

From Seba Beach on Wabamun Lake (a bonus lake), I carry on north until I hit Hwy 16 east for a short, higher speed, transition to Hwy 765 north and a longish roll through lush and parched fields and past the community of Darwell. I hang a left on Hwy 43 and then north on Hwy 764 and 18 east past Campsie and then somehow make Hwy 33 to head northeast. The wind beneath my wings (oh God) is keeping me cool. I pass through Barrhead which left no lasting impression. I am officially on The Grizzly Trail. Or is it The Grisly Trail? I cross the mighty Athabasca River over the arched steel Ft. Assiniboine Bridge. I see the sign for Ft. Assiniboine and pass it but change my mind a hang a hook to at least say I’d been there. It’s a nice tidy hamlet of 158 or so that has a history as a Hudson’s Bay Co. trading post along the Klondike Trail.

I carry on past blackened toothpick rising up from the marshes on both sides of the highway, evidence of the Swan Complex wildfires in May of 2025 that burned approximately 17,000 hectares. The entire town of 1,300 souls was evacuated. This was the second major evacuation in three years similar to a wildfire in May of 2023. The Grizzly Complex fire burned over 22,000 hectares. Cause of fire? Why, climate change of course. Or was it a lightening strike or a carelessly tossed cigarette or carelssly tended fire pit or arson?

Guess we’ll never know.

Just outside of Swan Hills I stop at the Swan Hills Tourist Booth which features an impressive sculpture of a mother goose defending her nest from a mean old grizzly. There I meet a family of huckleberry pickers from nearby Kinuso who are having a lunch break with delightfully stained fingers. I declined their offer of food but we had an agreeable conversation on things of mutual interest and concern. It was a pleasure to meet them, but as is my nature, I have forgotten their names. I will remember them as The Huckleberry Family.

I see some road mash kill with feathers or fur. I see a doe, a deer, a female deer under rays of golden sun. I see two more female deer, dead, their carcasses hosting a pungent buffet for a murder of crows and whatever a gang of magpies are called.

Cool riders pass me on the long straight stretches. You know they’re cool because they are riding with their left hand on their lap or in their crotch. Some fellers must get excited while straddled. The super cool dudes with cruise control rumble past. They have both hands on their laps. They could be knitting or performing indecent acts.

I slow roll into Swan Hills, seeing no swans or any hills of note. I think of Big Dan and Lady Edith, two grizzly bears I got to know when I worked at the Alberta Game Farm when I was a younger fella. Somewhere, there is a 3 1/2x 5 picture of me bottle feeding Big Dan. A thick chain link fence separates us with a seated Dan slurping and dribbling, his long claws curled around the fence, inches from my face. The couple were orphaned from around the Swan Hills area. Al Oeming had taken them in. I don’t know what happened to them. Al Oeming was a legend. He died in 2014.

I ride on, listening to HEAR more than the wind rush and the sound of my breath against the inside of my visor. Is it possible to actually hear the voices in my head, the ones telling me that this is a really good run?

I make Slave Lake after a one shot ride, with stops, of 610 kilometers and 8.5 hours. I stop at the first camp offering I see to avoid any disappointment closer to or in town. The Canyon Creek Campground and Marina costs $42 a night, with power I can’t use or need. I pitch camp and tour the grounds scavenging wood for my evening fire. Dinner is soup, sandwich, and sardines with a zero beer to wash it down. There are the usual noises associated with camp and lake life. I HEAR turbo charged side-bys and pocket bikes roar and whiz by. There is campfire karaoke tonight complete with beer cackles and gin giggles and whiskey yells. Children are still desperately trying to play each other out before the eventual call to bed. Dates are for dessert. After a pleasant stroll during sunset over the lake and a token campfire I suit up to bed down at 10ish o’clock. I am suitably tired. I overdress for bed not wanting to be wakened by cold. What does rouse me is a howling and rumbling that grows in volume as I near full consciousness. I have a vague sensation that this is the sound of the end of the world. Why wouldn’t I be in a tent up north when the end comes. I am alarmed and relieved that the alien noise was followed by several blasts of a trains air raid siren. It rumbles past, repeating the horn blasts. The disruption has activated my bladder. I check the clock before I crawl out of the tent to service it. It was 2:45 AM precisely. It is still and dark out except for some annoying LED security lights around the distant park office. I assess the options for safe bladder service and pick a bush deeper into any available shadow. I wait until finished to look up at the sky. I marvel at the vastness and brightness of the visible universe. I had not seen a similar heaven since The Cook Islands or the wilds of Montana. Who else but God should I thank for this heaven to gaze upon. An absurd thought flits in. I imagine I’m under an upended colander with a light shining down through. Who is shining the light? The thought stays with me as I crawl back into the tent and breathe myself back to sleep.

I wake with the sensation of a warming shiver at 6:30 AM. I HEAR my tinnitus and whatever quiet noises I make to start this new day. I boil water for coffee and start the tedious but satisfying process of breaking camp, again, being mindful of the campers and glampers sleeping it off around me.

I start the return on a sunny, blue sky day, broken only by high cumulus clouds and take Hwy 2 east. On route I slow roll through the Canyon Creek and Widewater lake communities. They are largely tidy properties with those fronting the lake being more stately. There is a mix of Alberta independance flags and placards and Canadian and Forever Canadian lawn signs. It’s clear that there are many boomer types that are still keen to maintain and enhance colonial slavery. Surely they have not seen The Jones Plantation. Too many of the Senti(mental) Nationalists are so inured and so hopelessly dependent on the system that oppresses them that they will fight to protect it. Not all slaves wear chains. They are privileged. They have lake lots dammit! They wrap themselves in the the flag if they feel their delusion is threatened. I stop at a surprisingly fully functional Shell station to top up my tank and slow roll the town of Slave Lake. Clearly they have built back better after the fire. As I leave I have a sense of Deja vu. I wonder if I passed through on other adventures north, to the Yukon or the Northwest Territories. It occurs to me that many of these northern communities look alike.

Onward!

Was there a song in my head at anytime during this stretch of road?

Yes there was.

I pass roadside pullouts and rest stops with overfull, graffiti vandalized, green and blue steel waste and re-cycle bins. Why not depopulate graffiti vandals? They are ugly humans with ugly minds who do ugly things. Why not depopulate the litterbugs and trash dumpers too? Why not toss out the drinking drivers that toss their empties onto the road and into the ditch. I swear I could have paid for this trip and my annual property taxes if I were able to collect and cash in on their entitled and thoughtless behavior. Who would miss the monsters that have made immoral, uncivil, and dangerous behavior acceptable? The natural world would be more peaceful and beautiful without them.

Hwy 2 takes me east and south to pass by Island Lake (bonus lake) and Baptiste Lake (bonus lake) where I stop for stretch and a rest. More lake lots of course. Summer holidays are in full swing. Ice cream eaters lumber and shuffle back to the campground. There was an older couple arguing about how to launch their boat. The boat and jet ski folk are on the water. I carry on to Athabasca, also known as Abathasca. My parents used to pronounce it Uttabuska. So did my uncle Ben, aunt Vicky and uncle Paul. Uncle Ben and aunt Vicky are long gone. Uncle Paul was a bachelor farmer. We used to visit often to pick raspberries. Uncle Paul became very sick with prostate cancer and heart trouble. He shot himself. There is really no need to see Uttabuska anymore. Athabasca is a minor college town so of course its been taken by Woke ideology, vibrant colors, and Forever Canadian Senti(mental) Nationalist booths at the local farmers market.

As I’m leaving Uttabuska, I see clusters of first colony settlement members assembled on patches of grass. I think I HEAR them saying, “Look what the Indian Act and our chiefs have done for us, that we have ended up on this patch of grass.”

I carry on south on Hwy 2 way, way down over slight curves and long straights, past active and fallow fields of green and yellow, past tidy farms and those being returned to nature. Noon finds me in Clyde, which was incorporated in 1914 and named after George D. Clyde, a local entrepreneur and the community’s first postmaster. I went to N.A.I.T. with a decent feller from Clyde. Clyde is another fading northern prairie village that has made attempts at revitalization over the years.

At Hwy 18 I head west for a laser straight shot to Westlock. There is nothing special about Westlock, another agricultural town of the Alberta Plains, even if it was explored by Anthony Henday and David Thompson (of trail and highway fame). Of course I tried topping up my tank at the only Shell in town to save a few pennies. All of the pumps had signs on them stating that they were out of order. They were out of order because they had run out of inventory. The Patel Mafia Squishy Mart was still open. I filled up at a clean and tidy Tempo. After some dates and a fluid exchange I continue south on Hwy 44 for a long, warm ride past Riviere Qui Barre which was founded in 1885 by French-speaking settlers. It’s name translates from the Cree Kipohtakaw (river that bars the way). There is no river of note to bar my way forward to the next village. Villeneuve brings me within eyesore of Edmonton and is home to the Michel first Colony Settlement. It has a church that hasn’t burned yet…and an airport.

I’m still listening for voices when I tune in to HEAR my brilliant machine’s V-twin growl and pulse as it pushes me up every hill and then resume the usual hypnotic hum as it levels out. Even with my earplugs in, the sound still thrills, impresses and comforts me.

I HEAR the ‘tick’, ‘tock’, ‘twack’, and ‘pock’ of assorted insects striking my visor and helmet, which is more muted on my windscreen. I HEAR the ‘thap’, ‘thit’, and ‘thock’ of ze bugs landing on my gear. I am comforted by the gore. Reports of declining insect populations don’t seem so real. All of a sudden I am sorry that I killed them…provided they were not genetically modified in some way.

I am feeling ride fit and core strong but the usual aches start to nag so I engage some motorcycle asanas. I re-adjust my throttle grip and stand up slightly on my foot pegs to give my ass a break and stave off the cramps. I shift my weight from cheek to cheek to get the blood flowing. I clutch my gas tank with my knees and thighs. I press my heels to the sides of the frame. Pelvic thrusts seated ‘cat/cows’ are a must.

After Villeneuve I jink a bit east on Hwy 16 to Hwy 60 south through the light industrial wasteland of Acheson. The Devonian Highway takes me through the First Colonist Settlement of Enoch, where the Enoch Tomahawks used to play. This settlement reached a $91 million settlement with the Government of Canada in 2020 to resolve a specific claim regarding the Yekau Lake Practice Bombing Range. The agreement was to compensate the settlement for historical trauma, lost economic income from a closed golf course, and the future remediation of land used as a WWII bombing site without a community referendum. The funds were designated for cleaning up approximately 100,000 munitions dropped between 1942 and 1944, which rendered the lake and surrounding areas unsafe for decades. The millions were to enable the settlement to proceed with unexploded explosive ordinance (UXO) training, remediation, and land monitoring, and to designate the area as natural parkland for future restoration and reclamation. As of August 2026, no UXO removal has been completed and the lake and surrounding area is deemed unsafe. It is sacred.

I HEAR the voices of settlement residents asking where the $91 million went without talking about the River Cree Casino.

Anyhoo, I carry on down the highway, past the U of A Botanic Garden I’ve never been to, cross the North Saskatchewan River over the Devon Bridge and pass through Devon, home of Leduc #1, a town I used to have to visit regularly. I have no need to go there anymore. I head west and north on Hwy 39 to Calmar and Thorsby thinking I might find a campground on Pigeon Lake. I push on to slow roll through the charmed estates of Mulhurst and the shoreline palaces along Argentia Beach. The golf and boat life still thrives here. UNDRIP hasn’t come for their properties yet.

I decide to make for Pigeon Lake Provincial Park for the night so I head back north and west on Hwy 616 and then north on Hwy 778 to get back on 616 and then to 771 south which skirts me around the lake. PLPP is another well maintained provincial park with trails along the lake and clean facilities. The making and breaking of camp and everything else in between are meditative and relaxing after hours on the road. There is a family across the way playing volleyball, making joyful noises. I eat and scribble and read and sleep with only one wake up in the middle of the night. I had a disturbingly hopeful dream of a friend in existential circumstances.

The next morning breaks sunny and warm and as I coffee and carb up I break camp. I toss my inflatable mattress that has developed an unrepairable leak. My old, holey, riding gloves I’ve been using for maintenance are tossed into the same bin. I pack and suit up. I warm up my brilliant machine and my resolve to make my next destination but slow roll the park and stop by the boat launch for another lake perspective.

My next destination is to another bonus lake on the tour to visit two good and likeminded people and a bonus dog that spend time there. Bentley’s Seniors Campground is a gated, private oasis on Wizard Lake (bonus lake), what a getaway should be. Getting there required some gravel travel which I normally avoid these days but I settled in to this segment of the tour with confidence as I found my line and let the bike do the rest. I have to do more township road gravel east to hit pavement and Hwy 795 south to 13 west and then Hwy 22 south all the way down to Rocky Mountain House. I stop for a break on some grass under the shade of a tree in a parking lot. I consume the remaining stores from my larder pannier. I drink to hydrate. I message with my existential friend.

Refreshed and subdued, I carry on down 22 south and east to Caroline after a fuel top up. I am in familiar territory and pass through patchwork quilt grids of fields and fences, farms and acreages and then down into the more wooded change of Sundre. I cross the Red Deer River and head east on the Hwy 27 length of The Cowboy Trail. I am Westward Ho bound to hit the continuation of 22 south for the last stretch of this iron butt challenge. I take the 567 east, Big hills Spring Road, for the gazillionth time and arrive home in the early evening. No fanfare. No greeting. No Ninja yowls. Bug splattered and butt sore. Grateful that nothing bad happened and that the weather held. I am compelled to thank God.

Even Christopher Hitchens couldn’t explain my good fortune.

Alberta has 63 municipal districts, many of which are officially branded as counties. On this tour I passed through Rockyview County, Mountainview County, Red Deer County, Lacombe County, Ponoka county, Wetaskiwin County, Brazeau County, Barrhead County, Woodlands County, Big Lakes County, Westlock County, Athabasca County, Sturgeon County, and the M.D. of Lesser Slave River. I lose track of all of First Colony Settlements.

Every one of these counties and settlements are a source of voices that tell stories and ask questions. They are from the living and the dead and those missing. I HEAR no voices of the 215. The voices I do HEAR might be coming from Bernadette Robertson who speaks blunt truth about the inequity and despair fostered by failed governments socialism, The Indian Act, and the corruption of tribal leadership. If we listen closely we might HEAR the voices of the missing and abused and murdered, telling of the hopelessness and horror of settlement life. May the ghosts find peace and the living move on to heal and prosper.

May we all find peace and purpose amid the noise and the haste and the gaslighting grift that wants to prevent it.

“There can be no reconciliation without truth” – Howard

Ride on.

Smoke em if ya got em.

Don’t drink and drive.

“If you can, you should.”– Howard

But wait. Before you go. One more song. A shoegaze classic.