The Last Camp – Rochon Sands
Motorcycle Vapors . Mutterings And Murmurs . Social StudiesUnits Traveled – 576 Or So
I wasn’t going to bother documenting this motorcycle rip and camp. It seemed too short and inconsequential, insignificant compared to the other adventures on two wheels instead of four that I squeezed in this year. I had already done the annual fall ride of the south to north Highwood Pass to take in the full autumn bloom spectacular to contrast with the north to south summer color extravaganza. These annual trips rarely disappoint and are enhanced when the sun shines and there is ‘nobody on the road’ – or at least fewer nobodies or recreational terrorists to contend with.
A month before the rigged municipal elections in Airdrie, Alberta, I check and pack up my brilliant machine. I shift and accelerate out of my U.N. Agenda 30 New World Order wannabe 15 minute WOKE home base for a needed break. I travel east on Hwy 567 and then north on Hwy 9 to Irricana under sunny prairie skies and on clear and dry pavement. I slow roll through Irricana if only to remind me of what a neat and tidy town it is and then continue north on Hwy 9 to Beiseker and their skunk mascot named ‘Squirt’ who wishes all a visitors a ‘Nice Spray’. I go east briefly on Hwy 9 and then head north on secondary Hwy 806 which runs laser ruler straight all the way to Acme where I wistfully think of Wiley Coyote and the source of the various products he thinks might help him catch The Roadrunner.
After not being able to any rockets or glue in Acme, I continue on Hwy 575 east to link up with Hwy 21 north to pass through the nothingness of an unplace called Equity which tweaked a vague reminder of the socio-economic oppression and tribal othering taking place in post national state Canada. I carry on to Trochu which is home to the nine hole Trochu Golf And Country Club and ‘The World’s Largest Golf Tee’. Why not? Hwy 585 takes me east through the alien moon landscape of The Tolman Badlands and over the one lane Tolman Bridge. This area will need further exploration. The badlands give way to scrub and grazing lands and dried out sloughs to Hwy 56 north. I skip Big Valley, home of the annual Big Valley Jamboree, and head back west to hit Hwy 835 north and roll through dusty crop Alberta heartlands in varying stages of harvest, all the way way up to Erskine where I had a flashback.
Inspector Lewis Erskine was the central character on the long-running American television series The F.B.I., portrayed by actor Efrem Zimbalist Jr. from 1965 to 1974, when the F.B.I. had good public relations.
I stop in Erskine for a stretch and a snack at an abandoned play park with a pop-up library. While I’m stretching and snacking I walk past the Evangelical Free Church Of Erskine and Erskine Antiques And Collectibles. Just as I was peeking through a window to catch a glimpse of the magical wares inside, a red Chevy Astro Van pulls up close and a grizzly big old fella yells out, “Can I help you? That’s my store….it’s closed ya know”. I try to plead my innocence but he grunts and rolls on and then circles back twice to make sure I’m not up to mischief. Bless the Erskinites on patrol. Call the RCMP! Call C.S.I.S.! After the break and the third degree I ride through their tidy local cemetery and then ramble on to Rochon Sands Provincial Park, the heart of one of several redneck riviera country resorts in Alberta – where good, hard working folk go to get away.
Buffalo Lake lies in the Red Deer River basin, and has a water surface of 93.5 km2 and a drainage area of 1,440 km2. Like much of the watershed in this part of Alberta, this lake is characterized by high alkalinity and elevated bicarbonate levels. The lake’s water chemistry is dominated by sodium, sulfate, and carbonate ions, which, along with high conductivity that contribute to its alkaline nature. These conditions are typical for a lake with a high ion concentration, placing Buffalo Lake in the high end range compared to other lakes. The lake’s alkaline environment supports fish species such as northern pike, burbot, and colonial European racist white sucker, which are tolerant of high salinity and alkalinity. The White Suckers are currently trying to reclaim their U.N.D.R.I.P.P.Y stolen waters.
The mostly deserted campground is unremarkable and hardly worth the 32 dollars they wanted at the self check-in. Not having any change, I paid the 30 dollars. There were no hotels there, and anyway, most often I’d rather sleep in my own dirt and on real dirt than stay in an overpriced motel where I would fear looking under the sheets before I sleep. I set up camp in a copse of scruffy poplar trees and scrounged for kindling and firewood to add to the supply I brought with me. I hike up to the receded climate changed beachfront to walk the shoreline, kicking at bones and rocks – kicking up white dust. It’s quiet except for the rustling of dried grass, reeds and leaves and an occasional nattering of ducks further out on the water. I wander back to camp and light a fire to tend while cooking dinner. After dinner I clean up and sit and watch the fire and sky as it darkens, the last of the visible chemtrails, um, er, naturally occurring aeronautical condensation expands, drifts and falls to the ground. At around 10 pm I douse the fire. The stars are mustering as my eyes start to flutter so and I crawl into my tent to cocoon. Of course I have to get up twice in the night. Bright star and moonlight illuminate. I hear hoofsteps in the brush. The morning reveals a deer nest 10 feet from my tent. I brew my coffee and eat some dates as I pack up my gear. The morning chill and shivers shake out whatever bliss there may have been from being in the semi-wild of this prairie camping experience. Winter is in the air. It’s time to go.
The ride back lacked any real excitement beyond feeling competent and capable behind the bars. This rip home was by default anti-climactic. I did do the circle tour around ‘The Buffalo’ through Stettler where I stop at a Shell to get my Airmiles and my three cent AMA discount after paying six cents more on the base price. I treat my brilliant machine to a higher octane fuel from the magical reserves below. My brilliant machine responds to the treat and powerpurrs me to view the fading glamour of end of season Pelican Point. I didn’t see any pelicans but there were some dueling crows and seagulls scrambling on the glurpy shoreline for fall snacks. I am always amazed at how many waterside, beach front homeowners have the need to decorate their properties with wishing wells, pirate flags, mermaids, anchors and chains and small seaside lighthouse replicas. Arrr Matey! Ahoy! Snow-like alkaline dust devils whip up and disappear.
After hoisting sail and weighing my kickstand, I motor on to Bashaw, the once cheese capital of western Canada. Saputo plant closed in 2012 citing “rationalization” reasons after it bought Dairyworld. The good old God fearing town now features a United Church that has converted to rainbow R2D2 inclusive culture for NGO money to keep the doors open. Some local rascals had violated the colorful sidewalk with burnouts. Surely God will get them for this hateful outrage.
From Bashaw, I ride another 37 units on Hwy 53 west and 21 south to Mirror where I stop for a late breakfast, ordering the rather mediocre ‘special’ 23 dollar omelet and a coffee with refills. Business is business. The Whistlestop Cafe still holds a unifying significance with me and surely thousands of others who supported it and owner Chris Scott during the atrocities and outrages and rallies that took place there and across Canada during the medical Fascist authoritarian COVID 19 bio-weapon plandemic crisis and psychological operation. The Whistlestop is a surviving bittersweet reminder. It’s almost like visiting the scene of a crime to pay respects. I don’t lay stuffies or flowers. I pay the tab. I leave a tip. I roll on.
From Mirror I continue south on Hwy 21 and then west on the 601 to Alix Junction, to the 11, another segment of the David Thompson Highway, and then all the way to Red Deer. I have no choice but to slow roll through this active but crumbling urban cluster. It’s changed so much since I used to have to travel there for work. There are more tents and slouched and staggering shopping cart people and crack packers there now. More beggars and yelling lurchers. There is more graffiti now. More litter. Red Deer has a statistical reputation of being one of the most dangerous cities in Canada. The 20% reduction in their Crime Severity Index for 2024 reflects only the fact that fewer crimes are reported or dealt with by an under-resourced police ‘service’. I remain grateful that I spent a few hours of ‘safe’ time in the jail there. That is another story from so long ago now. I ride on.
After leaving the city limits I decide to beeline home on Hwy 2 for the last 117 units. It becomes quickly evident that the gusting winds were extreme that day and I started getting thrown around by the heavy truck traffic as well. I clench and grip and buck on until Bowden where I decide to leave that rodeo before I get thrown and exit and stop to collect myself and hydrate and snack. I decide to slow down the pace and take 2A through Carstairs and Crossfield and then on to Airdrie but not before slow rolling through Bowden and passing by a sad scene being played out in school classrooms and yards across Canada on September 30.
The National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, albeit lacking in either truth or reconciliation, also known as Orange Shirt Day, is observed annually in Canada to recognize the legacy of the Indian residential school system and honor the survivors, their families, and communities affected by the system’s lasting impacts, real or imagined, for political gain and to support U.N.D.R.I.P. agendas worldwide. This multi-billion dollar grift targets children by coercing K6 students in schools to be subjected to ideological indoctrination that forces acceptance of white colonial guilt and shame. Children are coerced to wear the little orange shirts after being subjected to the ubiquitous daily ‘Land Affirmations’ or suffer segregation from Cultural Marxist activities, scorn,and otherism sugar coated as fun. All this while being bombarded with mandated S.O.G.I. initiatives. Kids are no longer allowed to just be kids and learn useful and truthful and moral things.
Parents line up at Tim Horton’s.
Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, the lead Communist butcher and genocide merchant, along with Karl Marx, emphasized the critical role of education in shaping future generations, stating, “Give me four years to teach the children and the seed I have sown will never be uprooted”. This quote reflects his belief that indoctrinating children with revolutionary ideology during their formative years would ensure the long-term survival of the Bolshevik cause, or in Canada’s case, the continued creep of the global private/public partnerships of an anti-human blend of Fascism and Communism.
“Let me control the textbooks and I will control the state” – Adolf Hitler
“He alone who owns the youth, gains the future” – Same guy – Adolf Hitler
What a world.
What a rich history.
Where are we now?
Ride on.
The wind lessens the closer I get to home. As I open the garage door I am still expecting to hear the yeowling welcome home from the recently departed Ninja. It’ll be awhile yet before I adjust to his silence and absence. I almost get weepy when I pass the cat food aisle in grocery stores.
Sniff.
This story turned out to be longer than the journey. It can happen. The odometer digits click on as it should but my thoughts also race on and drift and flip forward and back. They travel further than my wheels whether I want them to or not. It’s time travel to better times and times I’d rather forget. My brilliant machine is a time machine. I get to ponder the possibilities of a bright and peaceful future to offset the dread of what will surely come. This camp may not be the last but it is for sure the last of not enough for 2025.
The Northern Cascades and the Beartooth Highway still call.
How about a Canadian 80’s beach song?
Why not.