The desert plains
100 Kilometers from any source of water, Isaac and I decided that it was time to trespass. It was 30 degrees outside, and we had been draining our limited supply of hydration at an alarming rate while cycling down Albertan back roads. Our bottles were close to empty. Sweat dripped from our heads onto our glasses, turning the road into abstract asphalt smudges.
That’s when we spotted a man working on his farm truck by the entrance of a Quonset hut full of old tractors. He was the only human we’d seen in hours outside of the occasional passing vehicle, and if we were lucky, he was our ticket to a full water bottle.
We turned off highway 570, a glorified range road, and onto the stranger’s property. As we rode closer the man turned off his trucks idling engine and wiped his oil slicked hands on a rag he pulled from the fords bench seat. He wore a ballcap and thick gas station sunglasses, his shoulders could fit a school bus between them.
“Hi,” Isaac began “We’re cycling across the country right now and have used a lot of water today, we were wondering if we could fill up at your tap?”
“Of course. You can come with me over to the house!” He began walking towards the small farmhouse across the gravel driveway from the Quonset hut and we followed him. Introducing myself as we walked, I learned his name was Joel. When I reached to shake his hand, we clasped too early and somehow, I found my entire fist barely wrapping around his first two knuckles. I had a sudden vision of what it must feel like to be a spring leaf on a windy day, barely holding onto its branch.
As we filled up at his tap he pointed to the house being built further down his land.
“I’m a fourth-generation farmer on this land; it’s about 3,000 acres. That’s my parents putting up a new house there, this used to be theirs but now I’ve taken it over and they’re getting the new one.”
I told him how much I admired that he was the fourth generation to farm there, and he agreed but added.
“I’m not sure how we keep doing it, everything’s just getting too damn expensive.”
“3,000 acres are about the average for a family farm, but there are few and far between now.”
We told him we were headed east into the next province via the 44 and he laughed.
“You’ll know when you hit Saskatchewan, because the road turns into nothing but potholes. It won’t matter though no one drives there so you can just ride down the middle of the road. No one will bother you.”
