Fresh off the plane, barely a foot in my door, and trying to decompress enough to put my week on the prairies into words. It isn’t an easy task; I feel like someone who’s surfaced from a deep rabbit hole – a little dazed, still adjusting to the bright light of day. Don’t get me wrong – everything I’ve ever written about the prairies holds true. The prairies haven’t lost their magic, despite skies too cloudy for auroras and nary a blizzard to assault my rain forest sensibilities; Saskatchewan never disappoints.
My family thinks I’m completely out of my mind; from the moment I stepped out of the terminal in Saskatoon, a silly grin invaded my face. It was -17, snowing, with a 60 Km/hour wind wreaking all manner of havoc – wind chill measured at -27. “No” I replied, “I’m not cold, this is outstanding, I couldn’t be happier”. Every snow drift, grain elevator, freight train or dip in the road, worthy of a photo.
I’ve travelled many places yet never get over the gob smacking starkness of our great plains. A starkness possessing an inexplicable quality – perhaps simply a place where the seasons make sense, where frivolity has no place. Around every corner light skips between anything sturdy enough to brave the elements. Prairie sun predictable as winter’s road closing tantrums; glorious sunshine transforming vistas into landscapes that rival any I’ve witnessed.