I’m thinking we left off in Manitoba, yes?
This is where the fines, major delays, and police hatin’ stops. No more Ontario. Sayonara.
We do, however, have another brush with the Copps.
Commence slow forced chuckle by any reader who knows that I was talking about Natalie Copps‘ family.
Yes, mama and poppa Copps opened their lovely Winnipeg home to us late on the second night of our trek. And Ian. Cannot forget Ian. Ian is important. I’ve mentioned Ian before. I’m sorry we missed you Ian. We blew out the door before you had even risen, you night owl you.
I slept in Natalie’s cozy bed in Natalie’s red room full of Monet prints. Awe Yeah. The boys got shafted to god knows where. All I know is that it wasn’t as cool as my room.
We (I) left attemptedly thoughtful sticky-notes upon departure.
Natalie, prepare to receive a thoughtful sticky note in.. say 2 odd years when you next return home. Also prepare for it to be out of context at that point.
Now, unfortunately for you blog-reading picture skimmers, Peg’s pictures are scarce. It was the dead of night.
I am a staunch “never-use-flash-until-you’re-dead-and-maybe-even-later” supporter, so NO PICTURES FOR YOU.
Until this picture.
Yeah, It’s drab. It was foggy.
Call it misty and ethereal instead and you’ll start to think it’s prettier.
We then moved beyond to the vastly different land of Saskatchewan. (I promise Nat, they only seemed similar because we drove through Manitoba in the dark, I ain’t hatin’)
Saskatchewan was under water.
We saw some tractors trying to swim. Poor mislead creatures. You aren’t ducks. You do not thrive when the prairies flood.
We also saw my toes on the dashboard.
They were trying to join the sticker collection. It had grown.
In response to our text abuse, Colin said he was treating Nansen’s Focus like an “injured Kitten”. Caressing and petting and such.
The vehicle was henceforth known as the kitten. Nansen wove intricate tales via text message about how the kitten was lost on the highways and yearned to be in the city, yet Nansen was a “pitiless master”. It goes on. I won’t bore or confuse you.
Many inappropriate “stop petting the kitten Colin” jokes were made. We had very little mental stimulation.
I took cloud pictures.
All of our modes of entertainment were… questionable.
This one, however, was solid gold.
(please ignore the sound cutting in and out due to my thumb covering the microphone. Also attempt to ignore the maniacal witch that interjects at the end. I don’t know how she got into my vehicle. It was moving.)
To refuel from the singing, we landed ourselves at BP’s in Vegreville, Alberta. That’s right we crossed another province. Kitten Power!
By the time we had reached Vegreville, you can imagine the state of Colin’s poor behind. Oh, had I not mentioned that he had been whining like a restrained puppy the entire trip about his agonizing backside?
Yeah. He was.
The final complaint in Vegreville put Logan over the edge.
“My God Colin. Get a real butt.”
Amen to that brother. The “Colin doesn’t have a real arse” jokes proceeded to reach the double digits.
No, you’re right. They didn’t get old.
We were giddy. Whatever.
Maybe that’s why Logan and I had 3 or 4 glasses of water at Boston Pizza. (I also strategically cheers’ed Colin, and stole his lemon – 2 lemon slices pictured)
Maybe that’s why we had to stop an hour later on pain of death.
I hobbled, bent over, clutching my bladder that screamed for retribution, down aisle twelve of Safeway.
All was well.
We slept in Whitecourt Alberta, at my Auntie Caroline’s house. SHOUT OUT. Thank you for the cereal and the chocolate egg nest treats.
Also thank you uncle Randy for joining us in hatin’ on the O.P.P.
“That’s why I left Ontario” couldn’t have been a more satisfying statement.
The following day we would enter the land of mountains.
Stay tuned later this afternoon for the final installment. I am needed elsewhere.