Great Canadian Hospitality in Saskatchewan

"Us flatlanders would take the shirt off our back to help a stranger, and think nothin' of it."
-construction worker outside the tavern who lent us his tape measure in Tompkins, Sask.

So we thought Albertans were extraordinarily courteous, helpful, and friendly. I mean, they move over to the far left lane to pass us when we're riding on the shoulder! People in BC never give us that much space. Well, once we reached Saskatchewan we encountered a whole new level of hospitality, one that (in my mind anyways) rivals kiwi kindness. But let me start my story from the beginning.

Once we had made it into Fox Valley, the second town we hit once we crossed the Saskatchewan border, we commenced our quest to find the campground. I popped into the local convenience store/car wash to ask directions, and spoke with the folks working there. John, the proprietor of the store, followed me out into the rain after giving me directions to chat about our journey. Before long, Dad was complaining about the disturbing grinding noise coming from of his bike, and mentioned that he needed to do some work on it or find a bike shop ASAP otherwise we probably weren't going to make it to the next town (which was 63km away, and under water still).

Without a moments hesitation, John offered up his tools and his manpower. He pointed over to the dump across town, and suggested they head over there in his truck to see if they could find some old bike parts to rebuild Dad's bike. I looked over at Dad and we shared a smile, a smile which meant "the world is taking care of us; everything is gonna be alright". So they set a date for the following dawn. John suggested we hustle over to the diner and grab some grub, and we hopped to it, wanting more than anything in the world just to be warm and dry and away from the elements for a change.

"Two hot chocolates, please"
We devoured chicken noodle soup and a club sandwich, then leaned back and watched the weather report, read the local paper, and chatted with the bubbly waitress/cook. Mostly, we were just procrastinating on our move over to the campground to pitch our tent in the rain. But luckily, tonight we didn't have to.

Minutes before closing time, a middle aged couple walked in.
"Are those your bikes? Don't tell us you're planning on camping in the rain!"
Regretfully, we nodded our heads.
"Oh no, you're coming back with us. We have a guest cottage, newly renovated, and you can spend the night in there"
Dad smiled. I smiled. We introduced ourselves, and found out their names were Bob and Alexis. Two creative and energetic individuals with a passion for living life and creating beauty around them. They recently renovated the old church and opened up the Dragonfly Arts and Cultural Center (interesting, because while cycling in Washington my sister and I were taken in by the woman who ran the local thrift store, coincidentally named the Dragonfly), as well they run a couple other small businesses. So, Dad and I biked across town (about 5 blocks) to their home and settled in the cottage for the night. Later we both agreed: we could feel their enthusiasm and positive energy the second they appeared in the diner. We were truly blessed to serendipitously meet such lovely individuals.

The thing I liked best about the cottage, beside the fact that it was dry and considerably larger than our tent, was the calming energy floating around the place. sigh. It was beautiful. Funky decor, quiet and peaceful. A lovely refuge from the thunderous rain outdoors. I spent the evening sprawled across my bed, sipping peppermint tea and chewing on jube jubes while Dad disappeared off to John's house behind the convenience store to do some backyard mechanics.

He returned close to midnight, covered in grease, toes white and cold like little ice cubes, but grinning madly.
"Well, we did it! We're good to go!"
Apparently the bearings were shot on his bottom bracket, so they smashed out a set from a dump yard bike and used it to replace the set on Dad's failing Norco. We blamed the mud for the cause of this trouble, but really it was probably Dad's fault for taking a lower end city bike and riding through three provinces.

Dad's final words of advice to me were "if at first you don't succeed, try a bigger hammer."