First, we had to stop in Sherwood Park to wrestle a lawnmower out of Hawk Sr's basement. It breathed fire, belched gasoline, and left razor-sharp shards of dried, green grass all over the place, but Hawk and Hawk Sr triumphed and hauled that sucker out the front door.
Since we were in Sherwood Park, we forsook our usual route out of the city. Ordinarily, we head up 97th St, which takes us right to Highway 28, which then terminates directly in the lake. For this journey, however, we had to use my phone's Google Map application and I have no idea how we got to Cold Lake, where we were at any given time, how we didn't die, or where this was.
Sunset was still about two hours away and it was getting dark out. Spoooooky!
The colours on the grain elevator against the sky were too perfect for me to leave alone. I had to get another picture.
So where were we? Oh yes. I had no idea. But, narratively speaking ...
It was a dark and stormy night. Hawk and I were all alone, driving secondary highways through rural Alberta. The sky looked like it had lost a barfight.
We were pausing anyway so I could take pictures of grain elevators and God Rays ...
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" went angel voices when we saw the rays.
... so Hawk leaned against the car for a moment to contemplate the next leg of our journey. I didn't notice it at the time, but look what I captured in this image!
DEMON CAR!
The presence of demons driving Demon Cars totally explains this behaviour.
Possessions aside, we made it to Mundare before the storm broke. But it was at Mundare where all hell seemed to break loose.
First of all, Mundare is famous for its sausage, and that's cool. So they built a giant statue of a giant link of sausage, which is also cool. But when we got there, icy wind whipping around us, we could not believe our eyes. The giant sausage statue looked like a giant poo.
Even with the weather getting worse by the second, we knew we could not pass up an opportunity for that sort of photograph. We tumbled out of the car and rushed to pull on our coats—but not our hats, not in that wind—and ran toward the giant poo. We sprinted toward it like hungry dogs, laughing and gasping in the gale, making general fools of ourselves, only to discover we were not alone in the poo sausage park.
No. There was a man there. A man in shirtsleeves. A man, without a coat, sitting on a picnic bench, silently observing the giant links while the Arctic wind blew leaves, litter, and two giggling travellers all around him.
Well, he made us feel awkward and idiotic, but we pressed on. No amount of idiotic feeling ever stopped Hawk and Red Panda from doing anything!
Hawk climbed the staircase to the poos, got flush with the links, and posed for me.
The poos filled my camera. I had to back way, way, up, then climb onto a picnic table, just to capture their full span. Anything less would never do-do.
My hands froze as the temperature dropped to near zero, but the sweet smell of success is always worth a little extra effort.
We scrambled back into the car as the first raindrops fell.
The rest of the journey is a blur. As for the rest of the weekend, I don't know what to say about it. It was exciting and traumatic. In a coffee shop, I saw two cow cushions doing the nasty.
I found them like that!
Maybe some stories are better left untold.
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