I’m back in the city with the wonderful invention of wireless internet. As much as I love visiting my parents in the country, oh how I love my apartment and am so grateful to have access to the world wide web in my home. Without further ado, here is the photo I wanted to post yesterday, and what it reminds me of…
“Yellow fields, big sky”
The big sky, the yellow ground, the vast fields, the feeling of being so small in our huge country. My trip across Canada in September was a life-changing experience. The beautiful, although very wide, Saskatchewan was a highlight. We were a tiny speck driving across the flat landscape for days.
Driving through parts of southern Ontario gives me this same feeling, although not quite as yellow fields or as big sky. This photo was taken in the town of Lincoln, just outside Beamsville. There’s something so visceral about farming that I love. It puts my mind at peace. That is, unless I start thinking about what I learned during vegan month and what happens in those buildings in the background…
The big sky is breathtaking. Going from Manitoba to Saskatchewan, we have seen the ground get flatter and flatter – the horizon a straight, never-ending line. We just passed Regina (apparently the highest crime rate in Canada three years running, according to some locals we talked to in Indian Head) and are heading to Alberta. I love the colours of the prairies – the blue sky, the yellow fields, the green trees, the brightly coloured farming equipment. So different from the hills of Ontario.
We camped last night in the middle of nowhere it seemed, and somewhere in the prairies not as flat: Echo Valley. The oranges and reds of the sun setting over the valley was so beautiful. A campfire kept us warm, but the night in the tent was freezing, with temperatures going below zero and my toes, despite wool socks and a thick sleeping bag, feeling like they were going to fall off. Not the best sleep and my body aches today. Apparently it only started to get cold on Sunday. We should have left a week earlier!
I interviewed a couple of guys at the hostel I was chatting with in Winnipeg before we left yesterday for their first kiss stories. The one said he didn’t remember his, even though he was probably around seventeen. The other laughed and said that he was twelve and the girl was fifteen. “It was under a bridge. I wanted to try a french kiss and she was willing. And I liked that I could brag to my friends about kissing an older girl. Although she wasn’t very good looking. But willing.”